Gotham: Sam & Russ
Sam knew the joint. Neil's stint as the head of a crime family had been a short one, but she'd gotten to know plenty during that time, yeah? Maybe not names, but she knew how everything in Gotham worked. It was probably a good fit for her, for her people and where she came from. She knew this messed up dirty fucking world, and she'd lifted enough wallets and moved enough product in her life to know the lingo and when to lie low. But this place, and all the shit it tied back to, it was all too tempting for her. It was like putting candy within reach of a diabetic with a hella sweet tooth.
She was dressed in her old overalls, still too fucking loose, long-sleeved plaid over a white tee, and red Doc Martens. Her hair was in two pigtails, and she considered pulling it loose before making the walk over to Gotham, but fuck it. Russ was going to see what he saw, pigtails or not. She smelled a little like sweat, a little like turpentine and paint. There was white pigment beneath her fingers. She'd been working before Russ messaged her. First time in fucking months with a brush in her hand, but her hand was still steady as fuck with only a hit or two off a blunt, and she was happy with that.
She wasn't itching or hungry; she was weed-mellow, and she walked into the garage like someone who knew the landscape. These weren't the Mexican guys from Russ' place in Vegas, but it was the same fucking shit, regardless of gender. Italian, Spanish, all the same, and she asked for Russ and gave the guy under the hood a crooked smile that was all kinds of fucking trouble. Hand on her hip and bare skin there, and the guy looked her up and down before sending her back. She could feel him watching her ass as she went. Predictable fuckers, all these guys, man.
She stopped close to the truck, hands deep into her pockets and making the denim tug. "Good thing I don't mind some fucking oil with my burgers, yeah?"