| Owning the Neighborhood |
[29 Jun 2009|02:17pm] |
"Wait, hang on a sec." Rhiannon braced her shoe on the seat of a bench. The nylon laces of her newest boots tended to untie themselves. Not wanting her footwear to fly off during a kick, she double-knotted them and tucked the ends. "I should've just glued the soles on the old ones." She tugged her cargo pants down and caught up to her friend. Because of conflicting schedules, they didn't patrol together -- or beat one another up for fun -- as much as in Las Vegas. She missed it. Tonight was a chance to catch up and see if they could get into any trouble.
At his side again, Rhiannon stuck her hands in her pockets. Only two blocks from her apartment, not much had happened in the way of conversation yet. "So hey." Her elbows swayed forward and back. "You gonna entertain me with stories of Connor's New Social Life while we look for things to kill? I could like that. Especially if it's tragic." She smiled.
"When isn't it tragic?" the Destroyer cracked, his tone only half facetious. "The last woman that came near me turned out to be a damned succubus. It wasn't exactly romantic. I'm starting to think all women need to have warning signs around their necks, different ones for different situations. It'd save me a lot of time."
The night was clear and warm, and for once there was actually little troubling his mind. "I don't know, I guess things are looking up, griping aside. I took Clemence to dinner and we had a good time. It takes some of the pressure off to not be constantly worried about what she thinks of me. It gets tiring after a while."
( A Monkey On His Back )
( Fangirls )
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| His and Hers |
[29 Jun 2009|02:20pm] |
The rain came down in buckets. Now and then, the wind splattered it against the pane, and she had the impression of being in a gigantic car wash. Rose perched on the arm of her couch and watched. It was half past nine. She was onto her third cocktail, which was when the liquor began to seep into her limbs, making her languid and loose as a goose. A worn recording of Dean Martin's 'Ain't That a Kick in the Head?' circled the turntable. The night waited outside. All she had to do was open an umbrella and make a dash through the sidewalk puddles. She could get a cab downtown and take refuge in a bar. She could drink on someone else's tab. Later, she could hook a guy into escorting her outside, presumably to wait for a ride home, and then munch. That was how the cookie crumbled. Pretty vampires were one reason why nice guys finished last.
Three or four hours' worth of storyline played out in her imagination. Yes, she could do those things. But she wasn't in the mood.
Lately, Rose was a sourpuss. It had little to do with stormy weather, and a lot to do with her boyfriend's pack. In speaking after the encounter with Wyatt, the couple had decided to play it safe. No longer would Rose go to his house. No longer would they secretly meet on the fringe of his neighborhood. No longer would they entertain the idea of dirtying up his restaurant kitchen after hours. Gavin couldn't even see his girlfriend and his pack in the same day. The other werewolf knew her scent now. After the freedom of Texas, the restrictions fit Rose as poorly as an itchy sweater.
She set her glass on the kidney-shaped table. She felt like a social pariah. Well... even more of one than usual.
( Sacrifices )
( Shacking Up for the Night )
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