| Never Drink Alone |
[12 Nov 2005|12:30pm] |
God, but he did hate November. It was still plenty warm outside, which was good, but there was just a feel to the month that made his stomach tighten up into knots.
Well, at least there was scotch.
Oliver refilled his glass and cut another piece of steak off of the huge portion of meat he'd ordered. He'd forced himself out of isolation to get dinner, but he could always go back to the hotel and hole up afterwards. He had reading to do, after all.
His wandering gaze was caught by a man and a woman entering the restaurant, and he scowled when he saw the kids with them. He hated families worse than he hated November. He wondered if they were happy with each other, then shook his head and went back to ignoring them.
Picking up his drink, he took a healthy belt, then set it down with a thump. Dinner, then back to his room to study his new books.
And was Jill glad to be back in Vegas.
Particularly since her trip back to Baltimore had been, according to her higher-ups, a spectacular failure. They’d sent her to offer Daniel Richards a job with another branch of the firm, and all the lawyer got for her troubles was shredded and burnt paper.
But she did get to shoot the man, so that was fun.
Two days back in Vegas, and Jill was able to ditch the wheelchair. She still had to walk with the support of a cane, and her movements were slow in an effort to keep from re-opening her wound. She smiled slightly to herself as she eyed Oliver at the other end of the restaurant; it was nice to see a familiar face, particularly one not intent on killing or screwing her over.
Gingerly making her way over to Oliver’s table, the lawyer grabbed the back of a chair. “Room for two?” she asked without emotion, clutching her cane.
( Dessert that wasn't on the menu )
He watched her open the door with a muted grunt, but he wasn't entirely displeased with events as they stood. As long as her undead girlfriend/whatever-the-hell was out of reach, he had an edge. And the necklace Jill had given him was his insurance that he'd see her again. Oliver pushed off from the solid surface of the doorjamb and ambled across the room.
"No goodnight kiss, then?" he snarked, buttoning his shirt sleeve before putting on his sunglasses again. "An old-fashioned girl?"
In the hallway, he studied her face before walking away, then turned on his heel to head off in the opposite direction. "Sweet dreams, Ms. Andersen," he said over his shoulder. "I'm sure we'll see one another again soon."
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