Setting the hook
Text message from Joelle Parker to Sebastian Shaw:
it workd plz dont hurt him 2 much kthx
11/11/2005
Logfile from Shaw.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Joelle Parker digs her long-handled spoon into the giant banana split (nearly as large as her head) with the kind of tight-focused care a trepanner would show in her neurological excavations. The spoon catches up equal measure vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry ice cream; caramel and chocolate sauce; walnuts; and a cherry, and deposits it in her mouth for a grinning chew and swallow. "Awesome place, huh?" she asks across the table, under the Friday-night roar of the tiny midtown dessert shop. They're scooted back in a corner, but waitresses and patrons (mostly yuppies and college students) still occasionally bump far too close for comfort between tables and around each other. The decor is a kitschy mix of Art Deco art on the walls and old-fashioned malt-shop furniture, and the air is lively with the sweet smells of pastry, cakes, and other treats as well as babbling, overlapping conversation.
"Awesome," Jason agrees, grinning. His own split (ice cream not his scene, but one will experiment with ice cream that is in its own weight class) is only touched after Joelle touches hers. With a spoon, of course. Jason gives the small, testing spoonful a scientist's eye before taking the initial taste. "Yeah," he confirms.
"I've had a nice time," Joelle tells him, shyly and playing it up just a bit, brown eyes sparkling and soft grin lingering. The latter parts to let her wee pink tongue dab out and up her spoon, drawing in a melted dribble. "Now that midterms are over, well, jeez. I really needed to get out and away, y'know?"
"Yeah," Jason readily, if monosyllabicly, agrees, and dares another spoonfull. "And I bet yours were tougher than mine."
Joelle grimaces. "Boy, I dunno. If B-school's like this, I'm /never/ gonna make it. I've got a summer internship, though, did I tell you? Maybe that'll help. On-the-job training!"
"What's the internship for?" Jason twiddles the lights brighter -- subtly, and just a few. Easily explained by a bulb flare. "I've not got that far yet. If, uh, ever."
"Do you want one?" she's diverted enough from her own good fortune to ask, and has another big spoonful as she watches and waits for the answer.
"Interior Design? Nah. Don't care, to be honest." Jason finishes a (dripping) spoonful and returns for another. "I'm not all focused like you are."
Joelle ducks her head; rust-red hair shivers and throws heightened highlights under the twiddled lights. "Just tryin' to make a life for myself," she murmurs, eyes on her sundae. "Anyway, it's with this brokerage firm down on Wall Street. Jackson, Waterhouse & Stanford. I'll be working for this guy named Vanderhouse Patrice -- doesn't that sound cool? Fancy. I think he's English /and/ French, somehow. He's supposed to be really good and really nice."
"That's good -- but, man, brokerage?" Jason rolls his eyes upward and stirs the spoon in a tight little circle. "Just the freaking word makes my head hurt, you know? Thank goodness, uh, one of us has brains."
"Oh, come on," Joelle scoffs and kicks lightly at his foot under the table. "You're plenty smart, Jase, and you know it. I'm probably just gonna be making coffee and running errands, but maybe I'll see how things really work out in the world. And--" she hesitates, her native-rich soprano dropping as her eyes had (but them, now, pinned on her date's face) "--and maybe I'll make some contacts. Meet people. You know ... for the life I'm tryin' to make."
Jason returns the kick, although it amounts to a somewhat timid scuff. "Oh, pfft. You'll do more than that. And you'll do well." His washy-blue eyes catch hers and he attempts the full grin again. "You really will. You've got a way with people, you know?"
Joelle preens, just a bit. "You're sweet," she coos. "I really hope so. Man. I'm /graduating/ next semester. Can you believe me? I gotta go out and be an adult, and I don't really know if I know how." Worry claws at her face, dragging lines into the pleasing, pretty dark features. "What if I totally screw up at the firm? What if I don't get into B-school 'cause of my grades?"
"Well, uh, how are your grades? If that's not prying." Jason lifts his spoon as a pointer. "But that's awesome -- uh, I guess. Stressful, too, I'm sure. I've got a couple of years left, myself."
Moodily Joelle stirs at her sundae. "Oh, I /guess/ they're okay," she gusts on a sigh, "but I wanna go to a /good/ school. All the best for me, y'know?" A self-mocking smile; a toss of that bright head. "I'm just a worrywart, I guess. A crazy little stress-ball. You ever get that?"
"No. Um. Yes." Jason tilts his head slightly. "But not about school. I guess that means I'm spoiled and thoughtless -- and Interior Design is a cakewalk."
Joelle makes a face at him. "Seriously? Spoiled and thoughtless? Man, who's saying that?"
"Uh, me." Jason ahems and stirs. "Just guessing."
The face becomes a frown: worried for him, as obvious and quick as that. Joelle reaches her free hand to catch his and rub her thumb along it reassuringly. "You doin' okay, Jase? You shouldn't say things like that about yourself. You know how good and important and valuable you are."
Jason startles at the contact, but quickly illuses it away -- and within a moment, no longer needs to. He accepts the pressure, even if returning it seems too anatomically awkward. "Oh, well. Been stressful. You know, good and important valuable people like us get that much more crap on our shoulders, right?"
Joelle considers that idea. "I ... guess," she replies slowly. And withdraws her hand. She's not quite looking at him: his shoulder, say, or the join with his neck. "I don't really have a lot put on me. I don't think. Maybe -- no." She shakes her head. "I shouldn't say that. Never mind."
"What?" Jason prods, keeping his voice gentle. "I mean, I swear, even if it's something you don't want spread around, I never spread /anything/."
A melting, hopeful look. "Really?" Joelle asks, soft and trembling.
"Believe me." Jason has to avert his eyes himself. Women in, like, distress make him antsy, one knows. "Even when it'd do /me/ good to rat out."
Joelle giggles nervously and wipes at her nose with the back of her hand. "Yeah, I hear /that./ Loyalty, huh? Keepin' secrets even if you should really tell, to save yourself... Well." She pokes at her sundae, frowning again. "I guess it'd be all right. Not that big a deal, is it? Yeah. I'm ... um. I'm thinkin' about what I want to do with my life, like you know, but about my job, too. What to do with that. I haven't really talked about it with you. I don't know if I should, but if you want to hear it..."
"Yeah. I would. And it won't," Jason re-emphasizes. "Go beyond me. Ever." Jason swifts up a scoop and eats it as if to seal some invisible deal.
Joelle melts a smile at him. "You're great," she whispers and sniffles a bit. Then she straightens, throws back her shoulders, and nods. Firmly. "Right. Well, I'm a call girl."
Sniffling. Internal twitch. Jason manages to reconfigure his eyes in the correct place -- namely, her face. "Um -- right!" Nothing wrong with such a pro--fession.
"There's nothing wrong with it," Joelle's swift to say, maybe a leeeeeettle defensively. "It's an escort service, 'cept I'm freelance -- and that's what I'm thinkin' about. There's this lady who has a real service, totally high-class and professional and everything, and I know a couple of girls who work for her. They think she's the best and maybe I should sign on, too. But--" she bites her lip and drops her voice very quiet and low "--I dunno what Mr. Sh--/you/ know, what /he/ would think about that."
"Why'd he care?" Jason asks with a full retinue of ideas of why irrational possessive ol' Shaw /would/ care. "I mean, if it's a good service and you're, uh, progressing in . . . it, isn't it in his best interest?"
Joelle fiddles with her spoon, which clinks and tinkles against the bowl's glass. "Well, I work for /him./ I report to /him./ If there's someone else in the mix, this lady I'd be working for -- how would that work? What if he had to go through her to get what he wants from me? I don't think he'd like that," she finishes with sad understatement.
"Why'd he have to? You could still do freelance on the side," Jason suggests, lightly -- most reasonably. "Whenever he, uh, needs you to. I mean, if I went and worked at McDonalds . . . I can't imagine he'd care. Right?"
"But you work for him," says Joelle. "You'd have to clear it with him first."
"Friggin--" Jason attempts to weasel around that outburst. Ahem. "So. Clear it with him."
Joelle sighs. Nods. "I guess. I just don't want to make him angry. He cares about me, but he has plans for me, and that takes precedence. I know that. I just..." She trails off, stops, stares hard at the melted remains of her dessert. Then, quietly: "I just think that maybe I could do things without him watchin' me all the time. My /own/ things. Don't tell him! Please, Jason."
Jason's dessert has quite gone disregarded -- but oddly seems unmelted. He's folding his arms and narrowing his eyes keen and suspicious over the edge of the rim. "Think I would? Want to do the same thing myself. /Do/ do the same thing myself. I mean, Shaw does not encompass /everything/ I am or want -- ugh, thank not."
Joelle's face lights up like the bulbs he was twiddling. "Oh, /Jase./ Really? You do, too?"
"You better believe /that/. I mean, why surprised?" Jason expands a palm outward. "I'd help you do what you wanted, if you . . . wanted."
"You do seem unhappier with the whole deal than me," she admits. "But I'm not talkin' about totally rebelling on him. Just carving out my own thing, y'know? And if we worked together, as much as he likes and needs us -- that might work. It really might!"
"It'd be easy -- I mean, I'll warn you, I'm under surveillance," and as if in sad afterthought, he dampens sound around them, like being concealed in an invisible booth. "But I can get /out/ of it if I want. I could disguise you like Marilyn Monroe when you needed, I mean -- limitless."
Joelle glances quickly around at the dampening, then beams her tremulous smile at him. "Marilyn?" she asks, shyly pleased. "Wow. Okay. Hey, maybe we could try that tonight, just us two." She tosses her head again, this time with a coquette's sure and gleaming ease. "You wanna sleep with a supermodel, Mistah Wyngarde?"
"Hah, I already do." Jason dares a wink. "But my illusions don't really work on /me/ anyway. Do /you/ want to sleep with a supermodel."
Giggling, Joelle flutters a hand his way. "Stop flattering me, you devil! You're comin' home with me no matter what now, just for that. And I like you just the way you are." A haughty sniff. "Not that messin' around with your powers wouldn't be fun, but I want you to feel good for /you./ Know what I mean?"
"And you aren't offended --" A half hesitation, grin, and Jason reaches out to scoop the hand in his. "-- by all my skinny little joints? I mean, I can't /imagine/ it'd /comfortable/."
Joelle twines her fingers through his, and her expression is soft and warm, just like her skin. "I been with all kinds of guys, Jase, 'cause of my work ... but being with someone you /want/ to be with, who wants to be with you not 'cause of money or the job or gettin' his rocks off with a whore -- that makes all the difference. I like you. You like me. That's the best way to have it, believe me."
"I . . . I believe it." Jason coughs and tightens his grip. Just slightly. "I mean, I haven't -- I'm not exactly experienced, but I did have it once when it wasn't mutual and it wasn't like this at all."
"Is it good?" Joelle asks carefully and somewhat wistfully. Her grip tightens in response. "I hope I make you happy. I want to."
"Believe me, it is," Jason insists, even leaning to accentuate it. "You make me very happy and I want to do the same for you, somehow."
Joelle's shoulders slump under her nice yellow blouse, and she looks at him with a little girl's big scared eyes. "What'm I gonna do? I want to sign on with that service, I want to get my own job, a real one, through this internship ... but he owns me. He's the one who /got/ me the internship! You can get out from under his thumb 'cause of your powers, but I can't, even if I wanted to. /Do/ I want to? I don't know. Sometimes. Sometimes not. I'm all confused, Jase. It hurts. It really hurts," and she starts to cry.
Jason's eyes widen at the sight of tears. Unacc-- Noo. Jason does nothing further than tighten his grip yet more, lost for an appropriate response. "I /can/ help you get out," he pleads.
Sniffling, Joelle wipes at her nose with a demure paper napkin. "Sorry. I know. I believe you! You're more powerful than me, that's for sure. I just don't know what I could do. I'm not this great big mastermind or nothin'." She snorts, then looks sad. "I'm just a college student and a call girl and a Black Pawn, and I owe /every/thing to him, and if I turn on him, or away from him, whatever, he'll kill me."
"He doesn't have that right," Jason growls, on more familiar ground. "He tries anything and I'll go after /him/, you hear? But just getting a job you like isn't turning on anyone, man."
Joelle nods. "Maybe. Maybe you're right. I can ask, anyway, right? And I done good service for him for years, so he would hear me out, I'm sure of it. But if it goes bad..." Bitten lip; downcast eyes. "Could I call you? Maybe? Would that get you in trouble? You said you're bein' watched--"
"Call me. Or, frig." Jason grimaces. "Call me, but let's meet somewhere, and then we can go somewhere /else/ from there. I'll fuzz us out. No one will be able to follow us, promise."
Joelle sucks in a breath and nods again. "That'd be good," she says, on firmer ground, too. "But let's just see how it goes, huh? Maybe nothing'll happen, after all, and I don't want to be a stupid ol' drama queen about it." She eyes her sundae. "I think I'm done. Wanna pay and go? And you know I'm just sayin' that, really, 'cause I'm dyin' for a hug and the table's in the way." She squeezes his hand and tries a teary smile.
Jason doesn't attempt another squeeze. He drops his eyes. "Yeah. Uh -- I mean, I hear you. Let's go. We can talk, if we talk, later." He stands and tries to draw her up with him -- with only careful pressure.
Which works. It totally works. Joelle does free her hand to pull on her jacket and then futz with the bill (insisting on paying, oh, yes, since he covered dinner and all, and what, she earns good money, too, you know!). Then she grabs his hand again, once they're out on the sidewalk in the cool, crisp night air. She takes in another breath, looking up at the streetlamp-lit buildings for a minute. "I do want to talk," she says then, looking back down and at him, and the light is a masking sheen over her dark eyes. "But I wanna hug you and hold you and get hugged and held first. Is that all right? Would you mind?"
"Think I'm gonna complain?" Jason disengages his hand to angle his arm around her shoulders with a faint, steamed whistle of breath. His own eyes glitter pale. "I mean, I can just /talk/ with anyone -- well, okay, not anyone. You know what I mean."
Joelle huddles against him, an arm around his waist, and starts them walking towards the subway. "I do," she says softly as she watches their feet on the sidewalk. "I really do. So, we'll talk some other time. Let's just go back to my place and..." And. Yes. She falls silent, hugs him a little closer, and the night pushes them gently on, underground and then uptown, together.
[Log ends.]
it workd plz dont hurt him 2 much kthx
11/11/2005
Logfile from Shaw.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Joelle Parker digs her long-handled spoon into the giant banana split (nearly as large as her head) with the kind of tight-focused care a trepanner would show in her neurological excavations. The spoon catches up equal measure vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry ice cream; caramel and chocolate sauce; walnuts; and a cherry, and deposits it in her mouth for a grinning chew and swallow. "Awesome place, huh?" she asks across the table, under the Friday-night roar of the tiny midtown dessert shop. They're scooted back in a corner, but waitresses and patrons (mostly yuppies and college students) still occasionally bump far too close for comfort between tables and around each other. The decor is a kitschy mix of Art Deco art on the walls and old-fashioned malt-shop furniture, and the air is lively with the sweet smells of pastry, cakes, and other treats as well as babbling, overlapping conversation.
"Awesome," Jason agrees, grinning. His own split (ice cream not his scene, but one will experiment with ice cream that is in its own weight class) is only touched after Joelle touches hers. With a spoon, of course. Jason gives the small, testing spoonful a scientist's eye before taking the initial taste. "Yeah," he confirms.
"I've had a nice time," Joelle tells him, shyly and playing it up just a bit, brown eyes sparkling and soft grin lingering. The latter parts to let her wee pink tongue dab out and up her spoon, drawing in a melted dribble. "Now that midterms are over, well, jeez. I really needed to get out and away, y'know?"
"Yeah," Jason readily, if monosyllabicly, agrees, and dares another spoonfull. "And I bet yours were tougher than mine."
Joelle grimaces. "Boy, I dunno. If B-school's like this, I'm /never/ gonna make it. I've got a summer internship, though, did I tell you? Maybe that'll help. On-the-job training!"
"What's the internship for?" Jason twiddles the lights brighter -- subtly, and just a few. Easily explained by a bulb flare. "I've not got that far yet. If, uh, ever."
"Do you want one?" she's diverted enough from her own good fortune to ask, and has another big spoonful as she watches and waits for the answer.
"Interior Design? Nah. Don't care, to be honest." Jason finishes a (dripping) spoonful and returns for another. "I'm not all focused like you are."
Joelle ducks her head; rust-red hair shivers and throws heightened highlights under the twiddled lights. "Just tryin' to make a life for myself," she murmurs, eyes on her sundae. "Anyway, it's with this brokerage firm down on Wall Street. Jackson, Waterhouse & Stanford. I'll be working for this guy named Vanderhouse Patrice -- doesn't that sound cool? Fancy. I think he's English /and/ French, somehow. He's supposed to be really good and really nice."
"That's good -- but, man, brokerage?" Jason rolls his eyes upward and stirs the spoon in a tight little circle. "Just the freaking word makes my head hurt, you know? Thank goodness, uh, one of us has brains."
"Oh, come on," Joelle scoffs and kicks lightly at his foot under the table. "You're plenty smart, Jase, and you know it. I'm probably just gonna be making coffee and running errands, but maybe I'll see how things really work out in the world. And--" she hesitates, her native-rich soprano dropping as her eyes had (but them, now, pinned on her date's face) "--and maybe I'll make some contacts. Meet people. You know ... for the life I'm tryin' to make."
Jason returns the kick, although it amounts to a somewhat timid scuff. "Oh, pfft. You'll do more than that. And you'll do well." His washy-blue eyes catch hers and he attempts the full grin again. "You really will. You've got a way with people, you know?"
Joelle preens, just a bit. "You're sweet," she coos. "I really hope so. Man. I'm /graduating/ next semester. Can you believe me? I gotta go out and be an adult, and I don't really know if I know how." Worry claws at her face, dragging lines into the pleasing, pretty dark features. "What if I totally screw up at the firm? What if I don't get into B-school 'cause of my grades?"
"Well, uh, how are your grades? If that's not prying." Jason lifts his spoon as a pointer. "But that's awesome -- uh, I guess. Stressful, too, I'm sure. I've got a couple of years left, myself."
Moodily Joelle stirs at her sundae. "Oh, I /guess/ they're okay," she gusts on a sigh, "but I wanna go to a /good/ school. All the best for me, y'know?" A self-mocking smile; a toss of that bright head. "I'm just a worrywart, I guess. A crazy little stress-ball. You ever get that?"
"No. Um. Yes." Jason tilts his head slightly. "But not about school. I guess that means I'm spoiled and thoughtless -- and Interior Design is a cakewalk."
Joelle makes a face at him. "Seriously? Spoiled and thoughtless? Man, who's saying that?"
"Uh, me." Jason ahems and stirs. "Just guessing."
The face becomes a frown: worried for him, as obvious and quick as that. Joelle reaches her free hand to catch his and rub her thumb along it reassuringly. "You doin' okay, Jase? You shouldn't say things like that about yourself. You know how good and important and valuable you are."
Jason startles at the contact, but quickly illuses it away -- and within a moment, no longer needs to. He accepts the pressure, even if returning it seems too anatomically awkward. "Oh, well. Been stressful. You know, good and important valuable people like us get that much more crap on our shoulders, right?"
Joelle considers that idea. "I ... guess," she replies slowly. And withdraws her hand. She's not quite looking at him: his shoulder, say, or the join with his neck. "I don't really have a lot put on me. I don't think. Maybe -- no." She shakes her head. "I shouldn't say that. Never mind."
"What?" Jason prods, keeping his voice gentle. "I mean, I swear, even if it's something you don't want spread around, I never spread /anything/."
A melting, hopeful look. "Really?" Joelle asks, soft and trembling.
"Believe me." Jason has to avert his eyes himself. Women in, like, distress make him antsy, one knows. "Even when it'd do /me/ good to rat out."
Joelle giggles nervously and wipes at her nose with the back of her hand. "Yeah, I hear /that./ Loyalty, huh? Keepin' secrets even if you should really tell, to save yourself... Well." She pokes at her sundae, frowning again. "I guess it'd be all right. Not that big a deal, is it? Yeah. I'm ... um. I'm thinkin' about what I want to do with my life, like you know, but about my job, too. What to do with that. I haven't really talked about it with you. I don't know if I should, but if you want to hear it..."
"Yeah. I would. And it won't," Jason re-emphasizes. "Go beyond me. Ever." Jason swifts up a scoop and eats it as if to seal some invisible deal.
Joelle melts a smile at him. "You're great," she whispers and sniffles a bit. Then she straightens, throws back her shoulders, and nods. Firmly. "Right. Well, I'm a call girl."
Sniffling. Internal twitch. Jason manages to reconfigure his eyes in the correct place -- namely, her face. "Um -- right!" Nothing wrong with such a pro--fession.
"There's nothing wrong with it," Joelle's swift to say, maybe a leeeeeettle defensively. "It's an escort service, 'cept I'm freelance -- and that's what I'm thinkin' about. There's this lady who has a real service, totally high-class and professional and everything, and I know a couple of girls who work for her. They think she's the best and maybe I should sign on, too. But--" she bites her lip and drops her voice very quiet and low "--I dunno what Mr. Sh--/you/ know, what /he/ would think about that."
"Why'd he care?" Jason asks with a full retinue of ideas of why irrational possessive ol' Shaw /would/ care. "I mean, if it's a good service and you're, uh, progressing in . . . it, isn't it in his best interest?"
Joelle fiddles with her spoon, which clinks and tinkles against the bowl's glass. "Well, I work for /him./ I report to /him./ If there's someone else in the mix, this lady I'd be working for -- how would that work? What if he had to go through her to get what he wants from me? I don't think he'd like that," she finishes with sad understatement.
"Why'd he have to? You could still do freelance on the side," Jason suggests, lightly -- most reasonably. "Whenever he, uh, needs you to. I mean, if I went and worked at McDonalds . . . I can't imagine he'd care. Right?"
"But you work for him," says Joelle. "You'd have to clear it with him first."
"Friggin--" Jason attempts to weasel around that outburst. Ahem. "So. Clear it with him."
Joelle sighs. Nods. "I guess. I just don't want to make him angry. He cares about me, but he has plans for me, and that takes precedence. I know that. I just..." She trails off, stops, stares hard at the melted remains of her dessert. Then, quietly: "I just think that maybe I could do things without him watchin' me all the time. My /own/ things. Don't tell him! Please, Jason."
Jason's dessert has quite gone disregarded -- but oddly seems unmelted. He's folding his arms and narrowing his eyes keen and suspicious over the edge of the rim. "Think I would? Want to do the same thing myself. /Do/ do the same thing myself. I mean, Shaw does not encompass /everything/ I am or want -- ugh, thank not."
Joelle's face lights up like the bulbs he was twiddling. "Oh, /Jase./ Really? You do, too?"
"You better believe /that/. I mean, why surprised?" Jason expands a palm outward. "I'd help you do what you wanted, if you . . . wanted."
"You do seem unhappier with the whole deal than me," she admits. "But I'm not talkin' about totally rebelling on him. Just carving out my own thing, y'know? And if we worked together, as much as he likes and needs us -- that might work. It really might!"
"It'd be easy -- I mean, I'll warn you, I'm under surveillance," and as if in sad afterthought, he dampens sound around them, like being concealed in an invisible booth. "But I can get /out/ of it if I want. I could disguise you like Marilyn Monroe when you needed, I mean -- limitless."
Joelle glances quickly around at the dampening, then beams her tremulous smile at him. "Marilyn?" she asks, shyly pleased. "Wow. Okay. Hey, maybe we could try that tonight, just us two." She tosses her head again, this time with a coquette's sure and gleaming ease. "You wanna sleep with a supermodel, Mistah Wyngarde?"
"Hah, I already do." Jason dares a wink. "But my illusions don't really work on /me/ anyway. Do /you/ want to sleep with a supermodel."
Giggling, Joelle flutters a hand his way. "Stop flattering me, you devil! You're comin' home with me no matter what now, just for that. And I like you just the way you are." A haughty sniff. "Not that messin' around with your powers wouldn't be fun, but I want you to feel good for /you./ Know what I mean?"
"And you aren't offended --" A half hesitation, grin, and Jason reaches out to scoop the hand in his. "-- by all my skinny little joints? I mean, I can't /imagine/ it'd /comfortable/."
Joelle twines her fingers through his, and her expression is soft and warm, just like her skin. "I been with all kinds of guys, Jase, 'cause of my work ... but being with someone you /want/ to be with, who wants to be with you not 'cause of money or the job or gettin' his rocks off with a whore -- that makes all the difference. I like you. You like me. That's the best way to have it, believe me."
"I . . . I believe it." Jason coughs and tightens his grip. Just slightly. "I mean, I haven't -- I'm not exactly experienced, but I did have it once when it wasn't mutual and it wasn't like this at all."
"Is it good?" Joelle asks carefully and somewhat wistfully. Her grip tightens in response. "I hope I make you happy. I want to."
"Believe me, it is," Jason insists, even leaning to accentuate it. "You make me very happy and I want to do the same for you, somehow."
Joelle's shoulders slump under her nice yellow blouse, and she looks at him with a little girl's big scared eyes. "What'm I gonna do? I want to sign on with that service, I want to get my own job, a real one, through this internship ... but he owns me. He's the one who /got/ me the internship! You can get out from under his thumb 'cause of your powers, but I can't, even if I wanted to. /Do/ I want to? I don't know. Sometimes. Sometimes not. I'm all confused, Jase. It hurts. It really hurts," and she starts to cry.
Jason's eyes widen at the sight of tears. Unacc-- Noo. Jason does nothing further than tighten his grip yet more, lost for an appropriate response. "I /can/ help you get out," he pleads.
Sniffling, Joelle wipes at her nose with a demure paper napkin. "Sorry. I know. I believe you! You're more powerful than me, that's for sure. I just don't know what I could do. I'm not this great big mastermind or nothin'." She snorts, then looks sad. "I'm just a college student and a call girl and a Black Pawn, and I owe /every/thing to him, and if I turn on him, or away from him, whatever, he'll kill me."
"He doesn't have that right," Jason growls, on more familiar ground. "He tries anything and I'll go after /him/, you hear? But just getting a job you like isn't turning on anyone, man."
Joelle nods. "Maybe. Maybe you're right. I can ask, anyway, right? And I done good service for him for years, so he would hear me out, I'm sure of it. But if it goes bad..." Bitten lip; downcast eyes. "Could I call you? Maybe? Would that get you in trouble? You said you're bein' watched--"
"Call me. Or, frig." Jason grimaces. "Call me, but let's meet somewhere, and then we can go somewhere /else/ from there. I'll fuzz us out. No one will be able to follow us, promise."
Joelle sucks in a breath and nods again. "That'd be good," she says, on firmer ground, too. "But let's just see how it goes, huh? Maybe nothing'll happen, after all, and I don't want to be a stupid ol' drama queen about it." She eyes her sundae. "I think I'm done. Wanna pay and go? And you know I'm just sayin' that, really, 'cause I'm dyin' for a hug and the table's in the way." She squeezes his hand and tries a teary smile.
Jason doesn't attempt another squeeze. He drops his eyes. "Yeah. Uh -- I mean, I hear you. Let's go. We can talk, if we talk, later." He stands and tries to draw her up with him -- with only careful pressure.
Which works. It totally works. Joelle does free her hand to pull on her jacket and then futz with the bill (insisting on paying, oh, yes, since he covered dinner and all, and what, she earns good money, too, you know!). Then she grabs his hand again, once they're out on the sidewalk in the cool, crisp night air. She takes in another breath, looking up at the streetlamp-lit buildings for a minute. "I do want to talk," she says then, looking back down and at him, and the light is a masking sheen over her dark eyes. "But I wanna hug you and hold you and get hugged and held first. Is that all right? Would you mind?"
"Think I'm gonna complain?" Jason disengages his hand to angle his arm around her shoulders with a faint, steamed whistle of breath. His own eyes glitter pale. "I mean, I can just /talk/ with anyone -- well, okay, not anyone. You know what I mean."
Joelle huddles against him, an arm around his waist, and starts them walking towards the subway. "I do," she says softly as she watches their feet on the sidewalk. "I really do. So, we'll talk some other time. Let's just go back to my place and..." And. Yes. She falls silent, hugs him a little closer, and the night pushes them gently on, underground and then uptown, together.
[Log ends.]