| So Hard Finding Good Help |
[30 Sep 2007|02:36pm] |
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mood |
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 bored |
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[[Non Journal Entry]]
Sweat drips from the tangled ends of blonde hair, soaking them and casting them darker against the pale skin, only pulled away by the brief movement of fingertips that quickly turn to snatch the air from her opponent’s throat.
Grip tight and bordering on oppressive, blue eyes widening with shock before closing at the last second the grip’s released and he’s dropped, landing with a sickening thud and shuddering with big gulps of air.
“He won’t do,” Bethany mutters. “He can’t even take me down, how is he supposed to handle anything with fangs?”
Ralphael nods, moving in to pick up the latest guard interviewed and put through his paces by Bethany and found lacking.
Bethany angles her head, sweeping her eyes over the rapidly diminishing line and tuts softly under her breath. “It’s so hard finding good help these days.” She brushes a thumb over her bleeding lower lip, one of women had been lucky enough to score a lucky shot and Bethany had hired her provisionally because she admired the balls of the other woman.
Another couple of hours to go and she’s only managed to find two guards and she still has spaces left to fill.
She rolls her neck - hearing it crack in three places and easing out the tangled knots of tension that have steadily built there – and then turns to the line, cocking an eyebrow.
“Next.”
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| Favourite Thing |
[30 Sep 2007|09:38pm] |
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mood |
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 mellow |
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The band had performed at the Orleans until well into the wee hours of the morning to rave revues.
Even better than the rave reviews had been the opinion one Bertrand Thibboux. An older high roller from back home who'd turned the small hardware store he'd inherited from his father forty years ago into a mini empire worth tens of millions supplying the petrochemical industry throughout the Gulf. He'd been so impressed with their sound he'd tipped them a hundred dollars each, and something like that was always good for the ego.
With his most direct route home closed due to the damage around Fang Noir and feeling hungry after a long night performing, GW took the scenic route and pulled into his favorite all night diner. A stack of flapjacks and some coffee before heading home to collapse into his bed sounded like just the ticket.
Joseph was already there, holding an empty booth and idly flicking through the menu to try and decide what his stomach could handle at this time. He'd already had a cup of coffee and had asked for another, the waitress was busy flirting with a guy at the end of the counter so Joseph hadn't bothered with chasing.
Life was too short, right?
He picked up the still smoking cigarette and brought it to his lips, taking a drag and letting the smoke settle before just blowing it out and flicking ash aside. His fingers reached upwards, tangling in the short strands until he was able to press the tips of his fingers to his scalp where they rubbed slowly and in circular motions.
"Another refill, sugar?"
Joseph turned his head, lifting his eyes to catch the waitresses winning smile. Obviously his patience had paid off. "Please," he murmured all smooth tone and casual smile.
She poured him out another coffee and pointed to a meal. "That's a good one."
"Is that right?" Joseph asked before simply giving a nod of his head. "I'll give that a shot then."
( Cajun Swamp Rat )
( Made For Dancing )
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