inkonstage (inkonstage) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-04-09 15:26:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, marta flores, seven morgan |
Who: Seven & Marta
What: Drinking for questionable reasons (part 1 of 3)
Where: A dive in Vegas
When: Backdated like whoa, post-holiday childhood plot, after this.
Warnings/Rating: Language, and lots of it
Even as he pulled up to the curb outside the bar that his mystery chick had named, Seven Morgan had no fucking idea what he was doing there. Part of it could have been some twisted form of self-flagellation, facing his accuser so that she could tell him what a monster he was. Like he didn’t know the severity of his own goddamned darkness. The other part - who knows, maybe a brazen curiosity to meet the girl who knew what he’d done to her, who had heard his nonchalant admission that it wasn’t the first time he’d killed someone, and still demanded that he come buy her a drink? She had to be nuts, and maybe that made him curious. Most likely was the fact that he’d never been able to actually face one of the people he’d hurt at these things, though his ideas of what to say and how to act were fleeting, replaced on the breath of something harsh and self-serving. Whatever the reason, he was frozen in place on his newest bike for the better part of five minutes after he’d pulled into a spot behind the cab stand outside the bar.
In some part of his mind he was there, toying with a frayed seam that ran along the thumb of his leather riding glove as if it held some answers. He was fogging up his helmet while he conducted the inward debate regarding the merits of heading into the bar versus driving off into the growing twilight of a warm winter evening, knowing in the part of his gut that felt icy cold that this was another poor decision that he’d swallowed too quickly. He tugged off the helmet with its tinted visor, having just about reached the point where he remembered he hadn’t actually promised anything -- and the doorman recognized him, jerking a curt nod in his direction. Big guy, shaved blonde head with a pleasant face. Familiar; Seven noted that he’d hired the man through the contracting business a few times last year, and pulled him over into doing security when he needed more meat standing behind him.
As he dismounted from the bike, he was maybe a little surprised that he’d been made so easily when he’d only met the guy a couple times; he’d grown out his hair and beard over the heat of the summer months and kept it the same going into winter, and he’d swapped out the suit for jeans and a leather jacket. But he supposed that it wasn’t enough of a difference. Nah, Seven only felt like a stranger in his own body. He ran a hand through the sandy blonde locks that were swept back off his forehead, sticking to his temples where he’d worked up a light sheen of sweat under the heat of his headgear.
“Mike,” he nodded in acknowledgement, slapping an open-palmed greeting against the man’s broad shoulder as he slipped through the front door. It was mostly empty, save for the darkest corners, so he made his way up to the bar and took a seat on a tall stool while he waited for the pint of stout he ordered to land in front of him. He made a point of not looking around for his ghost-girl.