Conflict Diamonds: Part 2
Sorry I haven't posted for a while.
But hey, here's Part 2.
Again, thanks to freedomreins for the beta.
The crooner sounds like he belongs on Broadway, and Aston gets annoyed at the strings. But then she shows up.
He hadn’t spent all of his life in this town - no one could without losing even a little of themselves. He had been absent for nearly two years, but it hadn’t changed that much. He still remembered the most direct route to the high roller’s room, the sun lounge near the pool that received the best service, and - arguably - where the best music would be played.
He was back at the bar. And he was alone.
He ordered something involving whisky, ice and lots of vodka, and he knew most people thought it tasted like more window cleaner than it doesn’t. Having said that, he had never been met with a friendly response when he had asked how such people knew the taste of window cleaner. Still, the idea amused him.
He sat in a position that couldn’t possibly be good for his posture, and surveyed the view. From here, the bar was off to the left, the entrance on the right, and in front, the stage. When in town, he generally frequented this bar for the company, but the music was by no means less than exceptional. It was jazz, or blues - he could never remember the difference - and the charts they played had been hailed since the ‘20s, nearly fifty years before this town discovered neon.
Rolling the bones in his neck, he watched as the band appeared. He frowned, noticing the disproportionate number of string players. Call him crass, but he had always been a fan of instruments with a little more grunt.
Lastly, the crooner emerged, and the strings begin with dexterity, intensity and what sounded like more than just a shade of arresting seduction. The front man sung with his accent - American, or Canadian - and his voice seemed like it might belong on a stage on Broadway rather than here. But there was a whisper in it that suggested they were right to hire him.
And when the cellos and guitar swooned and sounded like slow dancing in clubs further north-east, he forgave the lack of usual stage band, closed his eyes and allowed a small smile to slip over his features.
~
Three songs later he opened his eyes and discovered he was not alone. The woman with the jaw dropping appearance was sitting opposite him, drink in hand, seeming rather amused.
He sat up properly, allowing the smile to keep its residence. ‘Evening.’
‘Do you often fall asleep during performances like this?’
He paused before answering. ‘No - I wasn’t asleep.’
The look on her face said she didn’t believe him. For the first time in what was probably years, he found himself feeling foolish. He blinked and tried to recover the dignity he held before she had appeared. His eyes flicked to the martini glass in her hand, which looked not unlike the one that sat next to his right arm. ‘What are you drinking?’
She held the glass up to the light and examined it. ‘Gin, ice, and vodka with a touch of Cointreau. And there was an olive a few minutes ago.’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘Orange? And an olive?’
‘It’s good, believe me.’ She picked up his tumbler and sniffed it before raising her eyebrows. ‘Well, it can’t be any worse than what you’re drinking, anyway.’ She hesitantly brought the drink to her lips and sipped. She paused, then nodded. ‘Not as bad as it smells.’ She set the glass down, and for a second, he considered drinking its entire contents in one shot. To prove something to her or to himself, he wasn’t sure.
She tilted her head slightly. ‘Do you have a name?’
‘Aston. Montague.’
She burst out laughing, a genuine, pure chorus of amusement. ‘So, Master Montague, where’s Miss Capulet? Or, perhaps, Master Mercutio?’
His gaze flicked to hers, but he didn’t take offence. ‘No. It’d be a Capulet for me.’
The glitter in her eyes suggested that she was… glad. He tried not to feel too flattered.
He took a long swig of his drink and waved a hand in the direction of the stage. ‘I assume you being here means you like this kind of music?’
She inclined her head. ‘There are worse types.’ She smiled. ‘It’s good for dancing. And I met the front man a little way back - can’t remember his name though, something beginning with ‘J’ - ’
‘John? Jack?’ He suggested.
‘Something like that. Anyway, I met him but I haven’t heard him sing before. And when I met him he convinced me to come and see him -’
‘Next time you were in town?’
She nodded, and took another sip of her drink.
The man in question hit a note and stayed on it as the band fell into silence. His voice rippled with vibrato and the band began again with the strike of the snare drum.
‘He’s not bad.’
‘No, he’s not.
He paused, then smiled, unable to resist. ‘Have you slept with him?’
She looked as if he’d asked her if she had voted for the current US President. ‘No!’ She breathed in slowly, breathed out again. ‘No,’ she repeated, more calmly this time. The shock on her face faded and turned into a subtle shade of indignation. He decided not to press the subject, which was a shame, because he was extremely tempted.
They sat in silence for a few songs, and he began to think he’d lost her, but suddenly she moved, and downed the rest of her drink and met his gaze. ‘Want to dance?’
He was convinced he’d misheard her. ‘What?’
‘Dance,’ she repeated.
The band was playing a slowly descending, arresting melody.
His expression must have betrayed his thoughts, because she spoke again. ‘What, a suit and a drink like that and you don’t dance?’
She doesn’t mention his eyes. Or his physique.
The crooner sang again, and this time he’s sure it was blues - not jazz.
What the hell…
The last of his drink was still in his throat when she took his hand and pulled him towards the floor. He wished she was wrong, but she wasn’t. It’s been a very, very long time since he has danced. She seemed to notice, fortunately, and did a good job of discreetly leading but making it look like she wasn’t.
For what shouldn’t have been the first time, he began to wonder who he has got himself mixed up with.
He found his feet after a while, and took the lead from her. She laughed quietly, her warm breath flowing past his neck. ‘Ah, so you do know how to do this,’
‘Of course.’
~
They danced for the remainder of the band’s performance, and he found himself finding it all rather inevitable. And at the end, the crooner sang sounds that could be scat singing, but was probably not. As the band played its last chord, a perfect cadence that sounded imperfect, he chuckled, a deep rumbling content sound.
Aston offered her a coffee, or a night cap, but she politely declined him, and walked away with a brush of her lips against his cheek.
It’s not until he has reached the floor of his room does he realise that he doesn’t even know her name.
~
Comments, concrit, favouite lines, let me know :)
But hey, here's Part 2.
Again, thanks to freedomreins for the beta.
The crooner sounds like he belongs on Broadway, and Aston gets annoyed at the strings. But then she shows up.
He hadn’t spent all of his life in this town - no one could without losing even a little of themselves. He had been absent for nearly two years, but it hadn’t changed that much. He still remembered the most direct route to the high roller’s room, the sun lounge near the pool that received the best service, and - arguably - where the best music would be played.
He was back at the bar. And he was alone.
He ordered something involving whisky, ice and lots of vodka, and he knew most people thought it tasted like more window cleaner than it doesn’t. Having said that, he had never been met with a friendly response when he had asked how such people knew the taste of window cleaner. Still, the idea amused him.
He sat in a position that couldn’t possibly be good for his posture, and surveyed the view. From here, the bar was off to the left, the entrance on the right, and in front, the stage. When in town, he generally frequented this bar for the company, but the music was by no means less than exceptional. It was jazz, or blues - he could never remember the difference - and the charts they played had been hailed since the ‘20s, nearly fifty years before this town discovered neon.
Rolling the bones in his neck, he watched as the band appeared. He frowned, noticing the disproportionate number of string players. Call him crass, but he had always been a fan of instruments with a little more grunt.
Lastly, the crooner emerged, and the strings begin with dexterity, intensity and what sounded like more than just a shade of arresting seduction. The front man sung with his accent - American, or Canadian - and his voice seemed like it might belong on a stage on Broadway rather than here. But there was a whisper in it that suggested they were right to hire him.
And when the cellos and guitar swooned and sounded like slow dancing in clubs further north-east, he forgave the lack of usual stage band, closed his eyes and allowed a small smile to slip over his features.
~
Three songs later he opened his eyes and discovered he was not alone. The woman with the jaw dropping appearance was sitting opposite him, drink in hand, seeming rather amused.
He sat up properly, allowing the smile to keep its residence. ‘Evening.’
‘Do you often fall asleep during performances like this?’
He paused before answering. ‘No - I wasn’t asleep.’
The look on her face said she didn’t believe him. For the first time in what was probably years, he found himself feeling foolish. He blinked and tried to recover the dignity he held before she had appeared. His eyes flicked to the martini glass in her hand, which looked not unlike the one that sat next to his right arm. ‘What are you drinking?’
She held the glass up to the light and examined it. ‘Gin, ice, and vodka with a touch of Cointreau. And there was an olive a few minutes ago.’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘Orange? And an olive?’
‘It’s good, believe me.’ She picked up his tumbler and sniffed it before raising her eyebrows. ‘Well, it can’t be any worse than what you’re drinking, anyway.’ She hesitantly brought the drink to her lips and sipped. She paused, then nodded. ‘Not as bad as it smells.’ She set the glass down, and for a second, he considered drinking its entire contents in one shot. To prove something to her or to himself, he wasn’t sure.
She tilted her head slightly. ‘Do you have a name?’
‘Aston. Montague.’
She burst out laughing, a genuine, pure chorus of amusement. ‘So, Master Montague, where’s Miss Capulet? Or, perhaps, Master Mercutio?’
His gaze flicked to hers, but he didn’t take offence. ‘No. It’d be a Capulet for me.’
The glitter in her eyes suggested that she was… glad. He tried not to feel too flattered.
He took a long swig of his drink and waved a hand in the direction of the stage. ‘I assume you being here means you like this kind of music?’
She inclined her head. ‘There are worse types.’ She smiled. ‘It’s good for dancing. And I met the front man a little way back - can’t remember his name though, something beginning with ‘J’ - ’
‘John? Jack?’ He suggested.
‘Something like that. Anyway, I met him but I haven’t heard him sing before. And when I met him he convinced me to come and see him -’
‘Next time you were in town?’
She nodded, and took another sip of her drink.
The man in question hit a note and stayed on it as the band fell into silence. His voice rippled with vibrato and the band began again with the strike of the snare drum.
‘He’s not bad.’
‘No, he’s not.
He paused, then smiled, unable to resist. ‘Have you slept with him?’
She looked as if he’d asked her if she had voted for the current US President. ‘No!’ She breathed in slowly, breathed out again. ‘No,’ she repeated, more calmly this time. The shock on her face faded and turned into a subtle shade of indignation. He decided not to press the subject, which was a shame, because he was extremely tempted.
They sat in silence for a few songs, and he began to think he’d lost her, but suddenly she moved, and downed the rest of her drink and met his gaze. ‘Want to dance?’
He was convinced he’d misheard her. ‘What?’
‘Dance,’ she repeated.
The band was playing a slowly descending, arresting melody.
His expression must have betrayed his thoughts, because she spoke again. ‘What, a suit and a drink like that and you don’t dance?’
She doesn’t mention his eyes. Or his physique.
The crooner sang again, and this time he’s sure it was blues - not jazz.
What the hell…
The last of his drink was still in his throat when she took his hand and pulled him towards the floor. He wished she was wrong, but she wasn’t. It’s been a very, very long time since he has danced. She seemed to notice, fortunately, and did a good job of discreetly leading but making it look like she wasn’t.
For what shouldn’t have been the first time, he began to wonder who he has got himself mixed up with.
He found his feet after a while, and took the lead from her. She laughed quietly, her warm breath flowing past his neck. ‘Ah, so you do know how to do this,’
‘Of course.’
~
They danced for the remainder of the band’s performance, and he found himself finding it all rather inevitable. And at the end, the crooner sang sounds that could be scat singing, but was probably not. As the band played its last chord, a perfect cadence that sounded imperfect, he chuckled, a deep rumbling content sound.
Aston offered her a coffee, or a night cap, but she politely declined him, and walked away with a brush of her lips against his cheek.
It’s not until he has reached the floor of his room does he realise that he doesn’t even know her name.
~
Comments, concrit, favouite lines, let me know :)