| A Wicked Sense of Humor |
[19 Dec 2006|12:11am] |
It got to be a rhythm in her hands. Glass, towel, wipe and stack. Over and over, until the swishing of cloth inside the cups became mechanical, and she thought of anything but being at work. The bawdy jokes, the cacophony of languages, the scraping chair legs, the demon grunts and growls were as uninteresting to her as the slippery sheen of moisture that defied her shoes on the tiled floor. Justus’s bar was as clean as it could be. Certain things just couldn’t be avoided.
Like overcrowding.
A solid wall of the underworld’s ugliest blocked out her view of the door. They shouted over the noise, over one another’s orders, in a good-natured vie for the busy bartender’s attention. Rhiannon kept polishing.
Tristan had been in the area trying to drum up business. His phone wasn't exactly ringing off the hook. He was in a dour mood. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Vampire for Hire. No DNA. No evidence. In a place such as Vegas, he thought he'd be so busy that he'd be up to his armpits in blood. That, however, was not the case.
It was a good thing he had other means and ways to keep his belly warm.
He ducked his head as he entered the bar. It was loud, and definitely different then Heaven's Peak. It was populated with everything and everyone, apparently. Tristan didn't want attention. He just wanted to find an empty bar stool, have a drink, and brood before heading back to his apartment for another lonely night.
Rhiannon stacked the last clean glass and wiped her fingers. She was aware of the din behind her, and a bartender in dire need of help. He was her boss, but it didn’t matter much. There weren’t any wings on the slayer’s shoulder blades, and rolled up pennies didn‘t pay the rent. Until he upped her from no collar to blue collar, Rhiannon’s ‘odds and ends’ job didn’t include volunteering to tend his bar.
“Busy night.” A little dig here and there didn’t hurt. She had an antagonistic banter with Justus. Rhiannon had the feeling it was the only reason he trusted her.
Justus put two drinks on the counter. One tasted like beer, the other like people. His story was that it came from a blood bank and not innocents. The truth was probably someplace in the middle. “Do me a favor, Rhiannon. Get a ten out of the tip jar and make yourself useful.”
She tossed the damp rag on the counter.
“Twenty.” Rhiannon shook the container and reached her arm in, like digging into a cookie jar. All the ones counted and folded up, she tucked them in her hip pocket and grabbed the first order that came at her. They thinned out the crowd.
Tristan squeezed his way in between the bodies. He wasn't on the hunt tonight. He was just in need of some alcohol. Finally a stool emptied on the near side of the bar and he sidled himself up. He took off his jacket and spread it over the seat, rolled up his black sleeves up past his elbows, and then eased himself down. He smiled when he noted that there was no mirror in front of him, not that he'd have to worry about a lack of reflection in a place like this.
Glancing further down the bar, he noted the two bartenders. Their backs were to him. It was a busy place. Patience was not one of Tristan's virtues, but he also understood that one did not piss off the hand that fed 'em. Or kept them lubed. So instead of shouting out, he crossed his arms and waited.
That's when he noticed the female. Tristan stiffened in his chair. He quickly glanced around, wondering if that bitch with the Uzi was nearby.
He thought about getting up and leaving, but then he snarled. He would not live in fear. He wanted a drink, and dammit, he'd get one. So instead he plastered a smile on his face, and waited for her to notice him.
It was like an itch in her palm, that feeling that someone was looking at her. Aggravating as hell, hard to get at, and impossible to ignore. Rhiannon looked over the crumpled foreheads of her customers, to the dart board, a pool table, to the undisputed champion of Las Vegas’s worst public toilets. Nobody but blood-mug was looking at her, and he was so fresh out of the grave, he still had on a cop uniform. The lapel was muddy.
“Here.” She topped off his drink. Rhiannon turned around and wiped her hands on her jeans.
A row of human-looking teeth waited for her, bared by Tristan’s smile. One by one, the vertebrae in her spine straightened to attention. Well, of course. It made perfect sense that if she worked in a demon-friendly establishment in a city nicknamed Sin, eventually she’d run across the one vampire in the entire world whose penis she touched. Clearly.
“Wait, I know this one. Fate brought you here.” Rhiannon picked up the rag and began to fold it for no good reason. “It has a wicked sense of humor.” She gave him the smile to outshine his.
( Not So Much )
( All That's Changed )
( Prove Yourself )
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