It's a jazz club, sadly lacking in alcohol. Jack Driscoll sits in a large booth with a collection of colleagues, all debating whether an artist should suffer for his art
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Weston had a lot of things to say. Victoria listened to none of it. Oh, she heard how long he’d been working for Driscoll and how profitable it was representing a critic’s darling in the Federal Theater, but caring about it was beyond her. He was an over glorified assistant. He would be forgotten soon enough. He also might be unemployed, depending on which of her suspicions were true.
He hadn’t raised an eyebrow when a dark-eyed dark-haired former actress friend of Jack named Victoria had walked into his office, which meant Jack had stopped talking about what happened, or that Weston was an idiot. She wasn’t interested in knowing Weston’s fate or I.Q., though she suspected watching Jack hand over Weston’s ass would be entertaining. That all depended on Jack.
The club Weston takes her to is nothing compared to the ones in Havana. She muses on how annoying this is. Weston continues to talk. They are guided through a dark and smoky room. She can feel eyes on her. She looks and smiles at no one. Her eyes have fallen on a certain figure in a large booth. It’s the back of someone’s head, but it’s a familiar someone. What smile does exist on her face is reserved for him, and it’s not entirely kind.
The usher stops right behind the booth. The men are talking about something that they think makes them sound intelligent. To Victoria, their debates on matters unimportant make them sound like a pack of fools. No matter. It was time to have some fun.
“-the fact is, the more you wallow in self pity, the less you’re creating art. You’re sitting around feeling sorry for yourself and-guys?”
Jack was in the heat of explaining his position when his audience went silent. They all looked at a spot behind him with terror. He furrows his brows. “Guys?”
And does what they’re doing: looks at what’s behind him.
Worst of all is the expression on Jack Driscoll’s face. The cliché “if looks could kill” applies here. Weston laughs nervously and places his hand on Victoria’s back. “Guys, this is Victoria-”
“I know who she is,” Jack hisses. His eyes dart to Victoria, and Weston almost expects the woman to drop dead from the glare.
Victoria steps forward, away from that idiot Weston’s hand. Clearly he was an idiot; everyone here but him knew who she was. “I heard you were in town and I thought I’d say hello,” she says hopefully.
“There’s no need for you to be here. But here you are. So hi. And good day.” Jack turns to face his slack-jawed companions as if he were resuming a game of poker.
Victoria scowls and looks to Weston, whose face is apologetic. “I’m sorry, Vikki…”
“That’s quite all right. Mr. Driscoll and I will talk another day.” She shoots him a glare of her own before she proceeds to walk out the door. Weston calls after her, asking if she needs a ride home. She doesn’t listen. He’s not worth listening to. She’s too angry to listen, anyway.
And thus, without a date and having witnessed a display of spectacular rudeness, Weston rounds on Jack. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doin-”
“You’re fired,” Jack says calmly, not looking at Weston. Weston blinks in disbelief.
“Excuse me?”
Jack turns, slowly, his eyes heavy-lidded and strangely bored. “I said you’re fired.”
“You can’t do that without a reason! Who is she to you, anyway?”
“She’s my ex-fiancée. She left me a week before our wedding. I found her two years later in England with another man. If you had paid attention and done your homework, you would have known that. I’m firing you because you made a mistake that I do not want repeated.”
Weston flails. “Give me another chance, Driscoll!”
“No. Good day.” And yet again, Jack turns to face his companions as if he were resuming the world’s most one-sided poker game.
He hadn’t raised an eyebrow when a dark-eyed dark-haired former actress friend of Jack named Victoria had walked into his office, which meant Jack had stopped talking about what happened, or that Weston was an idiot. She wasn’t interested in knowing Weston’s fate or I.Q., though she suspected watching Jack hand over Weston’s ass would be entertaining. That all depended on Jack.
The club Weston takes her to is nothing compared to the ones in Havana. She muses on how annoying this is. Weston continues to talk. They are guided through a dark and smoky room. She can feel eyes on her. She looks and smiles at no one. Her eyes have fallen on a certain figure in a large booth. It’s the back of someone’s head, but it’s a familiar someone. What smile does exist on her face is reserved for him, and it’s not entirely kind.
The usher stops right behind the booth. The men are talking about something that they think makes them sound intelligent. To Victoria, their debates on matters unimportant make them sound like a pack of fools. No matter. It was time to have some fun.
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Jack was in the heat of explaining his position when his audience went silent. They all looked at a spot behind him with terror. He furrows his brows. “Guys?”
And does what they’re doing: looks at what’s behind him.
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“Jack!”
Weston, for his part, is trying to figure out why everyone is staring at him as if he’s just said something dreadfully offensive.
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“I know who she is,” Jack hisses. His eyes dart to Victoria, and Weston almost expects the woman to drop dead from the glare.
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Still with the death glare.
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“That’s quite all right. Mr. Driscoll and I will talk another day.” She shoots him a glare of her own before she proceeds to walk out the door. Weston calls after her, asking if she needs a ride home. She doesn’t listen. He’s not worth listening to. She’s too angry to listen, anyway.
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“You’re fired,” Jack says calmly, not looking at Weston. Weston blinks in disbelief.
“Excuse me?”
Jack turns, slowly, his eyes heavy-lidded and strangely bored. “I said you’re fired.”
“You can’t do that without a reason! Who is she to you, anyway?”
“She’s my ex-fiancée. She left me a week before our wedding. I found her two years later in England with another man. If you had paid attention and done your homework, you would have known that. I’m firing you because you made a mistake that I do not want repeated.”
Weston flails. “Give me another chance, Driscoll!”
“No. Good day.” And yet again, Jack turns to face his companions as if he were resuming the world’s most one-sided poker game.
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