Hunter Sommer (missherocomplex) wrote in horror_story, @ 2013-11-14 13:50:00 |
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Entry tags: | cycle004, hunter, incomplete, jon |
Who: Hunter & OPEN (Archer? Annie? Bueller?).
Where: The Red Door, by the bar.
When: November 1st, 11pm+
What: Come shoot the shit with the bartender of the evening.
Warnings: Indefinitely some language.
When Hunter had first come around looking to become a staff member at the Red Door, the blonde had been mostly seeking out her uncle. Initially, that was how it had started anyway. When she'd turned twenty-one, staying under her mother and father's roof for a minute longer had become out of the question. Nevada wasn't exactly classy. Living in a trailer park definitely wasn't classy. But she had found her uncle at the Red Door, and she'd found somewhere special. She'd just been looking for him, for somewhere that wasn't home, for something to do with herself, for guidance on what she ought to do next. What better source was there for solid guidance, if not Archer Avery? Hunter hadn't been aware of a better one then, and still wasn't.
And when she first come around, her preference for employment had also been focused solely upon becoming a part of the in-house security. She never had quite outgrown the desire to mimic whatever Archer was doing, of wanting to grow up to be him in her own way, and that was where the desire to be security had stemmed from. That, combined with the fact that since she'd been old enough, she'd been getting into scraps and scrapes with others, more often than not coming out the winner of said fights. When it came to her work, she wanted to knock heads. She hadn't, at the time, been sure what else she might excel at if not something physical. Something to channel her aggression into. She had physical prowess, and a desire to put it to good use.
That had been almost five years ago though, five years since Hunter had first come sniffing around the Red Door with the wrong kind of attitude, and five years since her uncle saw to it that they found something to do with her.
It wasn't doing what she wanted to do originally, but she was plenty settled in by now. While she never got to be full time security, the kind that got to knock heads every single day and night, she had come to find that she was good at a myriad of other things other than being physically intimidating. She'd become, over the years, a sort of jack of the trades. Mixing drinks, some crowd control, taking and delivering orders, remembering orders. She even had a knack carrying a tray with half a dozen beers on it without spilling a damn one. She got to play back-up security when they needed her, and she felt as intimidating as she'd ever been.. but bartending, waiting tables, was actually almost better for her.
It (usually) kept her temper in line, for one.
There was a part of her that still longed to be full-time security, to work at her uncle's right-hand in the way that she'd always imagined she might be someday when growing up.. but on the other hand, she was sort of glad that her main job at the Red Door had a more fun social aspect to it. Frankly, it kept her on the straight and narrow, to have a job and purpose to focus on that was less confrontational, more relaxed. When she'd spend her childhood imagining being Archer's right-hand, she'd always been imagining working for the police anyway.. but that was over now, he wasn't going back. Red Door security and the cops weren't even on the same page, they didn't deal with the same things, and Hunter was fairly certain that no one viewed their security team with the same reverence that police got. Respect, maybe. Red Door security did what had to be done, period. Laws seemed flexible, or nonexistent.
But if the place, the work, and the people working here were good enough for her uncle to be involved with, it was good enough for Hunter. A lot of outside people were a little afraid of the security, at least that was the vibe she got, and that seemed alright with her. Some people needed to be scared. Some people deserved it.
In contrast, generally everyone seemed to like the wait staff. They liked the bartenders, and the waitresses, both roles that Hunter split her time between. And if they tipped well, they had every reason to like the wait staff. She only spit in the drinks of real pricks and penny-pinchers. She didn't like cheapskates, considering the hefty prices that people paid to visit the brothel in the first place. She generally got on well with everyone, except the real weirdos. She enjoyed being the recognizable and friendly face behind the counter, the grinning blonde always ready with a quick comment, or a flirty remark. It was much easier to be on good terms with a client by being the one joking around with him and mixing him a drink at the bar, rather than being the one grabbing him by the back of the shirt and throwing him out when he got too rowdy. She let Archer pull the trigger on those kinds of decisions.
It was easier to be that jovial, welcoming face.. until she had to be something else.
Tonight, Hunter was in especially good spirits. Halloween had fallen upon her usual night off, and she'd been to a handful of different parties, rather than hanging around the brothel all night like her uncle and some of her co-workers. She was glad to be back, ready to tell anyone who asked about her exciting Halloween night, and she wasn't even hung-over, a small miracle. Even with some nephilim blood, liquor usually hit her system hard, once she surpassed her tolerance. Which was, admittedly, quite high. She didn't have a talent for mixing drinks for no reason, after all.
It was getting late, though it had been a steady night of serving people, and the blonde had her hair pulled back loosely and had a simple bar apron around her waist to wipe her hands on, as she bustled around behind the counter and dried some clean glasses with the rag she'd used to clean the counter-top a few minutes earlier. If there was anything she hated more than cheapskates who didn't tip, it was fuckers who didn't use coasters and left water rings on her bartop. Seeming satisfied with the glass in her hand, which was still warm from the dishwasher, she placed it down onto the counter with the others and sighed. There was only so much to tidy up behind the counter, only so much to do when it was slow, before you were just standing around, bored. Slow times were her one complaint about working the bar.
Leaning her elbows onto the top of the bar, Hunter propped her chin into her hands, and began waiting semi-patiently. For a customer to order a damn drink, for someone to come talk to her and entertain her, or for one of the two bosses to come tell her to shut the bar down for the night. Whatever came first.