2019-06-16 - Temper Dynamic What?
Sunday-Monday overnight, Sutton's phone will not stop ringing. About effing golf clubs. Somebody on Craigslist is gonna die.
IC Date: 2019-06-16
OOC Date: 2019-04-28
Location: Bayside Apt/Apartment 503
Related Scenes: 2019-06-15 - No Wonder It Tastes Like Secrets And Regret
Plot: None
Scene Number: 419
Bayside Apartment 503 is quiet and lights-out by 3:30 AM, bedroom balcony door open about two inches, an ocean breeze blowing in from outside. It’s a little cool, rain falling outside, and Sutton is in bed, under the linens and a heavy down comforter. An empty wine bottle and mostly empty wine glass, tall and delicate-stemmed, rest on the bedside table.
The phone on the bedside table lights, UNKNOWN calling, ringing at approximately 3:31 AM.
When her cell rings, Sutton barely twitches. It’s a particularly annoying klaxon ringtone. After about four peels of ear-rending noise (sorry neighbor), she finally fumbles a hand out from under her blankets and squints, clicking to accept the call. She jams it against her ear. "Yeah." She coughs. Tries again. "What."
Sheer white curtains billow in in the breeze.
A rough voice on the other end of the line gruffs out, "... temper dynamic shafts great for low penetrating ball flight, right?"
Sutton, eyes closed, rolls over in bed, scowl already appearing on her forehead before it hits her mouth. "What did you just say to me?" Brows drawn together, she opens her eyes and frowns into the darkness, mentally replaying what just happened in her ear.
Gruffy gruffs much more slowly like she's kinda stupid, "Temper... dynamic... shafts... are great... for low pene—"
"Shut the fuck up." Sutton says after she hangs up on the pervo.
Her phone rings roughly four seconds later, of course.
"If you call me back, I'll consider it hostile action and file your number with the GHPD. Don't fuck with me, I'm not drunk enough for your bullshit," Sutton says. "Telephonic restraining orders are a thing, you epic knob."
"Uh... what? Hi, I'm calling about the golf clubs? Your ad says call at night? But you seem kinda cranky?" The voice on the other end ends every blessed sentence going up. "So I'll call back in the morning? Sorry to bother you?" Click.
"... What?" Sutton squints at the bedside table where a very nearly empty wine glass sits next to a bottle. She glances at her phone. She frowns again, turns it off, and thumps it back on the bedside table. Snuggling down in the blankets, she gets comfy and is out within 6 minutes.
<FS3> Sutton rolls Alertness: Success (8 7 4 4 4 3 2)
<FS3> Sutton rolls Composure: Success (8 8 5 3 2 1 1)
So she misses the next four calls that come in and start stacking up voicemails about the 'rad deal' on 'ace clubs' they 'just have to have for Christmas/birthday/etc' or 'for my kid's golf club at school... ha ha golf clubs for golf club' and by the time she's done listening to all of those, she's going to want someone dead. If she can figure out who put her unlisted number on a Craigslist ad for something that has people leaving VMs asking about ball penetration, tensile strength, shaft temper, and weighted steel irons.
Because how likely is it that someone mistyped their own number when she's so new to town and friends with dozens of cops and firefighters?
Not. Bloody. Likely.
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