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Oliver. King. (cyprian) wrote in bellumlogs,

Trenton had never been tailed by the paparazzi; he wasn't a celebrity by any means. But he was very familiar with their antics, the scum-hungry photographers frequented many of the New York hotspots that Trenton could be found at any night of the week. He'd seen more than one celebutante princess trip her in Gucci knockoffs and faceplant under the glare of digital camera lights. He'd been responsible for plenty of gossip rag editorials that highlighted young drunk actresses holding little baggies of drugs so blatantly in their hands. He knew that the cameramen might have slowed down, but they'd hound Isobel and himself again unless they got off the sidewalk.

There was some jazz piano music coming from a doorway on their right, it seemed to be a little dive dance club that was thick with cigar smoke. Although it was still quite early, and the night was young, there were a few couples already inside, and Trenton pulled Isobel along for the ride. Taking up in a dark corner to dance a couple of rounds, they weren't likely to be seen.