Raven was there, though she was not some swooning fan girl. Rather she was standing toward the bar, her dark purple corset and skirts, trimmed in black. Her makeup was elaborate, shades of purple going for bright and pale, to dark. Her hair was shaped, sculpted to perfection. Her boots went to mid-calf, with stockings sliding up her legs seductively. She was, of course, the one men seemed to drool over (it worked in her favor, in so far as she needed to buy none of her drinks), and the girl women cast dark looks toward.
But she had her own prey, didn't she?
Smiling secretively, she moved across the floor, 4 inch heels clicking against the wood, and wound her way to where Jacoby was looking about the club. In her hands was a piece of art. A print of a painting that had been done in a week, and from the small sketch she'd made from the coffee shop. Nothing that would win awards, mind you, but it wasn't anything short of perfectly crafted.
Holding it out, she cleared her throat and asked sweetly, and perhaps a bit fan-like, "can I get your autograph?"