Low Tide

Later on, she'd say it was a coincidence and nothing but.

Key West had its fair share of sports bars. Some had two or three pool tables, smaller than regulation-size and populated with a strange mix of off-duty Coast Guard members and Cubans. It was a potent recipe for fights, once either side had a few beers and a few losses under their belts. She didn't like it. For one thing, people assumed she was there to bask in the cloud of testosterone and cologne, and hopefully get hit on. They sent over beers and stared at her ass when she made shots. For another, she felt compelled to do something when they broke into fistfights. Compelled to stop that sound. Meat on meat. Furniture scraping. Voices climbing into the cheaply-made drop ceiling.

No. I don't want to. After all, at least something was jumping off after-hours in Key West.

Eventually, she found her way to Felt. It was different. No plasma televisions, no designer cocktails. Just a long, narrow building with nine-foot tables, shitty acoustics, beer on tap, and real players. The bathrooms were to be avoided. So, too, the mozzarella sticks in a greasy basket. Tonight, a guy sat on a stool on stage belting blues on an old guitar. It looked like he'd broken up with the instrument before. Dropped it out of his truck doing high speeds, then gone back to pick up the pieces.

( Tailing Him )

"Is everything on this island tropical themed?"

From his post at the door, Darian thought it a fair question. He had steered clear of tiki huts, floating bars, dueling pianos, and the cloying strains of Jimmy Buffett tunes, which left him with little in the way of choice. This bar was less thematic than most, but even it boasted a palm tree made of a neon tubing and a specialty drink served in a coconut. He took off a lightweight coat and hung it from a hook near his chair... A hook which, on closer inspection, was shaped like a pelican beak.

So that issue was settled, at least. He was in hell.

Upon sitting down, he straightened his tie and looked around. Roxanne, the client he chased to the island, was more adept at staying off his radar than Darian could've imagined. She was not a guest in any hotel. He concluded that she'd settled herself in for a long-term stay, perhaps taken up a job and an apartment share (it was either that or admit the worse alternative-- that she'd already left the island, leaving him picking sand out of his teeth, without a clue as to her next destination).

( Awakening )