Introductions
1/29/2007
Logfile from Emma.
=NYC= Lounge - Hellfire Clubhouse
A home within the home, this room is designed more for the comfort of the club's patrons than anything else. The usual complex wooden floors yield here to deep, wine-rich carpeting. The walls and ceiling are dark wood, the latter's beams openly visible to add to a casual feel reminiscent of the Arts and Crafts school of architecture. A couple of windows pierce the outside walls, simply but elegantly designed and held in roughened iron frames.
A number of chairs and couches scatter throughout the lounge, the brown leather of the backs and cushions a few shades darker than the polished wood of the arms and legs. Conversational clusters center on small tables, and some of the larger chairs that are on their own have very small tables equipped with reading lamps next to them. Antique floor lamps provide most of the ambient light during the quiet, dimmer times of day and night.
French doors covered with curtains matching the carpet lead into the gameroom on one wall and the rest of the north wing on another.
The world outside the windows is dark now, but the lounge is as warm and pleasant as always, a bastion of opulence and comfort in the evening hours. The room is mostly empty now -- too many off at dinner, perhaps -- but Trip Richmond is settled in comfortably, with the look of an established squatter. A glass of something amber and rich rests on the table at his elbow, beside the folded remnants of the Wall Street Journal. In his hands, he has the sports pages of the Times, folded twice as he works his way through a mid-section article.
Off at dinner or perhaps not even daring to venture in past the determined rabble of second-string reporters (first stringers are camped out at police headquarters or Shaw Industries). Emma ambles in, a picture of composed solemnity, through frustration leaks out in the set of her jaw and the fidget driving her hand through her hair. She nods at a member disappearing into the game room--it is a little more crowded, people finding companionship and distraction generally preferable in unsettled times. She moves to a window and twitches the curtain aside for a glance outside. "Vultures."
Richmond glances up from his paper at that. His eyes flicker briefly down and up Emma's form with distant appreciation before he lets them drift to her face. "Vulture's gotta eat to," he says, his voice touched with Texas twang. "And I reckon more'n one person's stuck most of us with that label from time to time, if it comes to it." He does, however, lean to get a better angle on the window.
Emma lets the curtain fall back into place and turns her attention on Richards. "I believe the animal I'm most often associated with is a female dog. Though 'shark' and 'barracuda' are other common labels." She shifts her weight to one hip and folds her arms across her chest.
Richmond offers an easy grin to that, reaching for his drink. "I've heard those, too," he acknowledges easily. He lifts the glass, though he doesn't drink just yet, holding it just below his chin. "I gotta admit, though, it's becoming a bit much. Glad for the thick walls." He raps with one knuckle on the wall over his left shoulder. "You're Frost, right? Don't think we've met properly. William Richmond, but you can call me Trip." He sips.
The name more than the face brings recognition. Emma eases into motion, coasting closer. "I've seen you around the Club lately. You're joining us from California, aren't you, Mr. Richmond?" She holds out a hard partly obscured by the cuff of a tailored silk shirt shot through with tiny silver threads. "Trip."
Richmond rises as Emma approaches, taking the hand and bowing over it. "Close enough," he agrees. "Nevada, to be proper about it, but my membership was based out of the California club. Used to go by there every month or so." Emma's face, naturally, is more recognizable in this company -- or any company, for that matter. It takes a faint effort of will to keep his eyes on that face, though nothing that comes near defeating him: he is, after all, a veteran of these circles.
And Emma is a veteran of men in any circle. "Are you making a 'go by' here, then, or are you considering making your visit with us more permanent?" The hand is held a fraction longer than is necessary for simple courtesy, and satisfaction and amusement mingle into a smile that lightens a face not normally hard to look at.
Trip responds, naturally, as one might expect him to. He returns the smile, indulging for a moment the polite fiction between a man and a woman, and allowing himself the luxury of buying into it for the time being. His accent thickens a touch as he dials up the charm. "I'm fixin to stay around at least for the next few years," he says. "Turned over the business to m'boys back in Vegas, and callin this a retirement, though we all know a good businessman never really retires. I'm keepin my hand in a bit here and there." Underneath, barely conscious and firmly suppressed, is a touch of wistful regret: too soon, that retirement, and too deep, the boredom encroaching.
"Retirement? So soon?" Insincere flattery, both meaningless and automatic, yet so easy and expected. Emma responds in understanding and mild approval while turning to look for his chair's companion on on the other side of the table. She slides her hands underneath her as she sits down, both smoothing the material of her skirt and calling attention to the appropriate curves before she folds a long leg over the other toward him. "It must be pleasant, leaving the boardroom with so much of your life left to live..."
Richmond lowers himself again now, crossing his right ankle over his left knee as he leans back in his chair. He acknowledges the irony of the automatic reply with a brief grin, letting his eyes move down her body. Since she asked so nicely. There is a bit of a test in there, as well, weighing her reaction to his seconds of overt looking. All he says, however, is, "Got its upsides, got its downsides. Funny how slow everything seems to be movin these days." He folds his hands across his stomach, his elbows comfortably occupying every inch of chair they can.
Emma doesn't move, but her smile grows a touch sharper-- a fencer's smile, aware and alert to his awareness. A brow rises, and she leans a elbow on the chair arm nearest him, curving into her seat. "You're the first person I've heard say that New York life is slow."
Richmond laughs there, real humor let out. "You probably don't know many people from Vegas," he points out. "Y'all in New York don't have anything on Sin City, and without the business to drive things... it's a different kind of life. More culture, but less show."
"I suppose that depends on which culture events you're attending. You are obviously not a woman, Mr. Richmond," Emma counters smoothly. "I understand what you mean about business though. There is little as satisfying. At least for people like us, hmm?"
"Obviously," Richmond agrees, a touch smug. "And I've got to agree with you there. It's the fight I'm missin, more'n anythin else. We're made for it, people like us." There is a definite trace of condescension behind the words, though it hides well on the surface: including Emma in 'people like us' is a concession for show.
"You'll just need to find new fights then, darling," Emma replies, eyes glittering dangerously, yet to all appearances completely oblivious to the insincerity of the words. After all, it's not his fault he doesn't quite measure up to her standards. Business-wise.
"Guess I do, at that," Trip agrees, /totally/ misinterpreting her words as an interesting tendril of hope awakens. His eyes slide again down and up the length that is Emma, and his thoughts turn undeniably lewd, imagining a hand on the bare skin that lies underneath that excellently tailored blouse, looking down on that platinum-blond hair fanning out across a pillow. "So few things are worth the struggle, though."
Inside? Emma is snorting. So predictable. Outside, however, her expression is fixed and subtly inviting. Very subtly. "Indeed. Though occasionally, the effort alone makes it worth-while." She uncrosses her knees and shifts, preparing to stand. "We'll have to see if we can find something to... invigorate you."
Richmond rises with Emma, polite and dignified, though his thoughts are still overwhelmingly visceral. Going to be a long battle, this one, but potentially worth it in more ways than one -- fascinating woman, fascinating portfolio. "I'll be keepin my eyes open," he says. "See if anything pops up." He is disgustingly pleased with that particular pun, which he is certain is understandable only by him. "It was a real pleasure meeting you, Miss Frost."
Emma glides upwards, keeping her smile firmly in place in the face of really bad humor. "I'm sure something will come across your path, sooner or later, Mr. Richmond. Enjoy your evening," she murmurs, not offering her hand again. Instead she simply purses her lips in the hint of a kiss, and turns to walk away, making sure it's worth watching.
Richmond watches. Go figure. Someone is having interesting dreams tonight.
1.29.07 - Richmond and Emma have a rendezvous. Totally unplanned, of course. He is a lech and sexist. What else is new in the world of HFC men?