Re: tandy & holly; the music store
Tandy didn't have regular cash-flow. She would, once the gym was up, running and open which would be counted-on, but the intermittent shifts at the coffee store which was heavy on willing bodies and light on actual work and the art didn't work out. The guy had pissed her regular, steady-income gig up the wall. She'd figured he would, because it was an art, a knack, a skillset, if you will, to sluice someone's money out of them with a stiff drink and the expectation of taking young, hot and shameless to bed and then to rob them blind. But it was her skill and the debt that inevitably accumulated along with skipping out on the gang made her hands hot, a little itchy. It made the knives come more easily, so progress, but the downside was all that hot, itchy energy had to stick around.
She didn't know how Holly looked at Noah. She remembered her dad, and the way he looked at her mom like a precious piece of china he'd stolen off someone else's shelf. A little incredulous she was his, with the kind of smile worn and curling at the corners like an old photograph. Tandy didn't have any place left that had sentimental value, which was probably good. Valuing stuff beyond purchase-price was costly.
"I can make them come, I can make them go if it all works right." She tried again, the gesture of palm and fingers, kinda like flicking a switch-blade which worked if she pictured it right but it didn't always. Light, and gone. Light, and gone. And then - nada. "Sometimes it stops working. Would you feel better if you could potentially, hypothetically stab someone with a theoretical knife without actually thinking about it?" She levelled up gaze from counter to Holly's face, blue eyes focused, serious. "It's kinda like playing Russian roulette."