Re: Mean-Eyed Cat: Cat & Reece E
"You're welcome." She said it with a grin that widened, slow and seductive, and she wasn't even trying to win this man over. She didn't need to. See, Cat held all the cards, and she knew her hand was exquisite. It came from a life of cons, of thieving, of living on other people's donations. She was smug, secure in her lazy lean of elbows on wood. And he wasn't wrong, you know, about her not belonging in a place like this. But, oddly enough, it was growing on her. It was small, close quarters and nothing like the big gaming hall she'd run in New Jersey. No diamonds sparkled on her wrists, and no emeralds circled her throat, and she was getting used to it. Oh, those things? She still had them, locked away and safe, and she still loved her caviar and a nice string of pearls. But she was settling into this, and it was coming much, much easier than expected. It reminded her, in a strange way, of all those conversations exchanged between her and Eddie, long and mournful talks about living different lives. And even if this was all a front? It was one she could enjoy. And that? That was nice.
And she liked nice.
She even liked this. A nice, slow con, and this man sitting himself on her barstool, oh, so awkwardly. He unzipped that coat, tucked away that ridiculous hat, and she just watched him lazily. She could've been lounging on a couch, and that was how relaxed she was. No effort here, and the graceful turn of wrist as she poured out that whiskey? It was all innate, something she was born with, and no artifice in the movement.
He held the glasses while she poured, as if that was necessary, but she just poured, that entertained cant of lips never letting up. She had a perpetual air of laughing at a person, her own little inside joke mingled in with something seductive in mossy eyes of warm olive-oak.
She slammed back her drink, and he took off that coat, and she chuckled at his attempt at a glower. Lips booze damp, she smacked them together and licked the taste away, and then she decided it was time to take pity on him. A little.
Languid turn of wrist, and she poured them each some more. "Well, I'm not sure how much negotiating I'll be doing. It's possible I misrepresented that a tiny bit." She stood straighter, fingers dancing light on the lip of her shot glass. "You see, I need to get into your military facility. And you? You're going to help me." She slammed her drink back, head tipped, neck pale and long, and then she set the glass down quietly, nearly delicate, refined fingers and years of callouses. "You help me, and I don't tell anyone what I know about your lack of morals."
She arched a perfect brow. She grinned, and she leaned on the bar again, both arms on the wood and every bit a feline in her expression, her pleasure evident, as if she'd just lapped up a particularly thick bowl of cream. "See? Simple."