Room 206, Saturday Morning
Amber von Tussle stretched, yawning, and snuggled closer into the warm body next to her.
... warm ... body?
Amber jumped out of bed with a scream. "Pervert! Rape!"
She clapped a hand over her mouth and hoped that he wasn't an important sponsor.
What now?!
Tommy Ryan was unceremoniously awoken by the screaming of a rather annoyingly loud girl. This, of course, prompted him to open his eyes. Something that he'd rather not do before noon after a night of drunken dancing, if ever he could get away with it.
Naturally, this alerted him to two things.
First, that he must have had a very good time last night, indeed.
And second?
"This isn't steerage."
A very good time, then.
"No," Amber said, drawing herself up haughtily. "And taking advantage of a young innocent girl is illegal and you should be ashamed of yourself. You ... you pervert."
Ugh, what sort of room was this? Had he kidnapped her? Because she would have never gone some place like this sober.
Tommy was still hung up on the 'very good time' part, a somewhat bemused smile on his lips as he cast still sleep-fuzzy eyes around the room.
"Must've been good," he said, a lazy Irish accent drawing out every word, "I don't remember a bit of it."
"I did not have sex with you," Amber hissed. "You aren't a producer or a casting director, you're just some degenerate. Do you kidnap girls often? I hope you like jail."
Well, oh-ho! He'd fallen in bed with some sort of psychotic starlet, had he?
"And how are you to know what I am or am not," he mused, his bemused smile strengthening somewhat as he sat himself up at last. "I'm inclined to think you're as like to remember who I am as I am you."
She was probably a first-class passenger who'd had a little too much champagne at whatever fancy to-do that type was prone to throwing. Apparently, Jack wasn't the only one on the ship who could attract the rich girls.
"As if I could understand a word of that under your ridiculous accent," she seethed. "Do you drug girls often? Can't get any sober ones? Maybe if you tried bathing. I hear that does wonders."
Tommy continued to be amused. Honestly, this girl was vexing, but at least she had more teeth than most of the esteemed ladies that he shared steerage with.
"Well, just consider this, then," he said, slowly and evenly so as to not confuse the poor thing, "next time you find yourself sitting among the rest of your like, sipping champagne and bein' right content with just that, you're going to find yourself constantly wond'rin what sort of brilliant artistic talent it was that you attempted to have arrested."
This was accompanied by the most syrup-sweet smile the Irishman could muster, for good measure. He could bullshit with the best of them. How else could he have possibly managed to get onto the bloody ship?
Amber froze, taking a moment to fix her hair. Artistic talent? Was he saying he was a writer of some kind? A musician? Sometimes genius didn't bother to clean itself up.
"Perhaps we've gotten off on the wrong foot." She cleared her throat and sat down on the bed opposite, smoothing her skirt out and folding her hands in her lap. Her smile was sweetness and light. "My name is Amber von Tussle, and I'm a Council Member on Baltimore's very own Corny Collins Show. I sing, I dance, I ..."
Amber proceeded to give him more detailed account of her achievements than he could ever possibly have wanted.
American girls were insane, Tommy decided.
"Tommy Ryan," he replied, giving his bowler hat a bit of a tip and wondering only for a moment how drunk he'd had to be in order to lose track entirely of what room he had wound up in, find himself in bed with such a pleasant young woman, and yet manage to still be wearing all of his clothing. "And I must say, I'm right bloody impressed by your verbal resumé. How long did it take you to rehearse all that?"
"Mother insisted," Amber sighed.
This was answer enough, if you knew Amber's mother.
Typical little rich snot, Tommy figured. Next time he was drunk enough to take a girl off into some mysterious corner of the ship, he'd have to find a girl from steerage after all, teeth or no.
"You do everything your mum tells you to do, then?"
"Only to shut her up," Amber huffed. "I know she only wants what's best for me, but I keep saying, 'Mother, it's my life.' She doesn't understand me."
... Oh dear lord above, what had Tommy gotten himself into?
"That's all fine and well," he muttered, pulling himself out of the strange bed and digging in his clothing in hopes of finding a pocketwatch somewhere, "but I have places to be, you understand. Very important... things to do. And the like."
If she was an example of what America had to offer, perhaps he ought to leap off the bloody boat now before the good ship Titanic could abandon him there.
"Did I get the part?" Amber asked, perking up suddenly. Surely she didn't spend the night with ... that for no pay-off at all.
Tommy stood there and stared at her for a moment.
She couldn't possibly be serious.
"I've thought long and hard about this whole ordeal," he said at last, "and it occurs to me that you just don't have what it takes. I'm sorry, it's not me, it's you, have a good day."
He tipped his hat again and made his way to the door.
The boys back in steerage were going to get a kick out of this one.
"Pervert! Rapist!" she called after him.
Well! If that wasn't a fine how-do-you-do!
Amber folded her arms and had herself a good, long sulk.
Once she'd sulked properly, she stood up and smoothed her dress out. Fine. There were other producers out there. Ones with taste. Just a matter of finding them.
(OOC: NFI, just establishy, but broadcast is fine and OOC is love. Valentine is now Tommy Ryan from Titanic, and Naminé is Amber von Tussle from Hairspray. Viva le AU Weekend!)