"Do you ever have the feeling that something's not copacetic and you don't know nothing from nothing even though you're hitting on all sixes?" Bren asks the person next to him at the bar. He's a little bouncy, knee moving even though he's sitting, but he seems pretty damned sobber.
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Well, it has been a very dull and uninformative night. James sighs, and drums his fingers on the table. Talking to Tricia was like hitting a brick wall repeatedly; he had found out nothing except she clearly wasn't waiting for someone, no matter how disappointed she had looked when she had finally left. He's already put in a call to check her out when the sun rises. You have to know who you are dealing with to be able to put them in their place.
And now he's itching for something to do, like something crawling just under the surface of his skin. He's not too sure what, but there's something he wants, a taste just out of reach, and he watches the patrons amble by, seeking out a face or some sign that shows weakness. And then he catches a glimpse of Scott retreating into his office, and he remembers the tenseness of his neck when he mentioned customer satisfaction, and there. Perfect. Someone to talk to. In soothing tones. Something to do that might quiet the itch for a while.
He stands up and pushes his chair in, taking his drink with him - his third, and he's aware he's feeling warm. Not enough to take the edge off, but noticeable nonetheless. James flicks his eyes over to John, busy talking to a flushing bass player, and then over to Nathan, who is inundated with customers. No one seems to notice him as he slips over to the office door and knocks lightly. A man's office is sacred, even James doesn't barge in unannounced.
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