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Tweak says, "You're not just anyone."

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Oliver. King. ([info]cyprian) wrote in [info]bellumlogs,
"What'dya got?" His blue eyes skirted the visible tops of any counter, desk, bookshelf, or table. Looking for a glass decanter of bourbon or even just a jug of basement-distilled moonshine. Trenton saw no clues, not so much as a mojito wine cooler, and advanced slowly on the cream couch that Emery offered.

"Do I have to sign something? Or you? Doctors are sworn to silence, right? Like priests?" Turning, Trenton sank onto the plush, structured arm. It was comfortable and he slipped over the edge of it, reclining. Closing his eyes, with his legs half draped over the side of the couch. Ready to spill his secrets, Dr. Freud.

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