You get used to it after a while. Everything will take on a yellow-orange cast when you leave, though.
*Evan isn't an enormous fan of this kind of club either, but the scotch selection is vast and if seeing Damien isn't his favorite occupation, showing off Amrita is, and Rose is a considerable bonus. He likes Rose quite a bit--she's discreet, attractive, and has just that bit of scandal, being a half-blood, that Evan finds so scintillating. All in all, he is in a fantastic mood. He's knocking back excellent scotch, in an exclusive place with exclusive people, his hand resting on the lower back of a beautiful woman--Evan is absolutely in his element.*
*Amrita is arguably less so. In truth she'd gotten the names mixed up and was expecting Rosemary, Damien's date from last time, who had been horrible, yes, but entertaining, and easy enough to bait. But this woman is lush and jaw-droppingly gorgeous and awfully blonde and her sharp no-nonsense glare is intimidating, to say nothing of what she's wearing.
Amrita had thought herself perfectly elegant when she left the flat, in a loose and slinky dress (green, of course, to bring out her eyes) and delicate little flats. She'd left her hair hanging down her back, at Evan's suggestion, and he'd declared her many synonyms of lovely, but now, next to this stunning absurdity she feels about twelve years old.
Still, she can recover well enough. The Manhattan is superb and Evan's presence a comfort and the purpleness of the place isn't too too bad. She smiles wryly.*
So you were all in Slytherin? I'm terribly outnumbered.
*Rose just shrugs at Evan's reassurance, scouting out a place to sit. She spots a corner booth and starts for it, assuming without looking that the others are following her. (She stops a be-sequined waitress on the way and requests a gin and tonic; it's there by the time they're all situated.*
Yeah. And what were you - Ravenclaw?
*Because the girl's too meek to be Gryffindor, and Evan wouldn't go out with a Hufflepuff. She'd put money on that.*
*Evan pauses for just a second before responding, but it's long enough to tell Damien exactly what has and, more importantly, has not transpired in Evan's bed.*
There are any number of things one can do without impugning a lady's honor, not that it's any of your business. Just because she's less generous than the sort of woman you might be used to doesn't make her a prude.
*A combination of righteous fury and the need to disappear as quickly as possible gets her through the noisy crowd, past witches in glittering high heels and cigar-smoking wizards--but by the time she emerges into the chilly relative quiet outside Club Soixante-Dix, hurt and shame and the whole rest of the night have caught up to her. Still, being beautiful and obviously miserable has its perks: within seconds, she’s secured a gold-tipped cigarette from a mustachioed wizard and stalked off to a quiet bit of wall to have her sulk.
But sulk isn’t even a strong enough word for how legitimately upset she is. As she watches the little curl of smoke rising into the night air, arms wrapped around her, teeth gritted, Amrita’s honest enough with herself to admit she doesn’t know what she’s even doing out here. Perhaps he’ll come out and apologize, the way he did yesterday after Esmerelda. Perhaps he won’t notice she’s gone. She’s not sure which she even prefers, or what she’s supposed to do now. Maybe she’ll simply leave and let him and
( ... )
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*Evan isn't an enormous fan of this kind of club either, but the scotch selection is vast and if seeing Damien isn't his favorite occupation, showing off Amrita is, and Rose is a considerable bonus. He likes Rose quite a bit--she's discreet, attractive, and has just that bit of scandal, being a half-blood, that Evan finds so scintillating. All in all, he is in a fantastic mood. He's knocking back excellent scotch, in an exclusive place with exclusive people, his hand resting on the lower back of a beautiful woman--Evan is absolutely in his element.*
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Amrita had thought herself perfectly elegant when she left the flat, in a loose and slinky dress (green, of course, to bring out her eyes) and delicate little flats. She'd left her hair hanging down her back, at Evan's suggestion, and he'd declared her many synonyms of lovely, but now, next to this stunning absurdity she feels about twelve years old.
Still, she can recover well enough. The Manhattan is superb and Evan's presence a comfort and the purpleness of the place isn't too too bad. She smiles wryly.*
So you were all in Slytherin? I'm terribly outnumbered.
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Yeah. And what were you - Ravenclaw?
*Because the girl's too meek to be Gryffindor, and Evan wouldn't go out with a Hufflepuff. She'd put money on that.*
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Of course she was. Transferred to Mumbai, though, seventy-three.
*Even seated, his hand doesn't leave, just moves to Amrita's thigh.*
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So, how is she then?
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She shouldn't like it if I were to kiss and tell.
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So she hasn't put out yet? How the fuck are you dealing with that?
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But sulk isn’t even a strong enough word for how legitimately upset she is. As she watches the little curl of smoke rising into the night air, arms wrapped around her, teeth gritted, Amrita’s honest enough with herself to admit she doesn’t know what she’s even doing out here. Perhaps he’ll come out and apologize, the way he did yesterday after Esmerelda. Perhaps he won’t notice she’s gone. She’s not sure which she even prefers, or what she’s supposed to do now. Maybe she’ll simply leave and let him and ( ... )
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