WHO: Hunter Mitchell and Kira Royce WHERE: The Capitol Club in LA. WHEN: Backdated to a couple of days ago. WHAT: Hunter thinks it's going to be a normal night of work. Instead, he gets to meet a prophet. WARNINGS: Minimal swearing. General creepiness.
By Capitol standards, the night was a slow one. He had periodic breathers where nobody was coming to get a drink from him, but the place was still noisy. He had to shout to be heard by anybody further than a few inches away from him, and he was convinced the DJ had just turned the music up louder. The bass was practically pounding through his ribcage. God, if only small, homey bars brought in more money.
He passed a beer over to a man in his mid-twenties, tucking the ten he was given away into the register. That was his last sale for a while. The bodies there were mostly centered on the dance floor, and it was about time for his break anyway. He gave a wave over to Lucy--a girl who was tending for the first time that night, and in a trial period to determine if she could hack it--to let her know he was stepping out. He needed some fresh air; the club was stifling.
The cool air was a godsend when it smacked into his face upon his exit, his hand instantly moving to loosen the tie that felt like a noose around his neck. His employees had the luxury of dressing casually so that they could get more tips, but Hunter had to keep up his professional appearance as owner of the establishment. It was a huge drawback of wearing the boss crown, and sometimes he wondered why he bothered with it. It would've been so easy for him to just be an actor again...But that train of thought never lasted more than a minute. Acting, for him, was a lot more frustrating.
Hunter took a deep breath and tossed the tie to the side into the bushes. He leaned against the building and closed his eyes, ready to bask in his brief time of peace.