[log] Dante, Grimmjow
Title: Cockfight!
Characters: Dante Sparda (
gogochan), Grimmjow Jaggerjack (
gogodgene)
Timeline: April 2, 1950
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Dante enters a cockfight and, surprisingly, leaves with more than he came for.
**Disclaimer: The mods do not condone cockfighting between birds. But it's sure as hell okay between guys.
He wasn't a betting man.
Betting was for those who were unsure of themselves; their future. Grimmjow liked to pride himself on being so unwaveringly sure about his situation that gambling seemed like a waste of time. Besides, he had a much more legit (although, it really wasn't legit) way of making money. Selling weapons (guns or otherwise) was an easy way to turn a profit any of day of the week, and the blue-haired sharp-shooter was guaranteed his pay.
Well, if the client was a greedy little greaser. While idiots didn't tend to do much business with him (just because of his reputation), there was the one-in-a-million Bo who would always look to make Jaggerjack look like the bunny. Which was what brought him here, tonight: a cockfight.
A while back, some bird had showed up asking Grimmjow to supply a small group of his associates with some arms. Jaggerjack was never one to turn business down, and sold the man what he needed in a short amount of time. Of course, he probably should've been harsher on the goon when his gums started flapping the phrase "future payment." The bruiser had done a lot of business like that; people coming in with nothing but lint in their pockets, promising his pay later.
And the smart ones paid up as soon as possible.
This one decided to be trouble, though. Grimmjow didn't know what the little piss ant was thinking in that tiny brain of his, but Jaggerjack wasn't a man you stole from or pushed around. If the bastard had enough money to waste at a chicken fight, then he had money to put in Grimm's pocket.
And by the end of the night, Grimmjow was gonna make sure he learned that lesson, and learned it well.
Unfortunately, the blue-haired dealer hadn't seen hide nor hair of the scoundrel yet, and hoped that his information had been right. In the meantime, he'd sit back and watch as the men around him shouted and cheered, almost as if they were in a frenzy. It was either be made or be broken.
He was a gambling man, alright.
A gambler in every sense of the word. Dante lived for adventure, and loved to take risks with both his financial and physical assets. Nothin' got this red-blooded bounty hunter pumped and primed for action than an element of mortal danger. It was like a drug for him; a shot of the stiffest whiskey. He was cocky enough to risk it all, skilled enough to get by on the skin of his teeth, and foolish enough to keep playing with fire.
A wiser man would know when to hold back or call it quits. But no one would ever accuse Dante Sparda of being wise. Ballsy. Brave. Foolhardy. Sexy. Charming. One helluva guy. The Devil's own. But not...wise.
In the grand scheme of things, Lady Luck had chosen to protect Dante's hide. Even when greatly outnumbered, the blue-eyed P.I. managed to survive every scrape and shootout with an uncanny mix of well-aimed bullets and sheer bravado. Yet when it came to bettin' with anything but his life, Lady Luck turned a deaf ear and a cold shoulder, leaving Dante down on his uppers more often than not.
So, the debts piled up, forcing the cocky dick to take some mercenary jobs just to keep the bookies and other sharks from smelling blood in the water. You'd think that after a few too many close calls, Dante would learn that his devil-may-care attitude meant hell to pay when it came to gambling.
But no...
The little devil just couldn't resist. The NYC underground was like Dante's personal Inferno, and he wouldn't be satisfied until he'd tried every deadly sin, traversed every circle, and crumbled every terrace.
Starting with Greed.
And, really, it wasn't as though Dante went looking for trouble. There was no need. Trouble, it seemed, had a way of finding him... So it was on this particular night, when the hunter ventured out in search of a meal, thinking to rustle himself up some Kung Pao Chicken from Ling's, one of his favorite little restaurants this side of the Brooklyn Bridge. 'Course, part of what made that dormy dive so special was the fact that old Aunt Ling seemed rather partial to the pale P.I., and often gave him a break on price. Especially if he agreed to help her out with some clean up. And by that, Ling didn't mean for Dante to be washing no dishes...
Anyway, there he was, strollin' along, minding his own business, dreaming of Aunt Ling's delicious General Tso's Chicken, when he stumbled right into the local boss' cockfight. Though Dante's stomach rumbled with hunger, he couldn't help but whet his appetite a bit further by gettin' in on the game. A bloody sport, and barbarous at that, but...
If there was anything Dante felt he could bet on, it was cock.
The big bird in his pants had yet to let him down, so why not follow his instincts? With any luck, shakin' some tail feathers would lead to one hell of a score.
Luck, of course, being the operative word...
Standing around bored like this almost wasn't worth it. Almost. 'Course, the guy he was after owed him a couple hundred C's, and there was no way in hell he would let the bastard just slide by because he was too lazy to look for the man. Grimmjow just hoped that the guy hadn't slipped through his fingers. The greaser didn't exactly stand out of a crowd, and with a bunch of other guys yelling and jumping around like idiots, he may have missed Mr. What's-His-Face.
What the fuck was his name anyway? William-something. William...Frost? Yeah, that was it. He remembered the last name being weird. Mr. Frost was a petty gangster boss down on his luck when he had come to Jaggerjack, throwing compliment after compliment around. Grimmjow had fallen for the flattery (and a little bargaining) and had ended up selling some pistols and such at (only slightly) lower prices. Besides, what could a guy with barely ten people behind him do? To a group like the Concavos, he posed no threat. Hell, to the Concavos, he didn't even have a right to exist.
All he could remember about Will was the fact that his washed-out, brown hair was slicked back with enough gel to make it shine, and that he wore black aviator glasses. He might've been half attractive, he guessed, if the guy didn't look like a sleaze to begin with. After tonight, when Grimmjow got through with him, the guy wouldn't have a chance in heaven or hell to ever look half-decent again.
Instead of dwelling on that failure of a human being anymore, the blue-haired bruiser turned his attention to the fight at hand. Some of the guys looked like they were doing well for themselves.
But then there was this one guy...
The man with the white hair. Yeah. That guy looked like he could use a kiss from Lady Luck any moment now. So far, the stranger had lost the bulk of his bets. It was obvious to Grimmjow which bird was in better shape, but he guessed not everyone had a sharp eye like he did. Speaking of his sharp eyes, Mr. White-hair was looking pretty handsome. Jaggerjack thought it was odd that he would notice such a thing in a place like this. Then again, it wasn't like seein' a good lookin' face was unwanted, either.
Well, crap. Double crap. Honestly, who would've thought there was a science n' shit to betting on a bunch of dumb birds. Picking the prize poultry should be duck soup. Sure, it took a sly and savvy eye to suss out the best bangtails, but...this was no high-stakes horse race, dammit. Dante was losin' his hard earned dough on a bunch of fucking chickens. Chickens! Or...roosters. Fighting cocks. Whatever. The point was, he was losing. Losing bad... The smart-aleck sharp-shooter had sashayed in with his usual carefree swagger, boldly bettin' on the biggest cock each time (say what ya' like, sweetheart, size does matter). He should've hung back for a while, watched and learned, gotten a feel for what made a fowl a good fighter...and kept a keen eye open for any foul play.
But, no... Cautious, careful, and calculated? That wasn't Dante's style.
He didn't gamble for the money. Really. It was the sense of adventure, the element of danger, and the sheer rush of risking it all that made the bounty hunter bet his last berries and go for broke. Again and again and again... Dante was a thrill seeker. He craved excitement. Hell, he fucking lived for it. So, the dashing daredevil took a few losses from time to time, and stumbled a bit here and there. No matter. Though he'd been called a "dog" more than once in his life, Dante seemed to have a pussycat's knack for landing on his feet. That, and nine lives--at least.
Anyway, enough about pussies... For the private dick’s night to have a happy ending, he needed to find some good cocks. Three consecutive losses had whittled the dough in his pocket down to mere chicken feed. Feisty little peckers… If he could just pick one winning bird… Just one, dammit! Dante didn’t need to score big to be satisfied. As it was, one more loss and he’d be shit outta cluck.
Dammit. There was no way he could lose four times in a row. Right? Right. The plucky P.I.’s luck was about to change; he could feel it.
He could feel something,’ all right. The little hairs on the back of his neck had gone all tingly, meaning somebody, somewhere, was checking him out. Be it uncanny intuition or unchecked vanity, Dante had a knack for knowing when he was being watched.
Bright blue eyes looked deeper into the dark alley, surreptitiously scanning the shadowed faces, eager to catch a glimpse of his newest admirer. Dante was a handsome devil…and he knew it. The way he figured, even his foes had to fancy him. How could they not?
Dante Sparda was just too damn sexy.
The sharp-shooter cut a striking figure, what with his snow white hair and signature scarlet coat. In a place like this; the only ones who could out-strut Dante were the cocks themselves.
And, maybe, that guy with the blue hair. The brawny one, standing all by himself in the back. The one who was staring straight at Dante.
Jackpot.
Fuck the damn roosters. One look at the blue-haired stranger and Dante knew what he wanted to cock-a-doodle-do. The gutsy gunslinger returned the man’s gaze, upping the ante with sly smile.
Grimmjow slightly raised an eyebrow when his eyes met the object of his distraction. At first, he thought the pale man would give a dirty look for checking him out so blatantly, but it seemed Mr. No Luck was more than happy to reciprocate the interest.
Then again, the guy was probably just cock-sure enough to come over and ask him for a couple bills. Grimmjow hoped not. He was looking to get his money back tonight, not dish more out. Then again, the arms dealer might change his tune, if the handsome man was nice to him. A bit of conversation couldn't hurt... Perhaps the sexy stranger had seen Mr. Frost around.
If anything, he could give the guy a tip or two, and help him win some of his money back.
Grimmjow returned the smile with a knowing grin of his own.
That sly grin was exactly the invitation Dante was looking for. The flashy bounty hunter turned on his heel, red coat tails flaring behind him as he cut through the flock of gamblers clustered around the avian blood sport. Once free of the crowd, Dante leisurely sauntered over to where the blue-haired man stood, straight-backed and tall, his muscular arms folded neatly over what appeared to be a very broad and well-defined chest.
The impertinent investigator let his eyes rove shamelessly over the stranger's fine physique. Compared to Dante, the man's attire was rather plain. He wore a nondescript, white collared shirt, with the sleeves rolled up past his biceps, and faded blue Levi's. Wait... No, not Levi's--Wrangler's. (Dante could tell the brand of the jeans by the way they fit in the crotch.) The simple attire suited the strapping stranger just fine, as it emphasized his intriguing hair and sculpted frame.
Of course, it didn't hurt that blue-haired hunk had a sexy smile and handsomely rugged features on top of a well-built body.
"Why hello there," Dante said as he came to a halt by the man's side. "Gotten lucky with any of the games tonight?" His friendly smile twisted into a decidedly impish grin. "I mean, you certainly look like the type a' guy whose got a good eye for cock..."
Grimmjow could tell this guy was a cocky sunnavabitch just by his walk. The red coat, the devilish smile, and the hot-to-trot strut spelled trouble…or ignorant bravado. The guy seemed like one of those rebels of society, looking to make his own way and follow his own rules. Usually, those were the types Grimmjow distanced himself from just because they tended to pull some dumb shit once in a while. That wasn't to say that the blue-haired arms dealer wasn't almost the same type of person, but he had a certain finesse when it came to such things.
Well, most of the time, anyway.
Now that the stranger was close enough to actually study, Grimmjow gave him a quick once-over, so he wouldn't look like a shameless idiot for checking the guy out yet again. Though “shameless” was exactly the way Mr. Red Coat looking at him right now. The bruiser guessed it took all kinds...
Mischievous blue eyes, pale features, shock-white hair, a prize-winning smile, and a great body. He was sure it would be even better to look at if the cocky Bo wasn't wearing that heavy, red leather coat or black shirt.
"Actually, I'm not here ta gain money off some birds. I'm here ta get my cash n' prizes from a man. But, ya know, since ya actually came over, I guess I could give you a tip." Grimmjow smirked at the pale stranger. "Bigger isn't always better." The broad arms dealer turned his attention back to the crowd, still looking for his target. "Name's Grimmjow. You?"
"What?" Dante said incredulously, "Bigger isn't always better? That's not what I've always heard." The white-haired hellion hammed it up, hand curled around the side of his face as he shook his head in mock disbelief. "Say it ain't so!" At this point, the impulsive P.I. was trying to regain the handsome man's--make that Grimmjow's--attention. He scuffed a black-booted foot on the ground, broad shoulders sagging with righteous self-pity. Dante's bright blue eyes grew as big as saucers, the knowing gleam replaced in an instant by a look of wide-eyed innocence. If Grimmjow cared to look, he'd see that the insolent imp had all but transformed into an over-grown cherub.
Dante was 30% libertine, 30% cocky daredevil, 30% sweet-natured (man)child, and 100% irresistibly sexy badass. Sure, that didn't exactly make sense, but neither, sometimes, did Dante. It was all part of his confounding charm, which he'd learned to employ to great effect--being the well-rounded rogue that he was.
"Damn." The fallen angel raised baby blue eyes, wide with hope, to look imploring at Grimmjow. "Well, Mr. Grimmjow," he continued, voice laden with sugar and spice and everything nice. "Guess I'll just have to ask Santa for a smaller cock for Christmas..." Dante smirked, eyes narrowing slyly, as snips and snails and puppy dogs' tails danced upon his wicked tongue. "Not that I ever get what I want from old St. Nick, the prick. Somehow, I seem to keep getting stuck on the "Naughty list."
Dante cocked his head and winked. "Though I assure you, in the right circumstances, I can be very nice." The ballsy bounty hunter extended his right hand for a friendly shake. "I'm Dante," he said simply, and treated the blue-haired man to a dazzling smile. "You're looking for a man, huh? So that's how it is..." Dante nodded his snow-white head sagely. "Come for the cockfight, stay for the cock. Well, I might just be able to help you. I'm a private dick, you see? And a damn good one at that."
The P.I. arched a stark white eyebrow. "'Course, I'm good at everything. And I do mean everything..."
Grimmjow rolled his eyes at the dramatic man next to him. Of course, not before he actually chuckled at the guy's childlike behavior. He was an interesting character, alright. Seemed like a badass from far away, but up close, that certainly didn’t seem the case. Not to say that the guy wasn't cocky; oh no, he had plenty of bravado. Though, the brash attitude though to melt away though the moment the white-haired gambler opened his mouth. He actually seemed like a fun guy to hang out with. Not that Jaggerjack had any plans to hunt down the guy to hang out just yet.
It was also pretty obvious that Mr. Red Coat was trying to keep his attention, like some little kid. Cute.
The blue-haired dealer looked over to his new acquaintance, smirk in place when the guy mentioned something about asking Santa for a smaller cock.
"Well, I'm sure it's 'ur cock that's keepin' ya on his naughty list. For you, though, I wouldn't want to wish fer somethin’ smaller. Seems like you got the whole package, huh?" Grimmjow took Dante's offered hand, giving it a few firm shakes. He returned the sexy gambler's--Dante's--smile with a toothy grin of his own. Damn, if only he weren't here on "business," he might have worried more about pitching woo to Mr. Badass... "Private dick, huh? Thought you were a public dick at first there, gumshoe." With the way Dante acted and with the way he looked, the arms dealer guessed he was part of some escort service. Even the way he spoke was enough to tell the guy was pretty laid back when it came to sex.
"Actually, Dante, I came here for one cock and one cock only. And this particular one owes me a lot of money." The blue-haired bruiser leaned in close to Dante's ear, smiling all the while. "But, I'm willing to reconsider and see if bigger really is better." When Grimmjow pulled away, he was back to being all business. "Well, Mr. Flatfoot, if 'ur so good at everythin', maybe you know where ta find a guy named William Frost?"
Oh ho ho~
Dante smiled like he'd just been given the big piece of birthday cake. This Grimmjow fellow had a nice, firm grip. It was almost a shame to let go. "Public dick?" The investigator ran a hand through his pearly hair and chuckled. So excited was he by the knowledge that he could, and would, be able to assist his new blue-haired buddy that he completely missed the inclination of Grimmjow's words.
"Well," Dante began, "there was this one time I got picked up by the cops, back when I was a teen, for masturbating in public." His grin turned slightly sheepish. "I honestly didn't think anybody could see me." More like he honestly didn't care if anyone saw him.
"Anyway... Turns out it is your lucky night, Mr. Grimmjow. Whether 'bigger is better' is a score I'd be happy to settle with you anytime." Dante squared his shoulders, his grin shifting again into something decidedly suggestive. Hopefully, the red-cloaked rake would be gettin' lucky tonight as well. Grimmjow's warm breath on his ear had sent a very pleasant shiver down his spine.
"But, first things first. I know the Bo you're after." Dante gave a quick nod. "Brunet, kinda pale, average height... Not exactly a strapping fella, is he? Has a habit of wearing cheaters all the damn time, even inside. Thinks he quite the grifter, throwin' cabbage around like it grows on trees. Yeah, I can tell you where to find Will Frost, though that ain't his real name."
Dante looked right proud of himself. "However, you gotta give me something in return. I ain't the type to just give away for free." The plucky P.I. poked Grimmjow in the chest to make his point--and to test the musculature of one bulging pectoral. "I might be easy...but I don't come cheap."
The fact that Dante, here, had gotten picked up by the boys in blue for public indecency made Grimmjow rethink if the guy was secretly a male escort. He had the looks for it and enough swagger to attract anything with two legs. 'Course, he didn't seem to exactly get what the arms dealer meant by 'public dick.' Didn't matter much anyway; if Grimmjow wanted to, he could've scored with Mr. Private Eye.
"You got picked up by the cops fer wackin' off in public?" Grimmjow laughed. "That takes some balls. Makes me wonder how ya got so horny ta jerk it in the first place." It also made him wonder what Dante looked like touching himself, but he wasn't about to get into that. At least, not now. Maybe if they met up again, he might delve into the subject. Although, what really caught his attention was the fact that the white-haired trouble-maker knew exactly who he was talking about. Grimmjow guessed the guy had the talk to match that swaggering walk. Mr. Frost was definitely a showy bastard with a lot to lose, which would be lost to Grimmjow once he got his hands on the greaser.
"Seems like ya got the guy pegged. So you ain't just a bunch of bravado after all." Now that the P.I. had proved himself, the blue-haired Bruno wasn't sure how to repay him. He guessed helping the guy win back some of his hard-earned cash would be a start.
"If you tell me all you know about Will, then I'll be happy to help ya win 'ur cash back from those birds. How 'bout it?"
Dante folded his arms across his chest, a satisfied expression settling on his face. "Yeah, I've got some big 'uns. Big balls to match my big cock. 'Course, no reason to take my word for it. Seein' is believing, and all that good stuff. As for what got me so dang horny, well...that is goin' back a few years..." The bounty hunter tapped his chin, as if trying so very hard to remember what image, instance, or fantasy had prompted the public bought of self-pleasuring.
A moment later, he smiled, looking as though he were about to share a very important secret. "That's right. I remember now..." Dante bit his lip playfully. "I'd just seen some young guy, with bright blue hair, and eyes to match. The most handsomest, hunky, macho guy ever. ...And I just couldn't help myself." The white-haired nympho shrugged coyly, as if being so overcome with desire was a fairly normal occurrence, and not some sexual aberration.
"In regards to one Mr. William Frost..." Dante's tone suddenly turned serious. The youngest of the Sparda clan was a consummate flirt, but business was business. Though Grimmjow had shown some promising interest, Dante didn't want to fuck things up by acting too glib. "I'm sure it comes as no surprise to hear you ain't the first person I've met whose been lookin' to collect from Will Frost, a.k.a. William Schuler. You're more likely to find him at a back street craps game up in Harlem than down here in the bowels of Chinatown. What's more, he likes to hang out a joint called ‘Iggy's,’ up on 127th. Figures himself a Jazz buff or something."
Dante cocked his head and grinned. "If you don't find him there, just look up William P. Schuler in the phone book. The dumb bunny's too cheap to pay the phone company whatever pittance it costs to make his number unlisted. And, well…that's all the info I got." The P.I. knew he'd given Grimmjow plenty to work with.
"While we're on the topic of phone numbers," Dante continued, lifting his gaze to lock eyes with Grimmjow. "I sure would appreciate you givin’ me yours. Hell, I'm tickled pink that you wanna stay and play with me, but if you don't dish out your digits, how will I know where to send a thank you note?"
Hmm... The red-coated rogue certainly was becoming more and more tempting by the second. At least, that mouth of his was. He wondered what such a foul thing tasted like. As much as Grimmjow would've loved to take the P.I's offer to catch a private show with his big cock, there was still work to be done.
And any kind of carnal activity, with or without Dante, wasn't going to make him any richer.
The bruiser smirked as the white-haired flatfoot described his past masturbation material, pretty damn flattered by the way the guy spoke about him. Blue eyes sparkled playfully.
"I'm sure if he’d seen a guy like you jerkin' off to him, he would've reciprocated the action in full. 'Cause, ya know, who can resist a badass in red?" It went without saying that Dante would star in Grimmjow's alone-time fantasies in the very near future. Although, the dealer wasn't stupid enough to get caught by the masses with his pants down.
The blue-haired sharpshooter listened intently as Dante spun off the details he knew about Will Frost, a.k.a William Schuler. Pretty sad that his intel hadn't been able to reveal something like that, but then again, nobody was perfect. What got him the most was that Mr. Schuler had played himself up as a down-on-his-luck petty gangster. Grimmjow, once being a very unlucky man himself, had a certain weakness for losers of any sort.
Maybe that's why he liked Dante so much; guy didn't seem to have much luck when it came to employing his skills in a game of chance.
Grimmjow smiled to Dante when he asked for his phone number. The arms dealer wasn't exactly used to giving out that information. He really didn't know if he should...
"Well, first things first. Ya see those two birds over there?" Grimmjow pointed to two medium-sized roosters, neither of which looked anything special. One was a little loud and the other looked a bit hyperactive. "They're fresh fighters, so they got a lot of stamina left to expend. Doesn't matter if they go up against the bigger ones, 'cause all the big ones are either tired or dead." The blue-haired Capo fished around in his pants pocket, pulling out two fins to hand over to his new friend. "Take this as thanks from me. Place 'ur bets on the birds, and then we'll talk about some other numbers."
"Deal!" Dante said. He gave Grimmjow a winning smile, and made sure to brush their fingers together as he took the money. Hot damn! This was like a gambler's dream come true. The tips had to be good, otherwise big blue wouldn't have been so keen to share his bread. Dante didn't think for one minute that his new friend was this generous with everyone. Definitely not. The man had an edge to him, something that went beyond the rough slang and toothy sneer. Something...raw and primal. Whatever it was, it was damn sexy.
The P.I. wasn't sure what Grimmjow did in terms of work, but he’d find out soon enough. As it was, the name "Grimmjow" sounded somewhat familiar, though Dante couldn't remember the why, or who, or where he might have heard it before. Anyway, if they kept up this level of flirting, he'd hopefully be getting to know the blue-haired hunk intimately before the end of the night.
"I'll be right back," Dante said, slipping the fins into a hidden pocket in his coat. "If I win, I'll pay you back and take you out for a drink. "And if I don't..." The private dick provocateur had planned to finish that sentence with, 'I'll take you back to my place for a drink.' But, at the last second, he changed his mind.
"Thanks..."
With a quick shrug, Dante turned back to the crowd, slipping through the throng of people as though his husky frame had no more substance than a shadow. He blew a quick kiss to Lady Luck, thanking her silently in his mind, and asking oh so nicely if she might stick around for just a little while longer.
The brash bounty hunter didn't have long to wait until the hyperactive bird was announced as the next contender. The stakes had increased since the last time he'd placed a bet. The crowd was still thickening, even though the night seemed to be drawing to a close. These last few rounds were to be the main event, meaning the roosters that had been held in reserve were the prize fighters; the heavyweight champs of avian combat.
Or maybe they were just fresh meat. Either way, none of the remaining cocks looked like much to brag about. Most of them, including the bird he was betting on, seemed rather small and rangy. But they were quick and scrappy. Dante could see that now; how sharper reflexes could work as an advantage over size. He inched forward, caught up in the swell of excitement when the match began with a raucous squawk and the flutter of angry wings.
Naturally, Grimmjow's gamecock emerged victorious. Well, not his, of course, but one of the two that he'd picked to win. Dante was ecstatic. His luck was holding! He hurried to claim his prize, ready to blow it all on a night of boozing with his blue-haired benefactor. Not the smartest move, especially since the reckless rake really needed that money to pay for things that did not contain alcohol. Like bullets. And his phone bill. But Dante was determined to give Grimmjow a proper thank you. And woo him into bed.
The handsome devil turned on his heel, flipping his coat with a flourish, all cock-of-the-walk as he moseyed back to find Grimmjow. Who, apparently, didn't want to be found.
Dante squinted into the shadows, sharp eyes searching every dark corner of the alley before turning back to scan the crowd. Both men were rather tall. Taking into account that most other gamblers and spectators were Chinese, the P.I. should have been able to spot that shock of blue hair with ease.
Unless, of course, Grimmjow was gone.
Dante sighed heavily. "So much for gettin' lucky," he mumbled, kicking at a piece of broken glass in frustration. Well, at least the night wasn't a complete loss. Far from it. He'd gambled hard, flirted harder, met an interesting stranger, won his money back, and learned something new about cock. In all...not a bad night.
The sigh was soon replaced by a grin as the sharp-shooter wound his way through the dirty, gritty side streets, whistling now and again, as though he hadn't a care in the world. "Hope you're cookin' up something good, Aunt Ling," he said to himself, and whoever cared to listen, "'Cause Dante's comin' for dinner!"
Characters: Dante Sparda (
gogochan), Grimmjow Jaggerjack (
gogodgene)
Timeline: April 2, 1950
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Dante enters a cockfight and, surprisingly, leaves with more than he came for.
**Disclaimer: The mods do not condone cockfighting between birds. But it's sure as hell okay between guys.
He wasn't a betting man.
Betting was for those who were unsure of themselves; their future. Grimmjow liked to pride himself on being so unwaveringly sure about his situation that gambling seemed like a waste of time. Besides, he had a much more legit (although, it really wasn't legit) way of making money. Selling weapons (guns or otherwise) was an easy way to turn a profit any of day of the week, and the blue-haired sharp-shooter was guaranteed his pay.
Well, if the client was a greedy little greaser. While idiots didn't tend to do much business with him (just because of his reputation), there was the one-in-a-million Bo who would always look to make Jaggerjack look like the bunny. Which was what brought him here, tonight: a cockfight.
A while back, some bird had showed up asking Grimmjow to supply a small group of his associates with some arms. Jaggerjack was never one to turn business down, and sold the man what he needed in a short amount of time. Of course, he probably should've been harsher on the goon when his gums started flapping the phrase "future payment." The bruiser had done a lot of business like that; people coming in with nothing but lint in their pockets, promising his pay later.
And the smart ones paid up as soon as possible.
This one decided to be trouble, though. Grimmjow didn't know what the little piss ant was thinking in that tiny brain of his, but Jaggerjack wasn't a man you stole from or pushed around. If the bastard had enough money to waste at a chicken fight, then he had money to put in Grimm's pocket.
And by the end of the night, Grimmjow was gonna make sure he learned that lesson, and learned it well.
Unfortunately, the blue-haired dealer hadn't seen hide nor hair of the scoundrel yet, and hoped that his information had been right. In the meantime, he'd sit back and watch as the men around him shouted and cheered, almost as if they were in a frenzy. It was either be made or be broken.
He was a gambling man, alright.
A gambler in every sense of the word. Dante lived for adventure, and loved to take risks with both his financial and physical assets. Nothin' got this red-blooded bounty hunter pumped and primed for action than an element of mortal danger. It was like a drug for him; a shot of the stiffest whiskey. He was cocky enough to risk it all, skilled enough to get by on the skin of his teeth, and foolish enough to keep playing with fire.
A wiser man would know when to hold back or call it quits. But no one would ever accuse Dante Sparda of being wise. Ballsy. Brave. Foolhardy. Sexy. Charming. One helluva guy. The Devil's own. But not...wise.
In the grand scheme of things, Lady Luck had chosen to protect Dante's hide. Even when greatly outnumbered, the blue-eyed P.I. managed to survive every scrape and shootout with an uncanny mix of well-aimed bullets and sheer bravado. Yet when it came to bettin' with anything but his life, Lady Luck turned a deaf ear and a cold shoulder, leaving Dante down on his uppers more often than not.
So, the debts piled up, forcing the cocky dick to take some mercenary jobs just to keep the bookies and other sharks from smelling blood in the water. You'd think that after a few too many close calls, Dante would learn that his devil-may-care attitude meant hell to pay when it came to gambling.
But no...
The little devil just couldn't resist. The NYC underground was like Dante's personal Inferno, and he wouldn't be satisfied until he'd tried every deadly sin, traversed every circle, and crumbled every terrace.
Starting with Greed.
And, really, it wasn't as though Dante went looking for trouble. There was no need. Trouble, it seemed, had a way of finding him... So it was on this particular night, when the hunter ventured out in search of a meal, thinking to rustle himself up some Kung Pao Chicken from Ling's, one of his favorite little restaurants this side of the Brooklyn Bridge. 'Course, part of what made that dormy dive so special was the fact that old Aunt Ling seemed rather partial to the pale P.I., and often gave him a break on price. Especially if he agreed to help her out with some clean up. And by that, Ling didn't mean for Dante to be washing no dishes...
Anyway, there he was, strollin' along, minding his own business, dreaming of Aunt Ling's delicious General Tso's Chicken, when he stumbled right into the local boss' cockfight. Though Dante's stomach rumbled with hunger, he couldn't help but whet his appetite a bit further by gettin' in on the game. A bloody sport, and barbarous at that, but...
If there was anything Dante felt he could bet on, it was cock.
The big bird in his pants had yet to let him down, so why not follow his instincts? With any luck, shakin' some tail feathers would lead to one hell of a score.
Luck, of course, being the operative word...
Standing around bored like this almost wasn't worth it. Almost. 'Course, the guy he was after owed him a couple hundred C's, and there was no way in hell he would let the bastard just slide by because he was too lazy to look for the man. Grimmjow just hoped that the guy hadn't slipped through his fingers. The greaser didn't exactly stand out of a crowd, and with a bunch of other guys yelling and jumping around like idiots, he may have missed Mr. What's-His-Face.
What the fuck was his name anyway? William-something. William...Frost? Yeah, that was it. He remembered the last name being weird. Mr. Frost was a petty gangster boss down on his luck when he had come to Jaggerjack, throwing compliment after compliment around. Grimmjow had fallen for the flattery (and a little bargaining) and had ended up selling some pistols and such at (only slightly) lower prices. Besides, what could a guy with barely ten people behind him do? To a group like the Concavos, he posed no threat. Hell, to the Concavos, he didn't even have a right to exist.
All he could remember about Will was the fact that his washed-out, brown hair was slicked back with enough gel to make it shine, and that he wore black aviator glasses. He might've been half attractive, he guessed, if the guy didn't look like a sleaze to begin with. After tonight, when Grimmjow got through with him, the guy wouldn't have a chance in heaven or hell to ever look half-decent again.
Instead of dwelling on that failure of a human being anymore, the blue-haired bruiser turned his attention to the fight at hand. Some of the guys looked like they were doing well for themselves.
But then there was this one guy...
The man with the white hair. Yeah. That guy looked like he could use a kiss from Lady Luck any moment now. So far, the stranger had lost the bulk of his bets. It was obvious to Grimmjow which bird was in better shape, but he guessed not everyone had a sharp eye like he did. Speaking of his sharp eyes, Mr. White-hair was looking pretty handsome. Jaggerjack thought it was odd that he would notice such a thing in a place like this. Then again, it wasn't like seein' a good lookin' face was unwanted, either.
Well, crap. Double crap. Honestly, who would've thought there was a science n' shit to betting on a bunch of dumb birds. Picking the prize poultry should be duck soup. Sure, it took a sly and savvy eye to suss out the best bangtails, but...this was no high-stakes horse race, dammit. Dante was losin' his hard earned dough on a bunch of fucking chickens. Chickens! Or...roosters. Fighting cocks. Whatever. The point was, he was losing. Losing bad... The smart-aleck sharp-shooter had sashayed in with his usual carefree swagger, boldly bettin' on the biggest cock each time (say what ya' like, sweetheart, size does matter). He should've hung back for a while, watched and learned, gotten a feel for what made a fowl a good fighter...and kept a keen eye open for any foul play.
But, no... Cautious, careful, and calculated? That wasn't Dante's style.
He didn't gamble for the money. Really. It was the sense of adventure, the element of danger, and the sheer rush of risking it all that made the bounty hunter bet his last berries and go for broke. Again and again and again... Dante was a thrill seeker. He craved excitement. Hell, he fucking lived for it. So, the dashing daredevil took a few losses from time to time, and stumbled a bit here and there. No matter. Though he'd been called a "dog" more than once in his life, Dante seemed to have a pussycat's knack for landing on his feet. That, and nine lives--at least.
Anyway, enough about pussies... For the private dick’s night to have a happy ending, he needed to find some good cocks. Three consecutive losses had whittled the dough in his pocket down to mere chicken feed. Feisty little peckers… If he could just pick one winning bird… Just one, dammit! Dante didn’t need to score big to be satisfied. As it was, one more loss and he’d be shit outta cluck.
Dammit. There was no way he could lose four times in a row. Right? Right. The plucky P.I.’s luck was about to change; he could feel it.
He could feel something,’ all right. The little hairs on the back of his neck had gone all tingly, meaning somebody, somewhere, was checking him out. Be it uncanny intuition or unchecked vanity, Dante had a knack for knowing when he was being watched.
Bright blue eyes looked deeper into the dark alley, surreptitiously scanning the shadowed faces, eager to catch a glimpse of his newest admirer. Dante was a handsome devil…and he knew it. The way he figured, even his foes had to fancy him. How could they not?
Dante Sparda was just too damn sexy.
The sharp-shooter cut a striking figure, what with his snow white hair and signature scarlet coat. In a place like this; the only ones who could out-strut Dante were the cocks themselves.
And, maybe, that guy with the blue hair. The brawny one, standing all by himself in the back. The one who was staring straight at Dante.
Jackpot.
Fuck the damn roosters. One look at the blue-haired stranger and Dante knew what he wanted to cock-a-doodle-do. The gutsy gunslinger returned the man’s gaze, upping the ante with sly smile.
Grimmjow slightly raised an eyebrow when his eyes met the object of his distraction. At first, he thought the pale man would give a dirty look for checking him out so blatantly, but it seemed Mr. No Luck was more than happy to reciprocate the interest.
Then again, the guy was probably just cock-sure enough to come over and ask him for a couple bills. Grimmjow hoped not. He was looking to get his money back tonight, not dish more out. Then again, the arms dealer might change his tune, if the handsome man was nice to him. A bit of conversation couldn't hurt... Perhaps the sexy stranger had seen Mr. Frost around.
If anything, he could give the guy a tip or two, and help him win some of his money back.
Grimmjow returned the smile with a knowing grin of his own.
That sly grin was exactly the invitation Dante was looking for. The flashy bounty hunter turned on his heel, red coat tails flaring behind him as he cut through the flock of gamblers clustered around the avian blood sport. Once free of the crowd, Dante leisurely sauntered over to where the blue-haired man stood, straight-backed and tall, his muscular arms folded neatly over what appeared to be a very broad and well-defined chest.
The impertinent investigator let his eyes rove shamelessly over the stranger's fine physique. Compared to Dante, the man's attire was rather plain. He wore a nondescript, white collared shirt, with the sleeves rolled up past his biceps, and faded blue Levi's. Wait... No, not Levi's--Wrangler's. (Dante could tell the brand of the jeans by the way they fit in the crotch.) The simple attire suited the strapping stranger just fine, as it emphasized his intriguing hair and sculpted frame.
Of course, it didn't hurt that blue-haired hunk had a sexy smile and handsomely rugged features on top of a well-built body.
"Why hello there," Dante said as he came to a halt by the man's side. "Gotten lucky with any of the games tonight?" His friendly smile twisted into a decidedly impish grin. "I mean, you certainly look like the type a' guy whose got a good eye for cock..."
Grimmjow could tell this guy was a cocky sunnavabitch just by his walk. The red coat, the devilish smile, and the hot-to-trot strut spelled trouble…or ignorant bravado. The guy seemed like one of those rebels of society, looking to make his own way and follow his own rules. Usually, those were the types Grimmjow distanced himself from just because they tended to pull some dumb shit once in a while. That wasn't to say that the blue-haired arms dealer wasn't almost the same type of person, but he had a certain finesse when it came to such things.
Well, most of the time, anyway.
Now that the stranger was close enough to actually study, Grimmjow gave him a quick once-over, so he wouldn't look like a shameless idiot for checking the guy out yet again. Though “shameless” was exactly the way Mr. Red Coat looking at him right now. The bruiser guessed it took all kinds...
Mischievous blue eyes, pale features, shock-white hair, a prize-winning smile, and a great body. He was sure it would be even better to look at if the cocky Bo wasn't wearing that heavy, red leather coat or black shirt.
"Actually, I'm not here ta gain money off some birds. I'm here ta get my cash n' prizes from a man. But, ya know, since ya actually came over, I guess I could give you a tip." Grimmjow smirked at the pale stranger. "Bigger isn't always better." The broad arms dealer turned his attention back to the crowd, still looking for his target. "Name's Grimmjow. You?"
"What?" Dante said incredulously, "Bigger isn't always better? That's not what I've always heard." The white-haired hellion hammed it up, hand curled around the side of his face as he shook his head in mock disbelief. "Say it ain't so!" At this point, the impulsive P.I. was trying to regain the handsome man's--make that Grimmjow's--attention. He scuffed a black-booted foot on the ground, broad shoulders sagging with righteous self-pity. Dante's bright blue eyes grew as big as saucers, the knowing gleam replaced in an instant by a look of wide-eyed innocence. If Grimmjow cared to look, he'd see that the insolent imp had all but transformed into an over-grown cherub.
Dante was 30% libertine, 30% cocky daredevil, 30% sweet-natured (man)child, and 100% irresistibly sexy badass. Sure, that didn't exactly make sense, but neither, sometimes, did Dante. It was all part of his confounding charm, which he'd learned to employ to great effect--being the well-rounded rogue that he was.
"Damn." The fallen angel raised baby blue eyes, wide with hope, to look imploring at Grimmjow. "Well, Mr. Grimmjow," he continued, voice laden with sugar and spice and everything nice. "Guess I'll just have to ask Santa for a smaller cock for Christmas..." Dante smirked, eyes narrowing slyly, as snips and snails and puppy dogs' tails danced upon his wicked tongue. "Not that I ever get what I want from old St. Nick, the prick. Somehow, I seem to keep getting stuck on the "Naughty list."
Dante cocked his head and winked. "Though I assure you, in the right circumstances, I can be very nice." The ballsy bounty hunter extended his right hand for a friendly shake. "I'm Dante," he said simply, and treated the blue-haired man to a dazzling smile. "You're looking for a man, huh? So that's how it is..." Dante nodded his snow-white head sagely. "Come for the cockfight, stay for the cock. Well, I might just be able to help you. I'm a private dick, you see? And a damn good one at that."
The P.I. arched a stark white eyebrow. "'Course, I'm good at everything. And I do mean everything..."
Grimmjow rolled his eyes at the dramatic man next to him. Of course, not before he actually chuckled at the guy's childlike behavior. He was an interesting character, alright. Seemed like a badass from far away, but up close, that certainly didn’t seem the case. Not to say that the guy wasn't cocky; oh no, he had plenty of bravado. Though, the brash attitude though to melt away though the moment the white-haired gambler opened his mouth. He actually seemed like a fun guy to hang out with. Not that Jaggerjack had any plans to hunt down the guy to hang out just yet.
It was also pretty obvious that Mr. Red Coat was trying to keep his attention, like some little kid. Cute.
The blue-haired dealer looked over to his new acquaintance, smirk in place when the guy mentioned something about asking Santa for a smaller cock.
"Well, I'm sure it's 'ur cock that's keepin' ya on his naughty list. For you, though, I wouldn't want to wish fer somethin’ smaller. Seems like you got the whole package, huh?" Grimmjow took Dante's offered hand, giving it a few firm shakes. He returned the sexy gambler's--Dante's--smile with a toothy grin of his own. Damn, if only he weren't here on "business," he might have worried more about pitching woo to Mr. Badass... "Private dick, huh? Thought you were a public dick at first there, gumshoe." With the way Dante acted and with the way he looked, the arms dealer guessed he was part of some escort service. Even the way he spoke was enough to tell the guy was pretty laid back when it came to sex.
"Actually, Dante, I came here for one cock and one cock only. And this particular one owes me a lot of money." The blue-haired bruiser leaned in close to Dante's ear, smiling all the while. "But, I'm willing to reconsider and see if bigger really is better." When Grimmjow pulled away, he was back to being all business. "Well, Mr. Flatfoot, if 'ur so good at everythin', maybe you know where ta find a guy named William Frost?"
Oh ho ho~
Dante smiled like he'd just been given the big piece of birthday cake. This Grimmjow fellow had a nice, firm grip. It was almost a shame to let go. "Public dick?" The investigator ran a hand through his pearly hair and chuckled. So excited was he by the knowledge that he could, and would, be able to assist his new blue-haired buddy that he completely missed the inclination of Grimmjow's words.
"Well," Dante began, "there was this one time I got picked up by the cops, back when I was a teen, for masturbating in public." His grin turned slightly sheepish. "I honestly didn't think anybody could see me." More like he honestly didn't care if anyone saw him.
"Anyway... Turns out it is your lucky night, Mr. Grimmjow. Whether 'bigger is better' is a score I'd be happy to settle with you anytime." Dante squared his shoulders, his grin shifting again into something decidedly suggestive. Hopefully, the red-cloaked rake would be gettin' lucky tonight as well. Grimmjow's warm breath on his ear had sent a very pleasant shiver down his spine.
"But, first things first. I know the Bo you're after." Dante gave a quick nod. "Brunet, kinda pale, average height... Not exactly a strapping fella, is he? Has a habit of wearing cheaters all the damn time, even inside. Thinks he quite the grifter, throwin' cabbage around like it grows on trees. Yeah, I can tell you where to find Will Frost, though that ain't his real name."
Dante looked right proud of himself. "However, you gotta give me something in return. I ain't the type to just give away for free." The plucky P.I. poked Grimmjow in the chest to make his point--and to test the musculature of one bulging pectoral. "I might be easy...but I don't come cheap."
The fact that Dante, here, had gotten picked up by the boys in blue for public indecency made Grimmjow rethink if the guy was secretly a male escort. He had the looks for it and enough swagger to attract anything with two legs. 'Course, he didn't seem to exactly get what the arms dealer meant by 'public dick.' Didn't matter much anyway; if Grimmjow wanted to, he could've scored with Mr. Private Eye.
"You got picked up by the cops fer wackin' off in public?" Grimmjow laughed. "That takes some balls. Makes me wonder how ya got so horny ta jerk it in the first place." It also made him wonder what Dante looked like touching himself, but he wasn't about to get into that. At least, not now. Maybe if they met up again, he might delve into the subject. Although, what really caught his attention was the fact that the white-haired trouble-maker knew exactly who he was talking about. Grimmjow guessed the guy had the talk to match that swaggering walk. Mr. Frost was definitely a showy bastard with a lot to lose, which would be lost to Grimmjow once he got his hands on the greaser.
"Seems like ya got the guy pegged. So you ain't just a bunch of bravado after all." Now that the P.I. had proved himself, the blue-haired Bruno wasn't sure how to repay him. He guessed helping the guy win back some of his hard-earned cash would be a start.
"If you tell me all you know about Will, then I'll be happy to help ya win 'ur cash back from those birds. How 'bout it?"
Dante folded his arms across his chest, a satisfied expression settling on his face. "Yeah, I've got some big 'uns. Big balls to match my big cock. 'Course, no reason to take my word for it. Seein' is believing, and all that good stuff. As for what got me so dang horny, well...that is goin' back a few years..." The bounty hunter tapped his chin, as if trying so very hard to remember what image, instance, or fantasy had prompted the public bought of self-pleasuring.
A moment later, he smiled, looking as though he were about to share a very important secret. "That's right. I remember now..." Dante bit his lip playfully. "I'd just seen some young guy, with bright blue hair, and eyes to match. The most handsomest, hunky, macho guy ever. ...And I just couldn't help myself." The white-haired nympho shrugged coyly, as if being so overcome with desire was a fairly normal occurrence, and not some sexual aberration.
"In regards to one Mr. William Frost..." Dante's tone suddenly turned serious. The youngest of the Sparda clan was a consummate flirt, but business was business. Though Grimmjow had shown some promising interest, Dante didn't want to fuck things up by acting too glib. "I'm sure it comes as no surprise to hear you ain't the first person I've met whose been lookin' to collect from Will Frost, a.k.a. William Schuler. You're more likely to find him at a back street craps game up in Harlem than down here in the bowels of Chinatown. What's more, he likes to hang out a joint called ‘Iggy's,’ up on 127th. Figures himself a Jazz buff or something."
Dante cocked his head and grinned. "If you don't find him there, just look up William P. Schuler in the phone book. The dumb bunny's too cheap to pay the phone company whatever pittance it costs to make his number unlisted. And, well…that's all the info I got." The P.I. knew he'd given Grimmjow plenty to work with.
"While we're on the topic of phone numbers," Dante continued, lifting his gaze to lock eyes with Grimmjow. "I sure would appreciate you givin’ me yours. Hell, I'm tickled pink that you wanna stay and play with me, but if you don't dish out your digits, how will I know where to send a thank you note?"
Hmm... The red-coated rogue certainly was becoming more and more tempting by the second. At least, that mouth of his was. He wondered what such a foul thing tasted like. As much as Grimmjow would've loved to take the P.I's offer to catch a private show with his big cock, there was still work to be done.
And any kind of carnal activity, with or without Dante, wasn't going to make him any richer.
The bruiser smirked as the white-haired flatfoot described his past masturbation material, pretty damn flattered by the way the guy spoke about him. Blue eyes sparkled playfully.
"I'm sure if he’d seen a guy like you jerkin' off to him, he would've reciprocated the action in full. 'Cause, ya know, who can resist a badass in red?" It went without saying that Dante would star in Grimmjow's alone-time fantasies in the very near future. Although, the dealer wasn't stupid enough to get caught by the masses with his pants down.
The blue-haired sharpshooter listened intently as Dante spun off the details he knew about Will Frost, a.k.a William Schuler. Pretty sad that his intel hadn't been able to reveal something like that, but then again, nobody was perfect. What got him the most was that Mr. Schuler had played himself up as a down-on-his-luck petty gangster. Grimmjow, once being a very unlucky man himself, had a certain weakness for losers of any sort.
Maybe that's why he liked Dante so much; guy didn't seem to have much luck when it came to employing his skills in a game of chance.
Grimmjow smiled to Dante when he asked for his phone number. The arms dealer wasn't exactly used to giving out that information. He really didn't know if he should...
"Well, first things first. Ya see those two birds over there?" Grimmjow pointed to two medium-sized roosters, neither of which looked anything special. One was a little loud and the other looked a bit hyperactive. "They're fresh fighters, so they got a lot of stamina left to expend. Doesn't matter if they go up against the bigger ones, 'cause all the big ones are either tired or dead." The blue-haired Capo fished around in his pants pocket, pulling out two fins to hand over to his new friend. "Take this as thanks from me. Place 'ur bets on the birds, and then we'll talk about some other numbers."
"Deal!" Dante said. He gave Grimmjow a winning smile, and made sure to brush their fingers together as he took the money. Hot damn! This was like a gambler's dream come true. The tips had to be good, otherwise big blue wouldn't have been so keen to share his bread. Dante didn't think for one minute that his new friend was this generous with everyone. Definitely not. The man had an edge to him, something that went beyond the rough slang and toothy sneer. Something...raw and primal. Whatever it was, it was damn sexy.
The P.I. wasn't sure what Grimmjow did in terms of work, but he’d find out soon enough. As it was, the name "Grimmjow" sounded somewhat familiar, though Dante couldn't remember the why, or who, or where he might have heard it before. Anyway, if they kept up this level of flirting, he'd hopefully be getting to know the blue-haired hunk intimately before the end of the night.
"I'll be right back," Dante said, slipping the fins into a hidden pocket in his coat. "If I win, I'll pay you back and take you out for a drink. "And if I don't..." The private dick provocateur had planned to finish that sentence with, 'I'll take you back to my place for a drink.' But, at the last second, he changed his mind.
"Thanks..."
With a quick shrug, Dante turned back to the crowd, slipping through the throng of people as though his husky frame had no more substance than a shadow. He blew a quick kiss to Lady Luck, thanking her silently in his mind, and asking oh so nicely if she might stick around for just a little while longer.
The brash bounty hunter didn't have long to wait until the hyperactive bird was announced as the next contender. The stakes had increased since the last time he'd placed a bet. The crowd was still thickening, even though the night seemed to be drawing to a close. These last few rounds were to be the main event, meaning the roosters that had been held in reserve were the prize fighters; the heavyweight champs of avian combat.
Or maybe they were just fresh meat. Either way, none of the remaining cocks looked like much to brag about. Most of them, including the bird he was betting on, seemed rather small and rangy. But they were quick and scrappy. Dante could see that now; how sharper reflexes could work as an advantage over size. He inched forward, caught up in the swell of excitement when the match began with a raucous squawk and the flutter of angry wings.
Naturally, Grimmjow's gamecock emerged victorious. Well, not his, of course, but one of the two that he'd picked to win. Dante was ecstatic. His luck was holding! He hurried to claim his prize, ready to blow it all on a night of boozing with his blue-haired benefactor. Not the smartest move, especially since the reckless rake really needed that money to pay for things that did not contain alcohol. Like bullets. And his phone bill. But Dante was determined to give Grimmjow a proper thank you. And woo him into bed.
The handsome devil turned on his heel, flipping his coat with a flourish, all cock-of-the-walk as he moseyed back to find Grimmjow. Who, apparently, didn't want to be found.
Dante squinted into the shadows, sharp eyes searching every dark corner of the alley before turning back to scan the crowd. Both men were rather tall. Taking into account that most other gamblers and spectators were Chinese, the P.I. should have been able to spot that shock of blue hair with ease.
Unless, of course, Grimmjow was gone.
Dante sighed heavily. "So much for gettin' lucky," he mumbled, kicking at a piece of broken glass in frustration. Well, at least the night wasn't a complete loss. Far from it. He'd gambled hard, flirted harder, met an interesting stranger, won his money back, and learned something new about cock. In all...not a bad night.
The sigh was soon replaced by a grin as the sharp-shooter wound his way through the dirty, gritty side streets, whistling now and again, as though he hadn't a care in the world. "Hope you're cookin' up something good, Aunt Ling," he said to himself, and whoever cared to listen, "'Cause Dante's comin' for dinner!"