Bar Scenes
Because you can take the girl out of the bar...
Written tonight for fic chat. Semi-inspired by silly pop song, but not very pop-y.
Title: Manhattan
Characters: R/J
Rating: PG13 for sexual situations, non-explicit, and angst. Oh, and alcohol. Because... alcohol.
Summary: Jeffries can't, for the life of him, keep his promises.
The bartop is chestnut polished to a dark red gleam and the walls are dark wood and gleaming mirrors. There are no working men clad in denim and work boots shouting at televisions over cheap domestics here, nor scantily-clad shot girls tucking wrinkled singles into bras. But it's busy, glittering with low lights reflecting off of countless glasses and bottles, the sheen of silk and sophistication. Jeffries-- first name unused and immaterial-- nurses a rocks glass full of Irish whiskey and hunches over the glossy surface of the bar, but he knows she's there way before he hears the click of stiletto heels on the ebony floors or smells a whiff of jasmine by his left ear.
She completely ignores him and takes the Manhattan from the barkeep, a svelte femme fatale in black satin, blood-red lipstick imprinting the rim of the cocktail glass. Jeffries clenches both hands around a too-small cup so that he doesn't do something foolish and oh-so-easy. Like yank on that long, raven hair until her eyes meet his. Or wrap them around her gorgeous white throat and squeeze. Or cup the back of that arrogantly perfect head and guide those lips towards his own.
As usual, she makes the first move, with all the sick confidence of someone who knows and only-somewhat-cares that he has no power to resist. Just a subtle shift of her hips, an innocuous lean on the bartop, and her jet black hair is sliding like an oil spill over his forearm, ends tickling his thigh. Even through layers of clothing, he feels the heat as though each strand is a lick of black flame. And he knows that despite his best efforts and the low lights, she can see his Adam's apple bob as he gulps down Irish and unwilling titillation. And in the mirror behind the myriad bottles in the back of the bar, he can see the reflection of her smile.
"Long time no see, Gavin," Smooth as silk, warm and bittersweet like the perfect blend of rye and vermouth, and only she calls him by his given name any more. He tries for the coldest tone he can muster.
"Not long enough, Renee." Jeffries knocks back the rest of his drink, and the burn of the whiskey feels like the taste of red lipstick and an empty bed, the crash of broken glass against a concrete wall. Last time, she left scratches down his back with her nails, disappearing before dawn. The announcement of her high-profile engagement to a politician made the newspaper that very day. And that stabbed a bit deeper into his back than her manicure.
"You're angry. I guess you have a right." Her tone is carelessly indifferent, and he doesn't look up into her eyes to verify it. If there's a hint of humanity in that amethyst gaze, he'd really be doomed. He sure as hell can't afford it. "But we can still have a drink for old times' sake."
"You sure your soon-to-be husband would want that?" Jeffries scoffs, even as the bartender sets another whiskey in front of him. He drains it in two angry, burning gulps. The sleazebag she's marrying is an old-money corporate lawyer and a shoo-in for his precinct's congressional elect. Funding for schools and public safety has never been so at risk-- but then again, what the hell would they care? One pair of the good congressman's shoes probably costs more than the average Brooklyn middle-class schmuck made in a month.
She slaps the almost-empty cocktail glass down hard enough for droplets of rye to splatter and mar the otherwise-immaculate bartop. And then she reaches over and yanks. Their lips meet halfway, a sloppy clatter of teeth and tongues and the burn of whiskey and frustration. He can't pull away any more than a drowning man could let go of the rope that would tug him to shore. And it's not even ten minutes later that finds a crumpled wad of bills on the bartop where his whiskey was and the two of them nowhere in sight. The bartender shrugs; it's Manhattan, and business is business. The money of a high-stakes affair spends as green as any other. And besides, he's not sure he wants to know.
The next morning finds Jeffries in his flat, softly and viciously cursing to the bare walls as he fights a hangover and a few new scratches down his back. Renee is long gone, as usual, and later that day he would find a forgotten black lace garter mocking him in the backseat of his car, from the first time the night before, frantic and rushed and heady and nowhere near a civilized room or bed. And just as the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that, he will promise himself to stay away from her and the slow-burning poison of their ill-fated love affair.
And when he finishes telling himself that, and looks up after splashing cold water on his face, he'll see his reflection in the mirror. And just as the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that, it will show the lie of it hiding behind his eyes.
Written tonight for fic chat. Semi-inspired by silly pop song, but not very pop-y.
Title: Manhattan
Characters: R/J
Rating: PG13 for sexual situations, non-explicit, and angst. Oh, and alcohol. Because... alcohol.
Summary: Jeffries can't, for the life of him, keep his promises.
The bartop is chestnut polished to a dark red gleam and the walls are dark wood and gleaming mirrors. There are no working men clad in denim and work boots shouting at televisions over cheap domestics here, nor scantily-clad shot girls tucking wrinkled singles into bras. But it's busy, glittering with low lights reflecting off of countless glasses and bottles, the sheen of silk and sophistication. Jeffries-- first name unused and immaterial-- nurses a rocks glass full of Irish whiskey and hunches over the glossy surface of the bar, but he knows she's there way before he hears the click of stiletto heels on the ebony floors or smells a whiff of jasmine by his left ear.
She completely ignores him and takes the Manhattan from the barkeep, a svelte femme fatale in black satin, blood-red lipstick imprinting the rim of the cocktail glass. Jeffries clenches both hands around a too-small cup so that he doesn't do something foolish and oh-so-easy. Like yank on that long, raven hair until her eyes meet his. Or wrap them around her gorgeous white throat and squeeze. Or cup the back of that arrogantly perfect head and guide those lips towards his own.
As usual, she makes the first move, with all the sick confidence of someone who knows and only-somewhat-cares that he has no power to resist. Just a subtle shift of her hips, an innocuous lean on the bartop, and her jet black hair is sliding like an oil spill over his forearm, ends tickling his thigh. Even through layers of clothing, he feels the heat as though each strand is a lick of black flame. And he knows that despite his best efforts and the low lights, she can see his Adam's apple bob as he gulps down Irish and unwilling titillation. And in the mirror behind the myriad bottles in the back of the bar, he can see the reflection of her smile.
"Long time no see, Gavin," Smooth as silk, warm and bittersweet like the perfect blend of rye and vermouth, and only she calls him by his given name any more. He tries for the coldest tone he can muster.
"Not long enough, Renee." Jeffries knocks back the rest of his drink, and the burn of the whiskey feels like the taste of red lipstick and an empty bed, the crash of broken glass against a concrete wall. Last time, she left scratches down his back with her nails, disappearing before dawn. The announcement of her high-profile engagement to a politician made the newspaper that very day. And that stabbed a bit deeper into his back than her manicure.
"You're angry. I guess you have a right." Her tone is carelessly indifferent, and he doesn't look up into her eyes to verify it. If there's a hint of humanity in that amethyst gaze, he'd really be doomed. He sure as hell can't afford it. "But we can still have a drink for old times' sake."
"You sure your soon-to-be husband would want that?" Jeffries scoffs, even as the bartender sets another whiskey in front of him. He drains it in two angry, burning gulps. The sleazebag she's marrying is an old-money corporate lawyer and a shoo-in for his precinct's congressional elect. Funding for schools and public safety has never been so at risk-- but then again, what the hell would they care? One pair of the good congressman's shoes probably costs more than the average Brooklyn middle-class schmuck made in a month.
She slaps the almost-empty cocktail glass down hard enough for droplets of rye to splatter and mar the otherwise-immaculate bartop. And then she reaches over and yanks. Their lips meet halfway, a sloppy clatter of teeth and tongues and the burn of whiskey and frustration. He can't pull away any more than a drowning man could let go of the rope that would tug him to shore. And it's not even ten minutes later that finds a crumpled wad of bills on the bartop where his whiskey was and the two of them nowhere in sight. The bartender shrugs; it's Manhattan, and business is business. The money of a high-stakes affair spends as green as any other. And besides, he's not sure he wants to know.
The next morning finds Jeffries in his flat, softly and viciously cursing to the bare walls as he fights a hangover and a few new scratches down his back. Renee is long gone, as usual, and later that day he would find a forgotten black lace garter mocking him in the backseat of his car, from the first time the night before, frantic and rushed and heady and nowhere near a civilized room or bed. And just as the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that, he will promise himself to stay away from her and the slow-burning poison of their ill-fated love affair.
And when he finishes telling himself that, and looks up after splashing cold water on his face, he'll see his reflection in the mirror. And just as the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that, it will show the lie of it hiding behind his eyes.