Who: Alan Campbell and Grace Cash What: Spy shenanigans at your local strip joint. Nothing to see here! Where: Skin in LA. When: Tuesday evening, March 6th, 2012 Warnings: Violence? Definite violence. Also a marginal bit of sleaze...
At the end of latest girl's set, Alan whooped and catcalled just like the rest of the the club's patrons, even though there was one key difference between them and him: he was here for business, not pleasure. He was just very good at playing up the latter. Not that it would've been very difficult here in Skin – all he had to do was order drink after drink and act as outlandishly lecherous as possible, slipping bills to the dancers and even going up on stage with this last one, just now. That was definitely against the rules, and he could just imagine the look on Grace's face when she saw him dance to the house music with a barely-clothed stripper. In fact, it probably mirrored the ones on the bouncers' faces posted at each of the exits. In her case, it would be personal, though. Theirs? Well, he was just a drunken idiot, the kind who'd have to be thrown out soon if he didn't settle down.
So, he settled down. Sort of. He spent most of the next set stretching his legs, taking a trip to the bathroom (there was a pun here about "concealed weapons," he thought as he double-checked them, and he chuckled to himself in the stall), then making his way to the bar to flirt with the bartender before he found another seat for himself, farther back from the stage this time. He chose a relatively secluded booth and reclined in the center of it, arms spread out to either side of him on the back of the seat, smirking absentmindedly. For all intents and purposes, he looked like an intoxicated king surveying his, ah, fertile lands.
Well, that was half true, anyway. He was surveying the club, but he was looking for something very specific. Or rather, someone. Spencer Maxwell, the so-called "werebitch" who severely damaged the MTN. Severely, but not permanently, thank god. Mundy travel was so tiresome, but he digressed. So far, the woman was nowhere to be found, but he'd been keeping his eyes open, just in case. But then someone else passed in front of him. Someone that demanded his immediate attention.
"Hey, hey, hey, sweetheart!" he grinned, grabbing Grace's arm before she waitressed herself out of reach. "Another scotch, if you don't mind? And hey, hey. Grab one for yourself. On me." He winked for good measure, and even gave her a light tap on the ass. She couldn't punch him here, could she, right?
.... She could later, though. Oh, well. Damage was done. "There's a good girl!"