Nightingales
Tap... tap... tap... tap...

Playfully, the soles of saddle shoes rapped against the street. Above them, white socks were folded neatly at the ankle, and a short stretch of flawless skin led up to a linen skirt. Not a drop to drink in sight -- of blood or more traditional libations -- but the owner of those feet was feeling fine and carefree about who saw it.

“Mr. Sandman... bring me a dream...”

Beneath the noise of unhurried steps and gritty sounding spins, Rosalyn Voorhies carried a Chordettes tune like a naughty kitten might, even though no one was around to appreciate it. She had cultivated that voice five decades past, and managed to brainwash herself into bedroom-speak whenever she opened her mouth.

“Make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen...”

Well that would be a tall order, wouldn’t it? Rosalyn had made time with her fair share of hunks, and she‘d tasted a bunch of them, too. The fast ones, the dollsome ones, the kookies and the squares... After a while, they were all just pretty boys on the dinner line, one after the next. It took more than a nice set of pecs to get her engine hot now.

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t dream.

Las Vegas had been good to Rose; it put a sparkle in her eye and a spring in her step. There was the drinking and the gambling and tourists with their money... Oh, so much money. More than one lucky man had brought the brunette to his hotel room. All it took was the promise of cash... Smelly green bills she could grab up by the fistfuls and shower all over the bed sheets. A quick roll and a bite later, Rose got to stroll out smelling like green and plastered off the mini-bar.

Tonight was a night for walking, though. The midnight air could be her perfume.

Tristan was polishing his Harley under the light of the stars and moon. His pockets were full of cash from the bar robbery. He was whistling a little tune under his breath and thinking about how funny life...or unlife...could be. Before, he'd been totally focused on Rhiannon, and look what that had got him? Zapped in a mine shaft and a loss of time and memory. Now, he knew he had to spread the wealth. His new career was lucrative and exciting, and Grace was interesting, if not a little frustrating.

He didn't mind letting Grace, or Bethany, or any of them for that matter, think they were the boss. In the end, he knew who mattered. Himself. He was bracing himself for the moment he'd see Rhiannon, if she really was still alive. He didn't totally believe it. How could their connection be severed like that?

Tristan's ears perked up at the sound of a soft female voice. He felt her before he saw her. "Well well, this place is full of beauties," he smirked. His hands played with the towel and he leaned against his Harley and smiled.

Rose clasped her hands in front of her skirt. She had gotten a little lost in the song and dance, and nearly wandered right by the other vampire. Such a shame that would’ve been... he was a cute one. She wondered if he was stingy about his ride.

Her teeth worried the corner of her lipstick-red mouth. “Didn’t see ya there, handsome,” she purred, and took a few careful steps closer. In her experience, male vampires were a mixed bag. Sure the power got her going, but a temper was a temper, and she wasn’t in the mood for a party pooper tonight.

“I would’ve stopped that awful crooning ages ago. My singing voice is the pits.” Rose laughed, the picture of flirtatious modesty, albeit insincere, and decided to dip her toe in the water with this one. Just a bit. She took a gander at his motorcycle. "What a hot ride. Mind if I touch it?” A single finger found the seat of his Harley and trailed in a figure-eight pattern.

Tristan watched her finger with a little smile. "Touch whatever you'd like," he said in a low voice. He took a step back and admired her with a raised eyebrow. "And as far as your voice goes, I bet I could make you sing." He couldn't help but grin at her before moving the towel over to hang on the ledge. "Up to trouble tonight, or is it simply pleasure that you're hunting for?"

“Oh, I’m just eyeballing things.” Rosalyn’s nail made dainty scratching sounds on the leather seat, as feline claws might. “I’m not looking for any trouble.” As if to exemplify how much of a damsel she seemed, the brunette leaned negligible weight against the bike and toyed with a necklace pendant. Slightly tilting her head, she brought mischievous eyes up from the chrome to the guy with the classy chassis. “But I hear this is Fat City for anybody with a decent set of fangs. What’s got your laces so straight tonight?”

[Thread: Open to Tristan and Rosalyn]