[ 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. ]
so i re-read the first half of this- and oh my god the inconsistencies (from me) make me HURT
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
chugsip the other one he held. ]