epcot | ☑ i comb the crowd and pick y o u out

[ 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.

[ 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. ]

Edited 2020-07-31 14:52 (UTC)

[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.]

[ 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. ]

[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?

[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.]

[ 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?

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. ]

[ 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

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

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