And the first of the uglies...
7/16/2005
Logfile from Leah.
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Old Brownstone Apartments #300 - Leah
Plentiful light and air combine to make this tall and narrow apartment seem larger than its floor plan suggests. Directly opposite the entry's little foyer, a trio of high, leaded-glass windows dominates the main area: the central living room, the kitchen next to the entry, and the eating nook in the corner between kitchen and window. On the other side of the apartment lies private space: a tiny office next to the entry, the bedroom on the other side of a short hallway, and the bathroom between.
The decor is simple but pleasant with many touches of nature, from the polished woods of floor and furniture to the scattered arrangements of seashells, dried flowers, and framed landscapes that complete the essence of a peaceful haven.
--
Dinner! Leah's still rushing between kitchen and dining area, making sure that the food will come out at just the right time even as she's adjusting the place settings. And then checking on the candles lit here and there around her apartment (ambience being a very important thing). And dashing into the bathroom to brush her hair with ferocious intensity for about the seventeenth time. And suck in her breath, sideways to the mirror, to check on her outfit: drapes well, all buttoned, not too fat-looking? Okay. Okay. She dives back into the main area and stands in the apartment's center with arms akimbo. Waiting.
Sabitha looks a little nervous herself, for a variety of reasons. She also looks, we might note, quite hot. That is to say, there's been a bit of obvious extra effort put into hair and makeup, and her green wrap-around shirt plunges low at the neckline, stopping just short of indecency, crosses between her breasts, and ties at the hip. It does lovely things for her eyes, while black pants do lovely things for showing off her figure. She's obviously out to impress /someone/ tonight, anyway. She adjusts the drape of her purse over her shoulder, runs her tongue over her teeth, as if checking for lipstick stains, and glances sideways at Travis. "Ready?" she questions, one hand held ready for the knock.
Travis--whose player had not thought in the slightest about what he would wear before this very moment--nonetheless seems to be quite put together. A pair of very dark dress blue-jeans, topped off with a green button-down, not intentionally coordinated, and a grey suede sports jacket. "Sure," he says, stepping up behind her. "You look great, by the way," he tosses in just before the knocking commences.
Leah looks just modestly hostessy, her only reach for finery being the blouse of raw black silk tucked into her old jeans, but at least she has her hair brushed, dammit. Seventeen times! She crosses to the door in a jiff at the knock, peeps, and then flings it open with a grin. "Hey! You made it. Hope the drive wasn't too bad. C'mon in, c'mon in. We've got dinner just simmering and drinks waiting to be drunk."
Sabitha gives Travis a sideways smile and a short "Thanks" before whoa, there's Leah, opening the door, and she shifts the wine-containing bag in one hand. "Not too many, I hope," she teases with an easy grin. "I told you we'd bring two bottles." She steps sideways inside, and then nods at each in turn. "Leah, Travis. Travis, this is Leah. She swears she's a fabulous cook, but Christopher seemed a bit doubtful." A quick, sweeping glance crosses the apartment. "He's still coming?" she inquires of Leah, with a lift of her brows that speaks volumes in girltalk.
Timing. The name is a cue for the man himself, a prompt for the stairwell's door to slam shut, thrown by draft. A long, grudging stride turns the corner into the apartments' hallway, carrying blue- and brown-clad Rossi down the passageway, one hand thrust in a jacket pocket, the other pinning a cell phone to his ear. "/Goddammit/." His baritone precedes him, his footsteps chasing the echo of his voice. "No, I didn't. No, she isn't. Look . . . no. Not now. --Oh." Green eyes flare, skimming a frown across the hall's gathering. "I'll talk to you later."
Travis isn't so much with the girltalk or guestures. Or even interpreting those wiley feminine scents, so it would seem. He offers his hand with a quick, "Nice to meet you, thanks for having us. And if the smell of the apartment is any indication, I'm sure it's not an idle boast." See, he can be charming on occasion.
Leah, suitably charmed by the twinkle of her eyes and easy smile, takes his hand in a firm, cool grip. "Pleased to finally meet you, Travis, and thanks. We'll just let the food do the talking." She brightens her smile for Sabitha. "He'd better," she says cheerily. "We're neighbors now; I know where he lives. Can I take the wine? Thanks so much for bringing it. I'll get the glasses now, if that's what you guys want to start with? I have juice, water. . . ."
Sabitha's brows twitch, and then settle down. "/Are/ you?" she questions in a tone thick with interest. "Is that part of this stor-" And then there's Rossi, and Sabby turns. She steps back in the doorway to allow room for him to file in. "You look so very happy to see us, too, Detective," she greets with a warmly amused smile. And then introductions again. "Travis, Christo.. do you go by Christopher or Chris?" she thinks to stop and ask. Poor Leah's question about the drinks is missed in all the comotion.
The cell phone flips shut, dropped into the opening of a pocket: be damned to the coat's lines. "Miss Melcross," Rossi greets -- and lo, it is /social/ Chris, Brooklyn's accent easing into a more generic one, mellow and rich. A smile lights the hooded gaze, briefly subverting the hotter light of temper. "Yo, Canto. Sorry. Am I late, or just in time? --Hey," he offers to Travis, regarding him with swift interest before double-taking on Sabitha's outfit. He blinks.
Travis offers a quick nod of greeting toward the man. "Hey," he replies. "I'm Travis." Hand is offered again in greeting. "Detective?"
"Homicide," Leah slides in smoothly, preempting the answer, with an even smoother smile for the newcomer. "Thanks for coming, Chris. We all ready to be social? I'd give you the tour of the place, but you're pretty much seeing it, so we might as well pile in and get on with the fun."
Sabitha glances at Leah, and there's a short, amused smile as she offers, "Want some help pouring drinks?" That, my friends, is code for 'want to slip away and gossip before we all sit down to eat?' She gives the apartment another once over, and shares, "About like mine, really, only I don't even have walls to the bedroom. Used to be an artist's loft, I think." A pause, and she adds, "I like it."
Spared the necessity of responding to Travis, Rossi reciprocates the man's gesture with his own nonetheless, his hand callused with the ridges of trigger and pencil. "Call me Chris," he tells the couple, diverting his gaze away from Sabitha's brea--blouse with determined courtesy. An arm invites the other man to enter before him; a steady, wary look acknowledges Leah's gratitude: what now? "No problem. I haven't finished moving in yet, so it was this or pizza, anyway."
Formalities aside, Travis is quick to put out an "Anything I can help with?" Because if the women leave, that means a few minutes of small-talk. With a law enforcement. Which isn't exactly Travis' idea of a fun evening.
Leah dimples acknowledgement back at Rossi and then catches up with Sabitha's code with a quick nod. "No, I've got it, Travis. You're the guest, right? And the wine should be fine to start us off with," she decides, jerking her head in invitation to Sabby to follow. "Let's get it to the kitchen. . . . A loft? Really? Oh, and thanks. I like it, too, though I hate the commute to the city when I really need to be there posthaste." She pauses at the counter, shrugs at the other woman, and angles off at the dining table to fetch the glasses there. And say, quietly for gossip, "So. That's him, huh?"
Sabitha meets Rossi's gaze for a moment with an amused smile, and then turns to follow Leah into the kitchen. Travis gets a brief glance, and then she focuses on Leah. The men can fend for themselves. Travis can, she assumes, handle a single cop in social mode. "Even /in/ the city, the commute can be a pain in the ass," she shares, and then unloads the wine once they're safely free of the men. Her eyes linger in Travis's direction, and then move back to Leah. "In the flesh," she confirms. "Were you starting to think I'd made him up?"
There is nothing about tonight that conforms to Rossi's idea of a fun evening. Left unfettered and alone in male bondage, the detective casts Travis a brow-furrowed look before turning his prowl to the perimeters of the living room. "Sorry. Didn't catch your name. Except for -- what was it, Taylor? Travis?" The question, tossed over a shoulder, carries Rossi around the couch's back and against the brush of windows. "What do you do?"
"Of course not!" whispers a startled Leah as she holds out the glasses in turn for filling. "Just . . . you know. He seems nice. I like his smile. Not that I'm flirting with him in return, mind you." Her own smile quirks slyly. "I'll sit and watch you do your thing without reciprocation. I hope it works for you, Sabby. Really, I do."
Sabitha snorts quietly. "Oh, feel free," she offers dryly. "I doubt he'd so much as notice. Thick as a brick wall, sometimes." She waves off any further discussion on the topic as she uncorks the wine with deft ease. "Are you going to tell me what you did, stupid on wine, then? Or is that for another time?"
"Yeah, Travis," the man confirms, then he settles down on the edge of one of the livingroom chairs. "Professional Contractor, of sorts. Client relations type stuff. So you're a homocide detective, hmm? What got you into that line of work?"
Leah mutters, "Definitely another time. I'll just say that I followed /some/ of your advice, about shutting him up in an effective manner. Things didn't proceed from there, though." Her shoulders roll back in frustrated impatience, but with a glance at the guys, she turns back on the polite charm, just in case. "Maybe I will, then. I like a challenge, you know."
"Family," says Rossi, inspecting the reflection of candles in the glass before moving onward: a small nook next to the entryway attracts his stalking, restless exploration. "Dad's a cop, two brothers are cops, uncle's a cop, grandfather was a-- you get the picture," he finishes wryly, emerging from the small office to level a quizzical, crooked grin at Travis. "Same with Canto. Only a miracle kept her out of the Force. Client Relations? What sort of business is that?"
Sabitha's jaw unhinges just slightly, and she pours the first glass. "You kissed him?" she hisses lowly. Another glance at the men. A slight smirk. "Rattle their cages," she confirms, and then smiles wickedly. "Hell, flirt with /me/. I bet we could make Chris's eyes roll back in his head, at least."
Leah confirms sourly, "Grabbed him, dragged him, and stuck my tongue down his throat. He said he couldn't feel his lips afterwards." That gets a snort, but also a grin that tips into headlong wickedness at Sabitha's idea. "/No./ But, well, now we have to, don't we? At least after we've had a few glasses. Let him think he's missed his chance with me; hell, he probably thinks I've gone over to the other side by now, anyway."
"Play consultant mostly," Travis shrugs. "Mostly small businesses, helping them make contacts, sign contracts, expand their client base. Hard to kick off a new business if you don't know the right people and all." His eyes flickers toward the kitchen. "Leah? Her family's cops?"
"/Really?/" Sabby questions with deep interest. Her gaze, from the kitchen, lingers with careful thought over the form of Christopher Rossi. "I'm going to have to hear that story in excruciating detail," she points out, pouring. "Later." The last glass is topped off, and she grins briefly at Leah. "Eyes. Rolled back in his head. It's a worthy goal."
The cop follows Travis' glance to the kitchen's entrance, and pauses for a moment to hide both hands in pockets. "Yeah. It's in her blood. Probably what made her a journalist," he supposes, Brooklyn's flavor resurfacing on his tongue to spice the last word with disapproval. Shoulders hitch into a shrug; Rossi refocuses on the other man, lips quirked for a rueful, "Could've been worse. She could've ended up a lawyer, I guess."
"Agreed," says Leah on all fronts and then raises her voice. "Wine's ready, guys. Let me check on the soup, and we can get started eating, too. I hope you're hungry!"
Sabitha exits the kitchen with two glasses. The first is offered to Rossi, with a smooth smile, and she glances at Travis briefly. "Did you both survive the horror of smalltalk?" she inquires.
"Well, since you women had your own conversations," Travis says, pulling himself to his feet, "We made do. Shop talk. Really /does/ smell excellent, Leah," he calls back in a kitchen-ward voice.
Only the barest flicker betrays Rossi's self-discipline; green eyes remain firmly fixed on Sabitha's face, a smile and hooding 'lids darkening their color. "More or less," he admits, accepting the glass with a nod for the bearer. "Thanks. --We've established he's got a job, and that I've got a job, and that Canto's not a lawyer."
Smooth Rossi. Well behaved and everything. Sabitha's fingers brush against his as she relinquishes the glass, and then she steps sideways to offer the second to Travis. "I think Leah's better spent as a journalist anyway," she answers with a slow smile. "She's got a nose for things that smell off. She tell you how we met?"
"Thanks, Travis," Leah carols back with another bright smile. "I /knew/ I liked you." After a taste-test of the pot on the stove, she nods to herself and hauls it to the table to rest in the middle, next to a bowl of leafy salad greens and a cloth-draped basket of bread. She scoops up the other two glasses and joins the group. "--Here's yours, Sabby. You're going to tell the tale?"
"I remember something about a car accident," admits Rossi, casting a suspicious glance of his own table-wards, chasing the smell. Weight shifts, cocked from heels to the balls of neatly-clad feet; another rocking propels him into motion again, back around the circuit of the room to retrace his own footsteps. "You met over a vic, right?"
Travis is distracted for the moment looking toward the kitchen, though, so he misses that little motion, attention drawing back as he's offered his own glass. "Thanks," he smiles, and asks "Shall we?" with a guesture toward the table.
Sabitha takes her own glass from Leah and nods as she traverses toward the table. "Smells awesome, Leah," she notes. "I vote that Chris doesn't get any, for doubting." She tosses him a teasing smile, light, and then confirms. "A car crash, yeah. Rain coming down like hell, both of us drenched to the bone by the time we were done. Some kid ripped the door off its hinges - you remember that, Leah? Know if Ray ever tracked him down?"
"The mutant kid? No, but I still can't believe he /did/ that, right in the middle of everything." Leah shakes her head as she herds the group along in fine hosting fashion. "Sit wherever, folks, but Travis, you should sit by /me/ because you appreciate a good cook, and I like the validation." Another flashing grin for him, all for him, and she slides into a seat. The table is set with two chairs on either side, as if specially made for couples. Aw.
Given a new target, Rossi cocks a swift, white flash of grin at Sabitha before long-legging it to the table. "Mutant? Crap. He might've just been high, or freaked. Adrenaline does crazy things." Brought up short by a chair, the detective furrows a brow over it before drawing it out for Melcross; over the bowl of salad, he points out to the others, "It isn't /always/ mutants. We got crack cocaine pouring out our ears in New York."
Sabitha nods, and she glances at Leah with quiet amusement before adding, "Which means you're stuck with me I think, Chris." And lookit that, he's pulled her chair out for her. This makes him the recipient of a surprised smile that floods instantly into warmth before she takes her seat. She settles in, crossing one slender leg over the other, and continues. "This guy was a mutant. There we are, a cab and a truck, T-boned in an intersection, with the paramedics on the way and Leah and I both shouting like hell to /not/ move the injured. And he walks up, creates this.. what? This gel like stuff or something." A pause, a look at Leah for confirmation. "And yanks the door off. And in the meantime, there's Raymond Hubbard ordering his goons around where they've got no business."
Travis blinks once at the chair before stationing himself behind the chair next to Leah as instructed. "I don't think I got this whole story before," he comments, sliding into his own seat. "Well then," he says, lifting his glass. "To our hostess."
Once she's nodded quick and outraged confirmation for Sabby, Leah is all business with the dinner, making sure the first course starts on the rounds: soup, salad, and bread, mmm. Travis's toast just brings him a warm sidelong look, and she drops her eyes modestly then.
An arm skids the last remaining chair out for Chris, and he settles into it with a blank: "Raymond Hubbard? Don't know that name. Weird shi-- stuff," he amends with a wary glance for the offense. "New York City. Either love it, or be a government employee." Prompted by Travis' cue, he lifts his own glass in polite agreement, tipping its mouth towards Leah with another tight, wary glance for the woman.
Sabitha tilts her own glass upwards, and adds, "And to starting the evening off right, hm?" With alcohol. She brings her glass forward, intending to touch it lightly to others, and then continues without further pause. "Raymond Hubbard. Oil tycoon, and a slippery bastard to boot. But we didn't know that then, right?" A pause, and she thinks to ask, "Did you ever have dinner with him, Leah?" No time to reply, because Sabby's still going. "So the paramedics get there - hope like hell the kid hasn't just killed someone, jostling them all around. And Leah and I, we go to get a drink together." A dramatic pause, and then she reveals. "And he came after us. Raymond Hubbard. Tracked us down, soaking wet, into the bar. Made smalltalk about finding this kid we'd just seen pull the door off a car, slides us a pair of business cards." Her eyes flash to Travis, and then lingeringly to Rossi, sparkling. "A Byron quote. Do you remember it, Leah?" Sabby is, apparently, full of the talk tonight.
"Byron," echoes Rossi, with a finely masculine contempt, followed up with an unexpected: "Donne's better. --Rich guys can get away with being poseurs, I guess. Vics okay?" Glass chimes, his and Sabitha's, and he moves it back to a cautious slant towards the others'.
"Just drinks," Leah fits in edgewise to the question of /her/ involvement with Mr. Hubbard. "Thanks for the toast, guys. You're too kind, Travis," and she squeezes his forearm lightly before reaching for the bread, herself. "And Sabby /is/ a government employee, Rossi, so be nice to her."
Travis sips his drink, setting it aside as he takes a piece of bread and begins buttering it slowly. "Business card? For what purpose? Followup for the accident?"
A sharp, thoughtful glance takes in the forearm-squeezing before refocusing on Leah -- disapproval darkens the green eyes, shadowing them deeper than their wont -- and Rossi dips into his wine before surfacing to suggest, "Macking? Sounds like an exciting way to meet women, at crime scenes. Should try that out. Sorry about the government employee crack," he adds in an aside, apology twined with self-deprecating chagrin. "I meant us peons working for the City. Forgot you worked for the fed."
Sabitha gives Rossi another grin, briefly, and nods. "Senator's aide. Better be nice, or I'll search up all the dirt on you," she teases with a wink, and then turns across the table to Travis as she sips. "I haven't told you this story?" she inquires innocently. Uh huh. "That's exactly what Leah and I wondered, actually. Seemed a bit fishy. We exchanged information, agreed to share stories if something came up about Raymond. And that, in a nutshell." She pauses for a wry smile. "A very large nutshell. Is how we met." And finally, Sabby goes for food.
Leah approves, "It's a /good/ nutshell, though. We've been elaborating on it ever since. Funny how you can run into people and make friends like that. Coincidence. Like my old friend Christopher here moving into my apartment building -- oh! And did I tell you, Sabby? A Detective Vincent Lazzaro is here, too. I get /two/ of them to protect me." She beams smug pleasure across the table at the other pair and dishes out salad on her plate.
"/Really?/" Sabby replies with sudden delight. "I know him! He's lovely. Tells the most horrible jokes, but a really nice guy. You ought to say hi to him sometime." A pause, and Sabby leans slightly toward Rossi to joke quietly, "All these cops around, makes a girl feel jealous, living all the way in the city. Our city's finest are too far away for personal comfort, it seems."
A little click of teeth meeting teeth sounds from Rossi's side of the table; a small muscle leaps and hiccups in the abruptly harsh line of jaw. It is only a momentary flash of temper, however, and the hard face eases a heartbeat later. "Think he's downstairs on my floor" he says, albeit with a grim note beneath the amiability. "Just found out I was Canto's neighbor the other night. --Yeah, well. Used to live in Brooklyn, but a guy at my precinct moved out; figured I'd try it out here for a bit."
"I suppose you get enough of city life in work?" Travis asks. "New Yorkers. Strange breed. I think we're the only city in the world where you can walk by someone, perhaps even intentionally ignore them every day for a month, then suddenly you're having dinner together, talking about old times. Great bread, by the way." Yes, the way to a man's heart, they say...
Leah gifts Travis with her best wide, pale look, winsome and clear, and forks up a bite. "Keep this up," she mock-warns him, "and I'll steal you right away from my friend Sabitha to fatten up for my very own, you dear man. --It'll be nice having you around, Chris. We can trade recipes and watch _Survivor_ together. I can't wait."
Reminded, Rossi reaches for the bread basket in his turn. "See a little too much of something, anyway. Don't call what I do 'living,'" he answers Travis dryly, and the restless gaze, still touched with ire's heat, shift up to touch on the man before chopping back to Leah. "Shut up, Canto." The words are acerbic. The tone? Agreeable.
"You like living outside the city, then, Chris?" Sabitha inquires, looking at him briefly as she scoops up a bite. His short words to Leah earn an amuse smile that twitches at the side of her lips. "Be nice," she admonishes. "Or Leah will feed it all to Travis and we'll banish you to the living room with nothing but the wine til we're done." Her expression suggests that this is a course of action she might like to see.
The look Rossi scythes to Sabitha is mildly puzzled, if somewhat speculative. "Yes, ma'am," he says meekly, adding to it the slash of a crooked, boyish grin. Another furrowed glance turns to Travis, and bread sketches a quick map between Melcross and the other man, matched with query: "So you two are dating? Or just friends?" Pay attention, Canto.
Sabitha refocuses deliberately on her food. Or her wine, to be more accurate, with a long, slow swallow, while her eyes light on Travis. She'll let him field this one, apparently. With interest.
Leah glitters a tight, hard smile back at Rossi and refocuses deliberately on Travis. "Soup? Let me serve it for you, since you've been so nice. It's a family recipe: bread soup, with tomatoes, garlic, and cilantro. We'll be having pasta later, too -- vegetarian, Sabby, don't worry. It's all safe to eat, I promise." She ladles her own bowl full before waiting on him. All attention on him. Lucky Travis. (Pay attention to /that,/ Rossi.)
"Don't threaten a man with food," Travis grins across the table. "Sometimes works, usually turns 'im into a cornered bear." His gaze shifts to Rossi at the question, then back with a quick smile to Sabby. "Been together... three months. Known each other for at least a couple years, though." And to Leah: "Well, thank you then. Been looking forward to it since I stepped through the door."
Leah ladles like the good hostess she is, murmuring, "Sabby is very lucky to have you."
"Oh, /Leah/ remembers the vegetarian bit," Sabby teases lightly. "Thanks." She forgoes another bite in favor of another drink. She might need it, tonight. Especially as... her gaze drags back to Travis, and her expression deadpans. "Four," she corrects. "And a half." There's a world to read in that tone, and most if it is unpleasantly directed at Travis at the moment. She pointedly refocuses her attention on Leah. "You didn't answer... did Raymond ever take you to dinner?"
The cop's quicksilver frown jabs at Travis -- ass-kisser -- before moving onward, back to Leah. Disapproval hitches his shoulders into a tight bar before they are deliberately eased. Butter. Rossi slathers it with a rough hand, spanking his bread. "Hard to keep track of time," he offers, a wing man's assist for a man going down. "Last relationship I had, ended up being almost a year before I could remember our anniversary."
Leah answers Sabitha, "No, not dinner. Drinks -- didn't I say it? Sorry." Rueful glance over her spoon. "Just drinks at a bar, so I didn't get the limo, I didn't get the Tavern on the Green dinner, and I /didn't/ get the diamond bracelet. Of course not. He just wanted to drink and bitch about the news, like I can't get that anywhere else." Rossi's contribution swings her 'round from her mockery, and hey, now he can have some of it: "Oh? And what prompted your memory? A bottle flung at your head? Poor Christopher. Women are so unmanageable. Tell them about the time Angela down the block threw all your stuff out her window and half of it ended up on eBay before you got home."
"Oh," Travis comments, glossing past his stumble. "Doesn't seem that long. Lucky or she's just practicing patience. Take your pick." Now's his turn to busy himself with the wine. "eBay?" Great topic to latch onto.
Rossi's shoulders roll, straightening the line of spine in its smooth brown shackle. "Cheap crap," he dismisses, leaving it open to the imagination whether he refers to his belongings or the woman. Another white-edged grin warms the couple (/Sabitha/ and Travis, lest Canto be confused) with reflected humor. "Never date an Italian. They're murder on your stuff."
Sabitha smirks silently at Leah, and her eyes dart to Rossi with a returning smile. She's enjoying this. Really, she is. She'll just move her gaze away from Travis until such time as she no longer wants to drill a hole through his head with the heat of her eyes. Literally. "I hope she at least got a good price for them," she states, and then turns to roll her eyes briefly upward at Leah. "Really? Not /anything/? Did I tell you that my friend Abby is dating him now? They've been going out for... a couple weeks now, and /she/ was lamenting the lack of diamonds, too. Makes me even more curious about that damn thing." A pause, and Sabby slides her gaze back to Rossi. Travis is still being ignored for his own good. "Christopher. I have a question for you," she pronounces.
The smooth black head turns promptly to Sabitha, obedient to the summons. "Shoot," Rossi says agreeably, planting his plate's garden with leafy green things -- and where's that soup? "What d'you want to know? Unless it's about a case. Or Canto's love life."
Leah wrinkles her nose back at Sabitha in confirmation -- nothing! -- and murmurs an excuse to go check on the pasta. She takes her wine with her. It's already down to the dregs. Time for a top-off.
Sabitha laughs lightly, and shakes her head. And oh, where /is/ that wine again? Another drink. Please, another drink. "Hypothetical," she clarifies, and leans forward, one elbow resting lightly on the table while her wine glass lolls lazily from one hand. Her gaze is sharply interested on him. "If you were to take a girl to dinner at Tavern on the Green, provide a limo, and then hand her a parting gift... and said parting gift turned out to be an eight thousand dollar diamond Tiffany bracelet... what would /you/ be wanting from her?" Did Sabby not mention this part of the story to Travis, either?
Let Sabby ask all the questions she wants. Makes it a bit easier for Travis to recover, although he doesn't /look/ quite as awkward as he feels at the moment. Or at least he hopes he doesn't. "You sure there's nothing I can help out with, Leah?" he asks, his chair sliding slightly out in case the answer comes back in the affirmative. Although he twists back tableward at the mention of this story. No, not one he's heard apparantly.
"I'm really sure," Leah lofts from the kitchen, along with a blown kiss for Travis. She comes back in a moment, anyway, bearing the wine bottle. "Who wants more? The main course should be ready in another few, and boy, I'm suddenly thirsty." So her glass gets the first refill. Hostess's privileges.
If Rossi's lips twist slightly, it is in masculine translation: certainly not /apology/. Men are, after all, men. "Sex," he answers, promptly. Laughter sparks in the black-rimmed eyes. "Lots of sex. And it better be good sex. Or else there'd better be something better that I could get. Some guys can want some pretty weird shi-- stuff." Leah's refreshment of wine attracts his attention away, and back again; those same laughing eyes show a hint of white. Getting drunk, are we?
Sabitha's eyes echo Rossi's laughter, and she leans in to press a hand against his shoulder, briefly. "See, /you/ I could understand!" she proclaims, and then back to Leah. "Oh, top me off, please. And to this day - at the masq the other night, actually, I danced with him - he claims that it absolutely was not a booty call. I'm entirely mystified." And, we might note, not bothering to check Travis's reaction to this little revelation.
Leah obliges her friend next with the wine and declares, "/I/ want to go to a masquerade ball. I didn't even know this city had any. What's a girl got to do to get an invitation?"
Travis' reaction is entirely internal. Externally, he gives a nod to Leah, sliding his glass her way. "Yes, thanks." Let the conversation continue while Travis internalizes it all.
The cop's shoulder shifts under Sabitha's hand, short though the contact is, the barest pause between a lean forward and weight's movement back. Touching. Rossi eyes Sabitha askance -- all of her that is visible, which is plenty -- and blinks down at his salad for a moment's sobriety. "Try one of the hotels," he says absently. "They have fancy dress parties every so often."
Topping off Travis's glass in turn, Leah considers Rossi steadily over the table. "How do you know?"
"Make friends with the right people," Sabby answers Leah, and pulls her glass up for a long drink. "I only get to go when I tease a date out of one of the rich and powerful." She leans back in her chair, and her expression is slightly wistful for a moment. "But oh, they /are/ fun. Did I tell you I went as Helen of Troy? Fantastic costume." A hand waves, indicating an imaginary dress with a sweep of her palm across her midriff. "Layers of filmy white stuff, cut across..." Her gaze pulls back into focus, and she goes back to her meal. "The hotels? Really?"
"They hire cops for extra security," answers Rossi, distracted long enough from the operation of the salad dressing (dribble dribble plop) to look up between Leah and Sabitha. "You can buy tickets for 'em. Charity things, or sometimes just some random shindig. Brings in some of the rich and famous. --What would you go as?" he adds after a fascinated pause to imagine Sabitha in 'layers of filmy white stuff, cut across...'
Leah wonders, "Was your date Paris, then? Or -- hell, I don't know. Something mythological. The costume sounds /fine./ I wish I'd seen it."
"Mephistopholes, actually," Sabitha shares with a delighted grin, and relaxation is coming easier now with the second glass of wine. "He chose the costumes, although I had mine made myself. Oh, come over sometime, I'll show it to you," she invites. "I looked divine, if I do say so myself." Which she obviously does, with a glittering smile before she digs into a few more bites. "Good night, really." If one ignores the dreadful end.
Busy with his fork and leafy green things, Rossi bows his thoughts and his body over his plate. Soup? He'll take soup. The click of silverware on plates and bowls measure his mood more fairly than his expression; wine, downed to the halfway mark, catches it and tosses a wavering miniature across to Travis. "So how did you two meet?" he wonders. "You and Miss Melcross, I mean."
Leah digs out of her liberal-arts education, "Faustus? Oh, dear. I hope he didn't end up signing up anyone's soul." Her look at the other woman is, briefly, dark and significant, but then she's bending attention to Travis again, and to her soup. Nearly done with that, actually, and the pasta does smell good in the kitchen.
Sabitha seeks to catch Rossi's gaze, feigning a teasing pout. "Sabitha," she directs. "Or Sabby. Miss Melcross makes me feel like I'm at work." And then, to Leah, a laughing smile. "Not that I know of, anyway. Dashing in the black, though, and a fantastic dancer." She misses any darkened look, and settles in to await Travis's answer with a gaze that finally moves back to him.
Travis could be Paris. If invited. He gives a nod of thanks and lifts the glass up to drink. He's envisioning the costume as well, though would probably earn just a quick kick under the table if he were to comment on it. Must get out of the doghouse. Ah, a question his way. "I think it was Starbucks, actually. A rather philosphical discussion over some ridiculously expensive drink. And chance meetings kept running us into each other. Even though I think she hated me at the time. Guess it was fate."
"Fate that she hated you?" Leah teases. "Or that you've ended up together anyway?"
"Hate," Rossi does /not/ make haste to add, "doesn't always lead to love. Guess you guys lucked out. Single guy," he identifies himself with a flicker of his earlier grin, Italian charm gathered in yards around the cock of head and bright gaze. "I make do with the occasional lust. And I don't let them spend the night in the apartment with my stuff. Moved on to stuff I don't want to see on e-Bay, these days."
"I never hated you," Sabitha corrects, and there's a moment of uncomfortable silence on her part as her mind goes places unbidden. A sip of wine, to cover. Nearly empty again. "Occasional lust, hmm?" she inquires after a moment. "Now /that's/ sometimes good for the soul." Her gaze moves signicicantly toward Leah, and let's let them interpret that as they will.
Says Leah, bland as milk, "I'm fond of lust, myself, properly deployed. Are we about ready for the main course, do you think?"