| The Blame Game |
[03 Jan 2008|05:40pm] |
"Another beer?"
Darian cast a look at his surroundings and seriously considered it.
The air smelled thick and sweet, choked up with the grease of barbecue chicken wings and fist-sized hamburgers and french fries. He had a feeling he was actually wearing the air now. A football game blared from the nearest of several plasma televisions. Male roars and congratulatory fists rose in correlation with a touchdown by the Dallas Cowboys. The waitresses wore orange shorts and white tanks and slouch socks. Two of them, he had given breast implants. Not surgically, of course.
This was slumming.
He exhaled heavily and moved to adjust his tie, only he wasn't wearing one. It left him fiddling uselessly with the collar of his polo shirt. When in Rome.
Darian tipped up his beer mug and examined the empty bottom. "Why not."
While there were precious few things Grace missed about being human, she had always enjoyed a good plate of chicken. It didn't taste right anymore, of course, but the truth was, no one who came to Hooters was really there for the wings. Parked on a stool almost directly beneath one of the high-definition televisions, the vampire pounded her fist on the bar as the Cowboys scored six more points, idly examining the tank top of the closest waitress while they set up for the field goal. Exactly who designed those things, Lockheed? Not that she was complaining.
She ordered her fourth beer as the game switched over to a commercial, debating ordering a small plate of wings to go with it just for old times' sake. At least she didn't have to worry about the calories going straight to her thighs.
A whoop from across the room drew her attention away from the ad for salad dressing that was now blaring out of the speakers, and Grace thought she had to be hallucinating when she spotted Darian fiddling with the collar of his shirt before studying the bottom of his own mug. She glanced at her watch, then at the wall calendar behind the bar. Was it the End of Days and no one had told her?
She must not stare. She also must not laugh.
Well, okay, maybe she could at least snicker.
She flagged down the second bartender, tossed a twenty at him across the wooden surface. "For the guy at the end of the bar," she said, indicating the Dealmaker surreptitiously. "Tell him it's from a friend."
"Here you go." The curly-haired waitress put a cold one in front of Darian. "It's paid for. Friend of yours." She smiled and squeezed her breasts together with her arms.
"A friend of mine, huh?" Dubiously, the Dealmaker looked around the restaurant full of sweaty men. It was safe to say that Darian had no male friends. His only real charm was in arrogant flirting, a talent that wasn't doled out to same sex associates.
His eyes found Grace at the bar. "I see her. I'll be over there." He indicated the vampire with a tipped head and got up. It was good to stand up. The ordeal with Atia (particularly the part where he renigged on a deal and abandoned his client for dead) left him worse for the wear, physically. For some reason, it always hit him in the legs first. He figured it was because limping was a blow to his confidence. Made it harder to get around. He had to go slower just to hide it.
Darian navigated the tables and put his mug down next to Grace. "Paying me back for past slights? I hate to tell you, but you'll have to do better than Coors Light."
( Did You... Do That Thing? )
|
|
| Stones in His Pockets |
[03 Jan 2008|10:26pm] |
The last flights out of Baton Rouge weren't until later. But even at 9:30pm, the place got kind of empty. Here and there, passengers dotted the airport chairs, each waiting for boarding time, each reading a Tom Clancy book or watching CNN headlines until their heads lolled back. Shopkeepers rolled down the gates on their snack counters. Custodians ran vacuums over the carpet, sucking up crumbs that fell out of nab wrappers.
A solitary blonde hurried along the concourse, passing gates six and seven. Her carry-on bag traveled on tiny wheels. She tried to keep her ankles ahead of it, as if she couldn't afford a run in her pantyhose. At the eighth gate, she steered it into the row of chairs and sat down next to a waxy plant. She sighed and checked her ticket. Ten minutes until boarding call. "Perfect," she murmured. She was wearing a trim business suit, complete with blazer and skirt. It was a conservative shade of dark blue, but the details were too cutesy to be professional. For instance, there was a cat-shaped pin on her lapel, and her shoes had little bows on them.
Reaching into her neckline, she heaved an impressive mass of blonde hair over her shoulder. It was long and wavy and half-obscured her face. She rooted through her clutch and fished out a tube of dark lipstick, which she applied meticulously before loudly smacking her lips. "I hate late flights," she proclaimed to no one in particular.
Half absorbed in an issue of Navy Times that he'd been surprised to find at the airport bookshop, GW Robichaux hadn't paid the blonde any attention until she sat down beside him. The paper was something he hadn't read since he'd moved to Vegas and most of the issues of the niche publication hadn't changed much, mostly the same old gripes against the same people. Still, it had been something to read and enabled the former marine to indulge a bit of nostalgia about the 'good old days' back when he'd actually worn the uniform.
"I'm sorry?" he asked at first, then realized what she must have said and nodded. "They're no fun, but at least it's a direct flight. I always hated layovers myself."
Having now actually looked up to see who had addressed him, he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in curiosity at the outfit. It was an odd mix of professional and whimsical; whoever she was, she definitely marched to the beat of her own drummer. She was cute, too. "Headin' out t' Sin City on business or pleasure?"
"Mmm...business," she decided, as if she'd just made up her mind right then. The blonde stowed her lipstick away and smoothed her palms over her skirt. She noticed a pick in her pantyhose and plucked at her kneecap. "Oh man. I can never wear these a full day without ruining 'em. I should just go without and look like a floosy." Back into the clutch she went, this time coming out armed with clear nailpolish. She unscrewed the cap and dabbed some on the little snag. "My grandma taught me this. Keeps it from getting worse."
She blew on the polish. "What were you out here for? Holiday visiting?"
"You pluck at it yer just gonna make it worse," GW observed. Helene had always had the same problem, he remembered with a smile. Fortunately she'd only had to wear them for church or other formal events, as she'd wear scrubs to work for her job as a nurse.
"Yeah, I came down to visit family. They're all down 'roundabouts Crowley mostly." There was something familar to GW about the way the blonde talked, but he chalked it up to his imagination. After all, he'd never met the woman before just now. One thing was for certain though; she wasn't from around here originally. "Business huh? Try not t' spend all the time workin'. Vegas is a town built fer fun."
( Going Home )
|
|
| The Masquerade |
[03 Jan 2008|10:47pm] |
New Year's Eve
Excalibur
For the highly anticipated masquerade, management of the Excalibur resort had spared no expense in creating a medieval atmosphere. Outside the resort, the castle turrets were brightly lit, and so was the walk alongside the moat. Colorful flags cracked in the wind. Costumed men on horseback flanked the resort's entrance doors, while employees dreased as peasants took admission fees and ushered the masked guests to the banquet hall. The room was quite large, with space enough to have an eating area full of banquet tables on one side, and a dance floor to the other.
Light was provided by candle. Some of the wall and ceiling mounted candles were electric, while those on the tables were wax, to allow for ambience. The banquet tables carried a wide variety of finger foods, including meats, cheeses, loaves of dark bread, thick soups, and a few fruits and vegetables. Beverages included ale, water sweetened with honey, and a few more modern drinks. At the head of the banquet hall, a family of actors was seated at a large table. They played the part of royalty with more enthusiasm than historical accuracy, laughing and allowing employee musicians to play for them and courtiers to flirt with them.
At regular intervals, paid dancers put on elaborate shows, doing traditional group dances that had them clapping and twirling.
In the wings, there was an actual warlock paid by Excalibur to work a few glamour spells to help set the mood. Most of his work went into lighting and scents, though he succumbed to temptation once and set a rustic armored knight into temporary motion, just to freak a woman out.
At near midnight, the guests would be ushered outside to watch fireworks by the moat.
[Thread: Open to All]
|
|