Twenty-Nine
The Ruby Room buzzed with way more commotion and music than usual, quite a feat given this was a Wednesday morning, and the bar should have been closed.
But this was no normal Wednesday morning, and butterflies danced within Freya’s tummy as she nursed a hot cup of golden chamomile tea and planted her feet under the small table to keep from wriggling. The reporter sitting across from her had a tall glass of local craft beer, the woman’s near six-foot frame intimidating, even though she’d been nothing but kind.
“The Ruby Room is already a well-established underground live arts venue.” The reporter leaned forward, her black cowboy hat shielding her eyes, her looming question hanging partway between Freya and the cell phone recording this conversation. “What prompted you to put
