[Tales & Horrors]
who: Jared & Lucy
what: A place to crash, etc.
where: Jared's suite, The Wynn, Las Vegas, NV, USA, The World.
when: After this
rating: High, but only for language. It's not like that.

The elevator that was supposed to take her to Jared's suite went up smoothly. Unassuming jazz tootled softly into the background. The elevator kept going up. The little metal room exuded air-conditioned, perfectly upholstered comfort. A glossy black dome watched her from one corner, a colorless pupil that was probably meant to be more reassuring than a camera.

The elevator was still going up.

Just when one started to wonder whether the space station in the clouds would also provide room service, the jazz faded behind a loud chime, the air-conditioning buckled under the pressure of the hallway outside, and the security eye stopped watching. The brass doors slid open and presented a short hallway with one door at the end of it. The door was ajar.

The Vegas opulence of Jared Mirado's suite was completely overcome by his presence. Jared was not an opulent man. He didn't live opulently, regardless of where he was staying. Discarded clothes hung over plush (yet understated) furnishings. A beautifully tiled kitchenette was disgraced by half-empty water bottles and what was left over a room-service tray. A dirty ash tray sat next to a bowl of expensive Swavorski glass fruit. The television talked about sports in an undertone at one end of a small den area. Another door that must lead to the bedroom was wide open, and the only area that looked relatively untouched. The room tried to gleam in its untidy state, but only managed a half-hearted glimmer.

The man himself was a peculiar one, poorly put-together at odd angles of elbows and knees as he slouched on the long couch. He wore a thin off-white shirt that was suited to the Vegas heat but not the hotel he sat in. The jeans had been through hell, came back, and then subjected to a distracted machine wash before he put them back on again. His hair was brown and messy. He was probably in his late twenties, or possibly older--the eyes made him seem older. He was handsome, but in a worn, lived-in way, and the tattoos that spiraled over what was visible of his arms set him farther away from the handsome he could have been. Something about the way he sat said he didn't seem to mind.

He grinned at her when she came in.