☑ i comb the crowd and pick y o u out

[draconian]

from hands between legs to "whatever it takes"

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[draconian]

[ Clyteus isn't looking for much of anything special in this dockside little bar. A few more trinkets were clinking dully in his pockets. They included a few sailors' shiny coins and trifles and a whore's cheap ring that slid off her bony finger - nothing extravagant - and he was ready to call it an unsuccessful night and retire for the evening. Beautiful women were lacking tonight or already dragging navy men away to their beds of their apartments in the city. He would have to try again tomorrow to get his fill of lust.

Then his eyes water when there is a sudden wave of the harsh scent of sea salt as the door opens and a gorgeous curtain of hair enters the bar with it. A malicious glint reaches the creature's eye as a sharpened smile curls his lips. He grabs the stout glass holding his vodka tonic and makes his way toward the smell, intoxicated by it with something even his thick skull can recognize as supernatural.

The night was not over yet, it seemed. Clay chuckles as he steals behind the woman and strokes the back of her upper arm with two outstretched fingers not holding onto his glass. ]

Hello, stranger.

[beckonings]

[One has to bless port cities; there's always a sailor looking for a fun night during his port call, or a young Midwestern import ready to show off his newly found Wall Street wealth to the next pretty thing he sees.

It assures that she never wants for a bite to eat.

She's just about to start her first kill of the night, a young man far too eager to please as he smiles stupidly at her, she feels a touch against her arm. Her lips, curling to form her call, freeze into place and tighten.]

Hello, and goodbye.

[She can smell ash on this man, touching her skin like she wouldn't kill him for it; fire never did mix well with the sea. She can her mark lose his confidence, with other man drawing her attention for even that brief moment. She doesn't bother to look at the ash-man and touches her prey instead, running her finger up his wrist (and feeling his pulse, just mouthwatering) as she tries to rebuild that brash confidence.]

I don't believe I've seen you here before. I think I would've noticed.

[draconian]

[ It was cold. Granted, Clyteus was always cold; being reptilian for the most part, his human form didn't get the part about maintaining an appropriate internal temperature in cooler weather very well. Particularly without a churning pit of embers in his abdomen. All he had currently was a sinking feeling. ]

Fuck. [ He checked his watch again, rolling up the sleeve of his trenchcoat to see the hands of it. 25 minutes had passed and he'd been here 10 early to boot. 15 if you counted the "nonchalant" cursory walk around Madison Square Park as well. But he wasn't. ]

[beckonings]

[It's been close to three weeks since "the incident," so Cadence thinks she's more than made it past that annoying episode in her life when said episode walks into the Starbucks closest to her work.

He's not a dragon; he's a fucking poltergeist.

Cadence slides down in her seat next to the shop's main window, gluing her eyes downward on her phone. She screams internally, thinking it over and over like a mantra: do not see me, do not talk to me, do not have any reason to venture near this Starbucks or even the Financial District ever again after this unfortunate moment. If Cadence was an especially religious woman, she'd think Zeus did this on purpose.]

[draconian]

[ Clyteus is thinking very longingly of his pretentiously doctored Americano that he's ready to thoroughly enjoy sipping on his way to the bank when he steps into the Flatiron Bux shop. He doesn't spare more than a passing glance at the clientele as he checks his e-mail on his iPhone. The poor mermaid might have escaped his notice all together with the amount of focus involved in the steam rising up his throat from the anger. If they were really going to try and tell him that his meeting was going to be rescheduled with the Russian investors again--

But the tiny store's one guest bathroom door swung open with just the right amount of force to push the scent of sea salt over the atmospheric coffee aroma that would probably permeate this building long after the Seattle company packed up shop. His gold-flecked brown eyes narrowed as he tensed up and with his phone still in typing position looked toward the bathroom door. They skim over the heads looking for the source...

Clay's nostrils flare as he steps out of line and beelines for the little table and scrapes out one of the little wooden chairs and sits across from her, waiting for an in vain for an apology. ]

[draconian]

[ Clay is running his finger around the base of a martini glass, his other hand resting on a fucking expensive shoebox that's on the table. He eyes the back of a slimming black dress but even that isn't distracting him tonight. ]

Three hundred and fifty seven dollars and seventeen cents.

[ It comes out in a little hiss under his breath-- again-- as he looks around for the thir... probably thirtieth time since 7:40pm when he arrived. That was with the traffic the Uber driver hit, too. The fingers rubbing the glass grip the stem instead as he drains half of the glass with a groan. Fool him once, shame on the mermaid, fool him twice... well. He's just hoping she really wants these shoes at least. ]

[beckonings]

[Cadence, admittedly, had arrived around 7:50, but it just seemed unnatural not to grab the number of a doorman two buildings down (in case she got slightly peckish later on) and check a couple work emails on her phone down in the lobby.

Shoes or no, it didn't mean she couldn't have a little fun with it.

Checking her phone to see that, yes, it was 8:10, Cadence finally made her way up in the seemingly endless glass elevator to the restaurant. She smoothed out her dress, looked distastefully at a couple dressed in business casual wear (his taste, needless to say, left a little to be desired,) and made her way over to the table.

He looked anxious and impatient. Good.]

You know, it's best practice to pull out a woman's chair for her so she can sit.

[beckonings]

[Cadence would be lying if she said she didn't feel cheated by that night.

About the shoes, that is. The date...well.

But Cadence does not work as hard as she does not to be able to afford whatever damn shoes she pleases, and so life goes on: work, shopping, clubbing, dinner, more work, more clubbing, dinner, work, shopping, work, and so it goes. A few month's worth of daily, weekly patterns, and more than enough to replace her pumps.

And so this day threatens to be just like its predecessor, with Cadence compiling the case files for one of the company's clients, a senior investor who needs assistance with some particularly complicated overseas taxations laws. Evidently, the man's assets were originally comprised of old money which was then invested and grew tenfold, warranting the company to "loan" her outside of her normal job duties. The company could not afford to lose the client's investment portfolio; therefore, she could not afford to lose his cases.

And dear gods did she want to, the minute she stepped into the meeting room, laying her folder on the table across from a well-dressed piece of shit with sleek black hair. May the gods choke and die on their own laughter; I have only earned one curse, damnit.]

...Good morning. Has anyone come by to grab you coffee before we begin?

[draconian]

[ Clay being the animal that he ultimately sort of was, had to resist howling with karmic mirth. He settled for flaring his nostrils at the stink of seawater and proceeding with business as normal. ]

Actually, I haven’t had any since before I arrived. Can you get some for the lawyer and I, honey?

[ He leans back in the expensive leather chair and folds his hand one over the other casually like he doesn’t know exactly who the lawyer is. Like the other two suits in the room didn’t warn him that she was a “sexy bitch on wheels” and before seeing exactly who he was being presented with he might have been more cautious. Caution be damned, now, however. ]

[beckonings]

[Life goes on.

Their "personalized consultations" have continued on both during and after hours for a few weeks now, and everyone's happy: her client has been...satisfied, and more importantly her bosses are gratified that he's satisfied. It's all squared away, the few-found arrangement all tied neatly together in a bow.

The consistency and complacency is making her skin crawl.

So in addition to her weekly hunting excursions, Cadence has mixed in a couple additional extracurriculars, one of which she is currently waiting for at the bar. She runs her finger along the stem of her half-finished glass of wine, eyes grazing bodies floating in and out of the main waiting area. A crowd's formed at the hostess' greeting area, creating an irritating screen of those not wealthy or well-informed enough to get a table in advance.]

[draconian]

Ugh.

[ Clay puts down the book he was scanning his eyes over after a glance at the clock on his mantle. Well. Hugo was boring in the 19th century. It didn’t age any better.

He walks into the kitchen and opens the phone he left on the island, resting his elbows on the marble. As he checks messages and emails with nothing from a Siren he gets more irritated. Why did he think Hugo would be better the second time? ]

What did you do, stop for dinner on your way over here? [ The phone makes whoosh noise as the question goes to the phone he wanted to find a message from. ]

[beckonings]

[ Cadence taps her nails along the wood on the conference room table, eyes skimming a stack of papers left by Tim for her ahead of her favorite client appointment. Some "inherited" shares in an Angolan mining company and Singapore-based shipping company, a couple of savings accounts in Grand Cayman and Switzerland, some ancestral home up in the Scottish highlands...she sighs, skimming through what seems to be the assets of some cartoonish, antique villain rather than a modern-day billionaire. Did he have anything not so conspicuous...?

She hears the conference room's door swing open behind her, not bothering to look up and see who had entered; Tim's anxious sputtering from the other room, trying and failing to mollify their guest, more than gave that away. ]

Mr. Emerson, good morning. I was just reviewing some of your latest asset reports. I hope you slept well?

[draconian]

I slept very well, thank you Ms. Laine. How have you been since we last saw each other?

[ One week and three days ago. He’s not counting. Clyteus ran his finger over the table as he walked to his seat across from her and settled in. His laptop bag was laid on the table and he pulled out some documents.

She looked... rosier somehow; he mused that she must have eaten since since standing him up yet again. Her looking well and his facade of disinterest offered an extra simpering quality to his smile in her direction as he asked Tim for espresso. ]

[draconian]

Damn it.

[ Clyteus straightens his bow tie in his reflection on the tinted window before he opens the passenger door. Whatever he tries, he can't get the damn thing to sit straight. He has tying neckties down to a science, but hates the pretentious version that the fundraiser dress code calls for. His distaste for black tie fades when his eyes fall to the lady behind the door; it doesn't feel just like the pride of knowing he has quite possibly the most attractive eye candy in the whole damn building. The pride is tinged by how hard he fought her to have her attention... and something he's not sure what to call yet. ]

[ Swallowing that half-finished thought, he holds out his hand to help Cadence out of the black Bentley. Clay's driver dutifully waits with the idling engine amid the city noise, having already endured the unusually vicious bickering through half of Manhattan to arrive at the fundraiser that Cadence had been bribed into attending. It was unusual in particular given that none of his patron's dates had ever said quite so much on nights before, and definitely not so rudely. Having lived in New York for much longer than he'd been hired by the wealthy Clayton Emerson, however, he smartly bit his tongue instead of asking questions. ]

[beckonings]

[ Cadence slinks out of the town car in a practiced, fluid motion, gripping the side of her dress to avoid catching it on the door frame. She's put Clay's money to good, albeit extensive, use if her accompanying necklace is any indication (to say nothing of the other new pair of black heels).

She grips his hand tightly, manicured fingers pressing lightly into his hand; once out, she removes her hand quickly to fix his bow tie in place before smoothing out a crease in his lapel. ]

I told you I would have just fixed it in the car; try not to be such a teenage girl for the rest of the night.

[draconian]

[ It isn’t very surprising to Clay, in retrospect at least, to find his bed empty when he wakes up in a hotel room after a night of niceties and money-pushing and shaking hands. The first time it happened, he had been more or less just annoyed she hadn’t woken him. The second time he sighs and pays the bill with a tinge of wounded pride, as it had been- well, he felt like it was an even better night than the first. He had a few reasons for thinking such.

Four weeks after their first nighttime outing together- with a few meetings between which involved less arguing for the most part- the wealthy, would-be benefactor sighs and sits straighter. A click to minimize a window, containing an email reminding him of a charity benefit for a children’s research hospital he pledged to annually. This was an especially important tax benefit and good press for his company, he’s been reminded by the person to whom he starts typing an email. ]

Miss Laine,

I hope this email finds you well. Attached is the information for a charity ball next week- Would you be so kind as to see if you have availability? The last two events with you were quite enjoyable and I would like to invite you to this one. Let me know if you can’t make it.

You will be compensated for your time as previously arranged.

Best,

Clayton Emerson
CEO, Thornmire Enterprises

[beckonings]

[ Cadence is about halfway through her third cup of coffee that morning when she hears the high, short thrill of the email notification.

It has, without getting too candid, Not Been A Good Morning--she and the wider legal staff have been buried in ligation prep in response to some Gulf mogul suing the company over account mismanagement. She knows that the losses a half-wit on the 26th floor costed the half-brother of second cousin of the Emir of wherever is ultimately chump change--none of their foreign investors bet on a single investment house, no self-respecting client would--but it hasn't stopped said half-wit from being shown the door while Cadence finds herself neck-deep in paperwork. She's not even defending on this one (her assignment to baby sit the ever-needy Mr. Emerson remains in place,) the sheer amount of prep work is that daunting.

She scans the email with a critical eye, interested in its contents if only for the novelty of breaking up her review of piles of internal documents. ]

Mr. Emerson,

Thank you for your well-wishes, I hope I may say the same of you. I can ensure I am available for your event, though I would like to be clear that given its close proximity to the holidays, our usual billing rate will be doubled. Please confirm that this extra cost is acceptable to meet your needs for this event.

Best,

Cadence Laine, J.D.
Partner | Investment Management Dept.
BNY Mellon Investment Management

[draconian]

[ Donning a freshly cleaned haircut and a new navy suit, Clyteus waits for an elevator. One hand holds short cup of caffeine in the hand also holding his phone to ear, briefcase clutched in the other. ]

That meeting could have been an email. [ He complains with a sigh to the vice president next to him while he listens to the line trill. As if the little man would do anything but laugh and agree with someone like Clay. ]

Come on.. pick up, siren. [ A much quieter sigh as the phone trills for a fourth time. He pulls from his ear to confirm he’s calling the cell for “Cadence Laine” and not a misdial. ]

[beckonings]

[ Cadence isn’t particularly busy when the call comes in; she’s actually closing out or handing off a few remaining tasks so she can head home early for once.

But she sees the caller ID flash on her phone and maybe presses “decline” a little too forceful than is strictly necessary. ]

Oh sit and spin Emerson. You can sweat it out a little.

[ She’s too early to pick up her dress from my dry cleaners, but there’s always getting her nails done while she ignores him; Cadence gathers her jacket and keys and lets the new legal aid, Lucy, know she’s heading out for the day and let any calls she hears go straight to voicemail. ]

[beckonings]

[ There’s a dim blue light shinning on Cadence’s face when she blearily opens her eyes. As her vision comes back into focus, so too does the light’s source: a sleek alarm clock resting on the side table reading 01:37.

She shoots up with a jolt, yanking some of the covers with her movement as she does. She’s slept over, at least partially, and the idea alone sends her into a silent panic. She looks around for her dress, but the clock’s light isn't enough to make out anything more than a foot or so from the side table. She starts moving toward the edge of the bed, trying to feel around with her feet for crumpled cloth. ]

[draconian]

Hey.

[ Clay was lying back in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness when Cadence started and forced him toward the latter. He reached for her, his fingers looking her wrist. The first came with a sleepy depth to it, but he quickly becomes more alert. ]

Cadence- you all right?

Leo Martelli enables read receipts but that’s another story

[draconian]

[ Clyteus is pacing in front of the building in Manhattan, and checks his watch again. 6:03pm. He sighs and now starts to worry; she’s not late. Ever. She beats him every time- in more than one way. Pulling out his phone, he opens an article from BBC and starts scrolling- but he’s always been bad at standing still when he’s expecting something. And the person peddling bags across the street is starting to weird him out, too. ]

6:06… [ The line trills in his ear when he pulls out his cell with a sigh. She never responded (typical- wasn’t worried) to his text to let her know he was on the way. She also left the “I’m outside” at 5:58pm on read. Still wasn’t worried. She may have her hair dryer on. And of course, that is said as a phrase not as accurate reporting- since she didn’t have read receipts turned on. Who did when you used your phone for business?

Now he’s starting to worry. ]

[beckonings]

[ Upstairs, Cadence is sitting on the couch of her work acquaintance, a senior manager in the accounting apartment who she’s traded favors with over the last of which. In recent years, that’s included using her apartment as a decoy address as part of mutually-agreed upon cover against any overzealous paramours (something about female solidarity, feminism..? She seemed all too eager, which worked for Cadence’s ends, so.)

All that to say, Cadence has been ready for over an hour and watching Clay’s calls and texts roll in from the comfort of a stranger’s apartment.

Feeling like she’s comfortably set the tone for where they stand tonight, she picks up the phone in a fluid motion, riding from the couch. ]

Yes?

so i re-read the first half of this- and oh my god the inconsistencies (from me) make me HURT

[draconian]

[ Knowing she was from the Mediterranean was frankly his best lead when it came to selecting which show to plan on attending with Cadence. -- He's still stunned she accepted. And he still remembers she spent the night, once. If he sat and reflected on what brought him here- which he did, multiple times- he knew he liked her more than she would ever invite openly.

He was bored when he harassed a "fishy" woman in an upper-class riverside bar who seemed oddly interested in picking up a man. The more she spoke, the more he was interested, and he knew he couldn't chalk it up to her powers like a mortal, either. That excuse went belly-up when he pulled out his American Express on a $400 pair of high heels. She wasn't around to influence any part of that decision. What he did know was that they were a ticket to making sure she came back for that meeting...

Now: months later, Clyteus has one hand on a whiskey ginger, and the other cradles a martini on his way to the box seats he purchased; the two seats of the four-set behind them were purchased by one Clayton Emerson as well, but they sit empty. The last thing he needed was someone else talking to him, or overhearing what would sound like nonsense while he tries to pull more conversation from her. ]

Extra dry, with olives.

[ He lowers the drink from behind the chair toward Cadence, offering a business-like smile over the chatter coming below them. Their seats offer a stage-left view, but high enough to see everything. It feels appropriate for the way he wants to treat her. And for some reason being here is making his nerves worse than the drive. At least he was doing something before, and in control of the car, and it didn't feel quite so intimate. And they had been intimate of course, but seated so close together and well-clothed it felt like they were inching toward being even more vulnerable. His gut twisted, and he exuded the desire for her to take the offered glass so he could chug sip the other one he held. ]

did you really pick drinks based on their fire/spice vs. water/briny aesthetics you brat?

[beckonings]

[ In Clay's absence, Cadence has taken to people-watching from the balcony; while the people are more well-dressed than usual, she can still pick out a few stragglers who've veered towards the casual outfits overtaking Broadway these days. She can still remember the days where showing up here with a black tie instead of white would have left you blacklisted from society events for at least a good few months.

She's still quietly reminiscing on her visits with past would-be paramours to see long-dead mezzo-sopranos and baritones when a strong hand (ungloved, doesn't that just pull her back into the present) brings a martini into her periphery. ]

...You remembered.

[ She says it in a tone that could equally be read as incredulity he was capable of remembering her preferred drink order or appreciation he'd actually paid attention. She takes the glass stem from his hand, her perfectly manicured nails gently brushing his fingers as she does. Cadence then takes a small sip to check the taste (best not let him get comfortable quite yet) and smiles as she savors the sharp, briny taste. ]

Not bad.