Dixon and Dracula know that the (bloodisthelife) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-09-19 15:38:00 |
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Entry tags: | huntress |
Who: Dixon and Tristan
What: A job.
Where: The Ranch.
When: Recently.
Warnings/Rating: None?
When Dixon woke up that morning, he was actually in a pretty good mood. Things had been rough for a while, and Las Vegas held just as many problems as it did potential, but prospects were looking up lately. He had not one, but two job leads to follow up on, and while being a busboy wasn’t the most glamorous employment he needed money too badly to be picky. Finding a job without much proper experience was hard enough, but finding one with a criminal record was even worse. With his mom struggling herself, it was up to him to support the both of them and put himself through school at the same time. Financial aid was great and all, but even that had to be paid back eventually, even though he had a slightly unrealistic expectation of what it would be like. In his experience, very little was more terrifying than debt collectors; then again, in his neighborhood, the guys sent to collect on overdue loans were more like ruthless robots hardwired for one thing and one thing only: to get what they’d come for and nothing else. The restaurant thing was easy to follow up on, so he left that for later, deciding to head over to the address Tristan M. had given him first.
He’d looked it up online, the address, and when he found out where he was heading he decided right then and there he wasn’t telling his mom the truth. No, he just mentioned that he had an ‘interview or something’, and luckily she trusted him too much to ask questions. The Ranch, yeah, he’d heard of places like that, but he wasn’t going to chicken out or anything. No way. Tristan knew he was two years shy of twenty-one, so obviously whoever they were didn’t care, and he hadn’t been lying when he said he could drive. Figuring out what to wear, now that was tricky, since his mom insisted that he had to look ‘professional’, and Dixon couldn’t exactly tell her that professional probably wouldn’t matter at a whorehouse.
Eventually they reached a compromise: jeans, even though Vegas was still hot this time of year, and a dress shirt, short sleeved, no tie. Their car was a beat-up old thing, but it still worked, and Dixon squirmed out of a hug and shouted over his shoulder that he’d ‘be back later’ as he headed out the door. He wasn’t sure if this was going to be an actual interview or what, and he didn’t have a lot of experience with those; in the drug business, things didn’t really work that way. You either proved yourself, or you ended up in a dumpster somewhere with a bullet in your head. Either way, he decided on a few cardinal rules on the drive over: no cursing, no slouching, and smile. Smiling was good, right? Even if he didn’t know what kind of job this Tristan was going to have for him at a whorehouse; better to be prepared for anything.
Two o’clock had been the designated time, and Dixon was five minutes early. He was no awkward virgin or anything, but he still had to make an effort to avoid fidgeting as he entered the building, hands in his pockets, and smiled at the pretty girl out front--though, at nineteen, almost anyone female and between the ages of sixteen and thirty was considered ‘pretty’--before informing her that he was here to see Tristan, in case she thought he was a paying customer or something.
Tristan had already told Margie -- the pretty redhead that sat out front -- that she was expecting someone. Margie was nineteen as well and thought she'd been willing to get on her back and earn her keep that way, there were laws prohibiting that sort of thing and Tristan had put her out front instead. She had a nice smile and a way of flirting with the men that came in that turned Tristan's stomach, but that the idiots seemed to love.
Of course, her presence and the knowledge that she was meeting someone here sparked off another round of rumors. It wasn't that often that Tristan came out to the Ranch and since she took that pretty boy client a few weeks ago, most of the girls were interested to see if she'd do it again. Their looks were systematically and routinely ignored, the hope in them dying after they realized she hadn't take up space in one of the rooms. Nor did Tristan have her duffle bag full of toys and gear.
Hope was replaced with curiosity though, and more than a few girls walked through after Margie sent her a text saying that her appointment was here. Tristan could only assume that the text didn't only go to her, given the three girls that preceded her into the waiting room, waving and giggling at the boy who was not a customer before walking through another door that led seemingly to the rooms. Tristan glared at their backs.
Dressed in black, black, and more black (t-shirt, jeans, boots), Tristan looked more like an escapee from a goth piercing mag than a woman who ran a whorehouse. "You Dixon?" Boy looked like he was nineteen and given that he was the only one in there besides Margie, she was going to guess he was the one. Unless Dixon ran out. It wouldn't be the first time.
Waiting was cool, since it wasn’t like he was nervous or anything, and when the pretty redhead tried making small talk, Dixon managed to get through it without stammering and making a total ass out of himself. He figured he was doing just fine, at least until more girls appeared, and he was pretty sure none of them was Tristan-- who could have been a guy for all he knew. He tried to keep it casual, giving the trio a smile and a nod like he did this all the time, which was betrayed by the way his gaze followed their movements, and he didn’t even notice anyone else within the vicinity until they spoke.
He immediately snapped to attention, pulling his hands out of his pockets and focusing on the woman who’d asked the question. She didn’t look like what he was expecting, not in a place like this, but hey, to each their own. Her look didn’t bother him. “Uh, yeah, that’s me,” he said, and he took a few steps toward her before extending a hand. That was the polite thing to do, right? “You must be Tristan.”
At least he didn't proposition her. She glanced at the outstretched hand -- clean, not well manicured -- and while she knew she should have, people shook hands all the time, the thought of touching anyone at the moment was enough to leave her feeling like she'd crawled into a pit full of ants. "Yeah," she said, and turned, his hand now ignored as she headed back and towards Tiffani's empty office. "Follow me."
There were very few laws that she ever bothered to follow, but this was one of them. Putting either the Ranch or the Gardens at risk put her work at risk and that was simply not an option. "Have you got an ID? And I mean a real one, not one of those half assed fake ones that every college student has to buy alcohol."
Dixon blinked at her retreating back for a moment before withdrawing his hand, feeling a faint flush of heat crawl up his neck. Right, so that was awkward, but whatever. Maybe Tristan just wasn’t into the whole shaking hands thing. He’d heard of people like that. He stuck his hands back in his pockets and hastened to keep up, pointedly avoiding eye contact with the pretty redhead. This woman was his potential new boss, and if she told him to follow, then he’d follow, no questions asked.
“Yeah,” he said, a little too quickly. “Yeah, I’ve got an ID. It’s legit and everything.” Okay, so he had a half-assed one that said he was 21 too, but there was no need to bring that up.
There was a not so small part of her that took a certain amount of pleasure in people being discomforted by her. Tristan considered it part of her job and people that couldn't hack it didn't stay long. "Hand it over," she said, all business even in the face of his blundering enthusiasm. One pale hand was held out, fingers twitching like they needed something to hang onto.
Not particularly warm, she still had that aura of all business, the rings in her face notwithstanding. She knew what she did, what she didn't like to do, and what things she needed to make sure that this place stayed running so she could do something she liked. And she didn't particularly care about who did what, so long as they did what she needed them to. The boy across from her, adult male maybe, but he still had baby fat on his cheeks and an eagerness that she wanted to eat. People that wanted to please always made her happy.
With all her questions about his ID, Dixon had fully expected her to want to see cold, hard proof. In this, at least, he was prepared. “Sure,” he said, with a flippant sort of ease he didn’t actually feel, and tugged his wallet out of his back pocket. He didn’t have much; some cash, various pieces of identification, no credit cards. It took him no more than a few seconds to find his driver’s license, and he handed it over with a half-hearted attempt at a smile. He had no idea what he was getting himself into, really, but Tristan wasn’t like anyone he’d worked for back in Chicago; maybe she was a little off-putting, blunt and to the point, but she wasn’t going to put a gun to his head or kill his mom if he did something wrong. He could identify people like that in a heartbeat. If she wanted him to do his job, he’d do it, and he had a feeling things would run smoothly if he just followed that mindset.
Taking the ID from him without touching him at all and looked it over, scrutinizing it before she dropped it down on the desk. She said nothing again, but picked up a scanner attached to the computer and copied the ID. Always needed one of those if she was going to hire him, and it was one of those things that it was better to have on hand rather to rely entirely upon him having it.
She fit one plain nail under the ID to lift it off the surface and hand it back. At least he was good at faking being at ease. "Here's the deal, the girls here need a lot of shit and I don't have time to get it all. So, I want you here to get them whatever the fuck they want. They want different lube, they want some flower shit from whatever the fuck store -- I want you to get it. They want a lime alfalfa sprouts salad, you get it. You'll be reimbursed for gas, whatever, but I don't have time to deal with this shit. Sound like something you're interested in?"
Scanning his ID, yeah, that was cool. If it had been a fake, Dixon might have panicked a little, but since it was completely legit he had no problem with it. Most of his nerves came from being so close to having a job, and from Tristan herself, since she wasn’t exactly the warm and fuzzy type. He didn’t know what the hell he was being considered for either, but so far he’d managed to figure out that it had something to do with being able to drive.
He took his ID back and shoved it back in his wallet, instantly alert as she started listing off what his duties would involve. For a moment he just looked at her, surprised, mostly because she was asking him to be an errand boy-- essentially what he’d done back in Chicago, but this time it wouldn’t involve any illegal substances, and he got to be around a bunch of pretty girls to boot. Sounded like a good deal to him; he’d just never be able to tell his mom the full truth, that’s all. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “I’d be interested. No problem. Whatever they need, I’ll get.” Combined with a busboy job, if he could land it, and financial aid, he’d totally be set for school.
Tristan nodded, a bare bob of her head before launching into the rest. "Be here when you say you are. You don't come out here with your buddies looking to fuck them. You work with them, for them, but they are not your own private fucking peep show. I don't want to catch you sniffing after them, or sniffing after their panties, either. You do not get to buy their time and if I think you're getting a little too close, I will kick you out on your fucking ear, got it?" The last thing she needed was another wayward cock in the place, but this one working for the girls instead of just coming here and eventually leaving.
"Nights and weekends tend to be busiest, so I want you then. And just to be clear, I'm paying you to keep them out of my hair, so if you're fucking slacking off and I start hearing from them, it's your ass that's grass."
Despite the fact that Dixon had no intention of bringing any of his buddies around, not that he had many, and probably wouldn’t have done much beyond wide-eyed staring when he thought he could get away from it, he still flushed sheepishly as Tristan laid down the ground rules. “Yeah-- I mean no, I won’t do any of that shit. I swear. I’ll just get them what they need, that’s all.” He didn’t doubt that Tristan would indeed kick him out on his ear if he crossed the line, and he knew he’d be paranoid from then on that she was watching, somehow, whether she was physically there or not. At least he had experience working for scary people, though, and he knew how to stay on their good side.
Nights and weekends, awesome. He had class during the day anyway, and even though the guy in his head seethed at the prospect of having less time through the door as a result, Dixon just ignored him. The stupid foreign guy could shove it if he didn’t like the way things were. “Nights and weekends, got it. And don’t worry, you won’t hear from them,” he assured her.
It was probably a better idea to be paranoid of Tristan than not. Even if she didn't have eyes in the back of her head, she was still more likely to think bad of someone than anything else. "Good," she said and for the first time appeared... pleased. Like a cat with a freshly caught canary that it was going to toy with for ages. She liked his attitude, that he would do what she told him to do and the fact that he was quite eager, nearly enough to be tripping over his own words, was not at all displeasing.
If he remained quick and eager to please them as well as her, they'd get along fine, or as well as she ever got along with anyone. There was one last thing to discuss. "How much did you make at your last job?"
There was a part of him that viewed her apparent pleasure with a certain amount of uncertain apprehension, but for the most part, Dixon figured it was a good thing. Keep the boss happy, and everything went smoothly; he’d learned that lesson pretty quick. So he smiled, because all in all this had gone pretty well. Maybe Tristan was a little off-putting, but surely she couldn’t be dangerous.
The question of wages made him falter, but only for a moment. Obviously he couldn’t start rambling about how his payment depended upon the amount of drugs, how smoothly the transactions went, and how happy his employers were in the end. “Minimum wage,” he shrugged, because that was safe, right? Few kids his age made more, unless they had connections or got lucky.
That falter caught her attention. Perhaps that was why he didn't have any experience to speak of. Whatever. She didn't give a particular rat's ass about what he was doing before, only what he could do for her now. "What the fuck is minimum wage now?" She asked under her breath. Five dollars? Eight? Ten? Without using a calculator, she added together the hours she wanted him to work and then settled on ten being minimum wage. She added five to it, to make sure that it was over, in the chance she was wrong and to make sure that he wasn't going to find something better that easily.
"How about this, six hundred every Friday. Every week they don't call me for something, I'll give you an extra fifty. I'll pay for your gas for whatever they want, as long as you keep the receipts." Money was the only thing Tristan tended to be giving on, after all, it wasn't all her money to begin with.
Dixon had no idea what minimum wage was. He just assumed she’d know, and so he stood there silently, offering a half-shrug, since he wasn’t really sure whether she was asking him how much it was, or simply talking to herself. Shit, he hoped she didn’t go way too low and screw him over, but even if she did, what was he supposed to do about it? He tried not to fidget as he waited for her to do her mental math or whatever the hell she was trying to figure out, because a job was still a job, despite the pay.
Six hundred every Friday made him want to grin like an idiot, but he played it cool and nodded instead. “Okay. Sounds good to me.” Hell fucking yes was more along the lines of his current train of thought, but something told him it was best to keep his enthusiasm under wraps. “So, do I start right away?”
She probably way overshot what she needed to pay him, but if it meant keeping the girls out if her hair so she could actually work on the thing she wanted to work on, six hundred a week was starting to look a little low. Whatever, he seemed pleased with it and as long as he didn't make any issues, it was all in her favor.
"Tomorrow night, eight to two. Don't be late, don't look like you just rolled out of bed and for fucks sake, do not wear a suit." The only thing worse than him looking like a slob was if he looked like a business man. A very young, very... bright eyed businessman, she thought as she looked him up and down.
The no suit thing was a relief; he could definitely run errands in jeans and a t-shirt, and that would be a lot more comfortable anyway. “No suit, no rolling out of bed. Got it.” All in all, Dixon was fairly pleased with himself. Maybe this wasn’t something he could put on a resume or anything, but he could worry about that later. Money was his top priority now. “So I’ll be here tomorrow, eight sharp. Thanks again, Tristan.” He made an aborted move to extend his hand again, but remembering how she’d refused his last handshake, he opted for a smile instead.
"Yeah," she said blandly. At least his time he didn't offer his hand and when he smiled, she didn't look at him like he was something better grown in a petri dish in a lab somewhere. Men weren't Tristan's favorite creatures and she was definitely considering making her AI female. Or telling her that she was. Even obedient young men like Dixon here, they would probably be obedient to a point until you had to force them back into line, and then it was a constant battle of wills that was going to end up with her winning. But that could take time and until then she would use him until he was no longer useful.