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Tweak says, "Tweak says, "Tweak!""

Tiffany Maddock (saturday_night) wrote in lineof_fire_rpg,
@ 2008-03-21 15:51:00

Tilda & Geoff @ Steak and Legs.
Who: Tilda and GEOFF.
What: Random Meeting
Where: Steak and Legs
When: St Patty’s day; Monday night
Rating: Swearage?
Open? To GEOFF.

On March 17, everyone believed they were Irish. Everyone except for Tilda Maddock, who refused to take part in a celebration inspired by the same country that had spawned boy band Westlife. Steak and Legs had, however, gone Irish for the night. What little that the strippers were wearing, was green and the Guinness was flowing so freely that the floor behind the bar was thoroughly soaked in the thick, sticky, liquid. Every patron had a beer in hand and as the night progressed, the club became more packed, more noisy.

Pushing her way through the crowd of grappling hands, Tilda was only too happy to finally make it behind the bar; on most nights she would have loathed bar-duty, but the patrons seemed particularly grabby that Monday night and she didn’t have time to abuse every single man (or woman) that grabbed her ass on Saint Patrick’s day. Pushing a trio of glasses across the counter-top and towards a customer, she threw the bills in the cash register and turned her attention towards the next paying-customer, “What do you want?” she asked briskly.

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play_the_game
2008-03-21 06:12 am UTC (link)

Everyone except for Tilda Maddock* and Geoffrey Carmichael. He, in fact, believed he was Irish only when it suited him. And only if they paid more than the Scots or English, or whichever particular factions he was playing against each other at the time.

Of course, now that he had returned to his hometown, it was, in fact, very prudent to pretend he was Irish (and then turn around and play Italian). Still, tonight wasn't about the pretense. At least, not about playing for the royal courts. No, tonight was about observation. There was more to the city than just the major players on the Irish and Italian sides, and he was determined to do as much research as his liver could possibly take.

So when the briskly-spoken words hit his ears, he turned his head slightly, moving to lean against the bar. There was a part of him that came close to being inappropriate. But he reigned it in, if only so he didn't draw attention to himself. "Coke. And .. get me a scotch on the rocks too, would you sweetheart?" The question was airily asked, the arrogance sneaking into the smooth baritone voice that screamed Bostonian. Amazing, though he had just returned to the city, the accent had come back stronger than it had been when he'd left.

He turned that smooth smile on, though only part of his attention was anywhere near the girl. He was busy memorizing the surroundings as well as the patrons. As of yet, he didn't recognize any of them, a realization that left him feeling .. disappointed.

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saturday_night
2008-03-21 06:54 am UTC (link)

The casual ‘Sweetheart’ was like pulling on the end of her tether; what little patience that remained after having put up with an evening of bullshit from clients who weren’t worth more than the dollar bills that they slapped down onto the counter, but she kept her facial expression impassive - like her brothers were always telling her; if she didn’t want to be spoken down to, she was managing the wrong club.

Moving down the bar, she slammed two glasses on the counter, before she reached for a bottle of Scotch - itching to put the bottle to her lips and take a swig; would it be unprofessional to drink on the job when she worked at a strip club? It took a lot of will power to turn the bottle, pouring the liquid over the ice in one of the glasses, “Scotch on the rocks” she spoke, pushing it across the bar towards the stranger, before fixing the Coke.

Moments later, a glass of Coke joined the scotch on the rocks on the bar-top, Tilda’s attention momentarily diverted as she watched one of their strippers loll around on a nearby table, bottle of vodka in hand, pouring the liquor freely into her mouth (and down her front) - apparently they could drink on the job. She made a mental note to fire that stripper, before she turned her attention back to the stranger, “You look like you’re looking for someone”

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play_the_game
2008-03-21 02:36 pm UTC (link)

He might have felt a little bad about the 'sweetheart,' if he'd known it would grate on her nerves. Geoff wasn't the type of lecherous man who went around and slapped womens' asses, unless they asked for it. And even then, his brand of kink was a little more creative and probably a little colder. The point was, he didn't use 'sweetheart' in a condescending way, but then. Maybe that made it worse, right? If someone could go around and just use it for the sake of using it ..

Anyway. He obviously couldn't have known that it had bothered her, given the impassive look. So there was absolutely no reason for any tiny bit of that conscience to kick in. Regarding the 'sweetheart' thing.

Upon hearing the name of the drink, he turned slightly, without taking his eyes off the patrons, and casually snagged up the drink. He took a small drink of it, idly. As though he wasn't drinking for drinking's sake, but drinking to look inconspicuous. Which, he was. A man walks into a bar, or club, and doesn't order anything? That reeked of suspicion, at least in his eyes. It was the military training in him, coupled with the fact that his mind never stopped moving a mile a minute.

It took her question to drag his gaze away from the crowd, and even then, it was a halting transformation. As if in a daze, he turned his head just a bit and looked back at her. "Hu -- oh." Her words clicked into his mind as the gears of his brain halted and shifted back to the girl. "Everyone is always looking for someone." It was a non-committal answer, but then what was he supposed to do? Admit that he was playing the observation game? Hell no. And he was too far ahead of himself, mentally, to turn back and come up with an excuse. Sometimes, his mind worked against him like that.

Realizing she'd placed the coke in front of him, he reached into the pocket of the pressed button-down shirt he was wearing, and pulled out a billfold full of cash. He didn't even bother to thumb through it, just pulled the first bill off the pile, a fifty, and slid it towards her. In his defense, he wasn't paying much attention to it. By then, his attention had wandered back to the crowded club, brow arching slightly as he took in the sight of the strippers. "Keep the change," it was murmured, distractedly. His eyes narrowed on one area of the club, as though he was racking his brain to remember if a certain face was familiar or not.

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