2019-11-09 - Interesting & Tolerable

There is a bit of a lull that happens between Happy Hour and the full on night crowd, where family men (and women) shuffle home to their families to later be taken over by those looking to party. Currently there's one very bored dancer on stage, putting about a tenth of the effort into her routine for the handful or so of patrons that are scattered through out the club.

Cristobal isn't working, no yet, but it's a Saturday night and no doubt soon he'll be putting on his Bouncer face and black on black 'uniform' to prowl the floor when things get thick in here. For now, he's seated at the bar in faded low-slung jeans and a white tank top, elbows to either side of a tall glass of clear fizzy liquid with a lime bobbing amidst the wedges of lime. He's currently poking at the bit of fruit with little stabs from a straw, glaring at it as if it offends him by the way it insists on drifting back up to the top of the glass.

Alexander slides in around a couple of millworkers heading home after some end of the day pick-em-ups, and looks around the dim interior, clearly pleased to have hit the 'sweet spot' when the club is not so full. He doesn't look like the kind of patron to make any dancer put in any extra effort - his ratty old sweater comes almost down to his knees, he's sort of drowned-looking from the rain, and he's got that tired, haggard look of someone who either doesn't get enough sleep or gets too many drugs. He looks, in short, like the kind of guy who might need to be reminded to keep his hands above the table and off the dancers, while not giving a decent tip at all. He heads towards the bar, and settles on one of the stools a few seats down from Cristobal. "Excuse me," he asks the bartender on duty, and at least his voice is pleasant enough, "is Miss Liven taking a shift tonight?"

It's not unusual for patrons to come in asking if a particular dancer is working tonight, and only slightly more odd to ask after their favorite bartender. Cris glances over though, and his features becomes a little tighter, immediately lumping Alexander into a 'one of those' category among the creepers. "Who's askin'?" The Bouncer asks morosely as his attention drops back down to his drink, now stabbing at the fruit with a little more intensity.

Alexander's eyes flick sideways, and then his head follows, studying Cristobal with a flat, intent stare. "Alexander Clayton," he says, tonelessly. Then frowns. "Do you know when Miss Liven might be in, then?" His head swivels between Cris and the current bartender, as if not wanting to miss any information that either of them might drop. "She said she usually works here in the evenings." A touch of exasperation, there. Like it was rude in some impossible way to not be here.

Cris lifts his gaze to look sightlessly at the pretty rows of bottles on the back bar, running his tongue between cheek and lower row of teeth as if something suddenly got stuck in his craw. "I'd have to check the schedule." Comes the rather bland response, though there is a smirk directed his way from the bartender on duty that makes the corner of Cris' mouth twitch in response, as if the two just shared some private joke because, in fact, Cris makes no move to look up anything in the regard of Love's schedule.

Alexander...sits there. In silence. It couldn't be called patiently, because his fingers are tap tap tapping on the bar with a rapid, twisting beat like the drum line of a hard rock song. But, at the same time, there's a feeling of waiting, like he somehow thinks that Cris' words were a genuine offer and he's waiting, waiting for Cristobal to follow through on them. It's not that he misses the smirk and the twitch between the two of them; it's watched with the same lizard-like intensity as anything else. But it still takes him several minutes until he says, "Sarcasm." He makes a tired sound, and his shoulders hunch as he looks to the bartender. "A beer, please."

"Sardonicism." Cristobal corrects before pinching his straw to the side of the glass with a scissor of his finger and drinking directly from the rim. As Alexander orders something to drink, Cris' shoulders relax just a hint from the bow of protectiveness. There's a bare nod given, as if conveying the bartender permission to serve the man. Without skipping a beat, she dives a hand into one of the coolers and whips her shark opener out of the back pocket of her short shorts and cracks it open before wrapping a cocktail napkin around the label with an expert fold and then sets it down on another napkin in front of Alexander and tells him the price as she leans over to present the girls, as that tends to earn her higher tips.

"Only slightly more tolerable," Alexander says, heavily. He doesn't miss the interaction between the two, and follows it up with, "You work here." It's not really a question, although there's a lilt of curiosity to it. When the bartender leans over to give him his drink he pulls out a battered wallet, and takes out enough cash for the beer, and an unremarkable but not stingy tip. He doesn't really seem to notice the display of the bartender's assets. Nor does he seem to seize upon the beer with the need of someone who wants to get drunk. Instead, he turns and scans the club with a blank expression, taking in the dancer but not lingering on her, nor lingering on any one of the clients. But clearly looking for something or someone.

"I do." Comes the easy reply from Cristobal as he pushes off the edge of the bar with a palm to turn his stool to face Alexander. "In a building full of beautiful, often naked women that it's my job to protect. So you can understand my reticence in giving out information regarding one of my girls to someone I'm unfamiliar with, including their schedule that lets someone know when they'll be coming and going from the building." 'His' girls, though Cris is clearly not the owner or manager of the Platinum.

Alexander thinks about it. "That makes sense," he says, after a moment. "I'll just text her, instead. Should have first. Just was in the area, and thought I'd see if she was okay. Heard about a minotaur at the Cracker Barrel." Like that's a perfectly reasonable thing to have heard about. He stares at his beer for a moment, then takes a swallow of it. His attention turns back to the other man. "I don't know you. You're not from the town. Who are you?" Maybe he doesn't mean it to sound like an interrogation, but his abrupt, defensive manner and the direct stare makes it one.

There seems to be a modicum less wariness in Cristobal's frame as Alexander says he'll text Love, because it's not as if the bartender doles her number out to just any one. "A Minotaur." Cris repeats flatly. Not as if he doesn't believe such a claim, but just that it's the sort of thing that needs proper acknowledgement. There's a little shake of his head and a mumble as he goes for another drink from his club soda. "This fucking town." His gaze flicks back to Clayton at that rather brusque question, "Cristobal Ybarra Cruz, and Gray Harbor is a little too close to the wrong border for me to be a local, innit?"

There's the first flicker of something that might be a smile on Alexander's features, although it dies before it gets even half formed. "Cristobal Ybarra Cruz." A bob of his head. "An acceptable number of names. Nice to meet you, Mister Cruz." A bob of his head at the repetition of 'minotaur'. "Apparently a falling star fell on some cars and it reformed into robotic minotaur. Someone said that Miss Liven was there, so I just wished to drop by and make sure that she was alright. And that nothing untoward had happened during the festival." He looks around one more time, then takes a swallow of his beer. "Why are you here?" A pause. "Gray Harbor, not the building. You work here."

"If it weren't an acceptable number of names, you'd have to fight that one out with mi madre and she's pretty vicious with a wooden spoon, so I wouldn't recommend it." Cristobal seems to be studying Alexander a little closer now with his gaze, instead of just going off first impressions, that blue eyed gaze of his rather intense for a moment as he takes in details. "A robotic minotaur." Comes the same sort of repetition, "You as protective of your town as I am the girls?" It's posed with a hint of, 'what's it to you, mister?'

"No." Alexander's voice is flat. "Gray Harbor could fuck right off if it were possible, but not even Hell wants this place." He takes another drink, and there's another of those not-quite a smile. "And yes. A robotic minotaur. I'm just a nosy asshole." There's a pause. "Sorry. You might not know why you're here, anyway." He frowns at the beer. "Are you settling in well?" There's a more stilted quality to this particular question, like he's reading it out of a book on polite and non-nosy small talk and not really understanding it.

"Attaboy." Cris grins as Alexander voices his stance on Gray Harbor before he partially swivels to look as the dancer on the stage changes over. Similar to Alexander, he's not really looking at the display like a cartoon dog with his eyes popping out of his head, it's merely just that he's noting who's up there, who's watching, and who's putting their tips where before he nudges back around. "I was on my way to Seattle and my car stuttered and stopped just on the outskirts of town. It seems as if the Saints were giving me a message." He shrugs slightly, "I felt the pull, but as for settling I don't think I will ever be 'settle' here. You?"

Alexander's eyebrows go up. "You know. Most people recognize that as the start of a horror movie, and turn around. Not move in." He makes a low, amused sound. His eyes stutter over to the change of the dancers, a flicker of wariness on his features until he recognizes that nope, this is just a thing that happens. He studies the woman's face for a moment. "The last time I was in here, there was a woman with amazing costuming. She made them herself. Had an accent and her stage name was Echo." A shake of his head, before he focuses back on Cris. "Local, born and bred. Only ever left for college and a few years after." A shrug. "Probably gonna die here. I suppose that's settled."

Cris is seated at the bar near but not next to Alexander, the stools between them left unoccupied. It's the lull between Happy Hour and a full swing Saturday night, so there are a few patrons scattered around and one of the 'b' list dancers is on the stage. Cris himself doesn't look to be on duty yet, as he sits there in jeans and a white tank top instead of his usual bouncer uniform drinking a club soda and lime while Alexander nurses a beer. "I took it as a Sign. But no, I didn't mean to stay. Not sure I'll get to the dead and buried part, but we'll see. So what is it do, Clayton, besides check up on perceived damsels from recent distress?"

The door to the back pops open and out walks Love in street clothes. She wears skinny jeans, pumps, a V-neck tee tied under her ribs, and a dark blue hoodie, slightly large on her, that has a CheyTac logo over the breast. Either she's not working tonight, or she's in low give a crap mode about dressing up behind the bar after a couple of nights in costume. She walks along the back, mixing up a drink for herself, though she waves off any customers to the other bartender. "Gentlemen."

"A Sign." Alexander gets the capital letter right in his voice, and he doesn't sound skeptical. Just curious. "I look into things. Investigation." His frown returns, gouging the lines in his face more deeply. "I don't think of--" and then out comes Love, and his eyes tick in that direction. He stares flatly at her for a long moment, assessing her clothing and her face. Then there's something closer to a real smile on his face. "Miss Liven. Hello. I'm sorry. I should have texted rather than just drop by. Are you well?"

"And that's something you do for fun, or do people actually pay you to be nosy to keep you in the ratty sweaters to which you've become accustomed." A bit of Cristobal's asshattery slips into the conversation, but at least he tempers it with a smirk. It's a wonder to the bartender on duty that it hasn't been sharper tonight, but then again, Cris seems to be in a bit of a dour mood. He gives a little upnod to Love as she slips in behind the bar and settles across from them. "Congratulations on your first stalker, but I've been vetting him. Doesn't seem like the type to break into your place to try and sniff your undies."

Love glances up like she can feel someone watching her. That's unusual when she's not officially working yet, particularly considering she's mostly clothed in a room full of strippers. She smiles when she catches Alexander's smile. "You're looking better, Alexander." She fwooooshes some soda water into whatever it is she's drinking — something reddish pink — and leans against the bar, keeping both Cristobal and the unlicensed PI in view. "Oh, always drop by. I don't mind at all. You're looking for me?"

Love lifts a hand and wiggles it at the how are you question. "I agreed to house sit for someone, and it's a frozen little cabin way," she pushes her hand out toward the highway. "Way out on the highway. The cell reception is crap. When I figure out how to work the wood stove, it'll be fine. Never let someone show you these things when you're buzzed." She glances from Alexander to Cris and says, "For the record, if anyone wishes to sniff my undies, they're free to do so if they also clean the kitchen." She sips her drink. "Cristobal, you're looking puckish today."

"Little of column A, little of column B," Alexander says. The mockery of his clothing and the smirk make the man look away, his shoulders hunching defensively. The body language only grows more so as Cristobal goes on. "I'm not stalking you," he tells Love, solemnly. "And I don't have any desire to break into your house or smell your underwear. I just heard that you might have been involved with an incident at a Cracker Barrel, and I wanted to make sure that you were okay. That's all." His hands play nervously over his beer, tapping out a rapid rhythm on the glass, and her reassurance relaxes him only fractionally. "House sitting can be nice. Especially off the highway. It's quiet there, usually. Will you be back in town before we get any snow? That can be...unpleasant. They don't do a great job on those roads."

Cris doesn't seem to note the change in Alexander's demeanor, or if he does he doesn't comment on it. It's like part of Cris was flipped on, that he has to act differently in mixed company once it slips out of a one on one conversation. He's even sitting a bit more puffed up. "Completely Puckish." He agrees, but makes a show of leaning slightly towards Alexander and cupping his mouth in a stage whisper. "What the fuck is Puckish?"

"It's hard to stalk someone who's hired you, Alexander. I feel in no way stalked, nor am I worried about the sanctity of my panties, if that was ever in question." Love smiles a little more, flicking a look to Cristobal. At the mention of the Cracker Barrel... incident... Love's breath hitches. Her moon-colored gaze flicks back to Alexander. "Uh..." Uhhhh. "Yes." Her enunciation is very precise there. "I'm absolutely fine." Everything is fine. It's all fine. See? Fine.

"I should be, unless it snows in the next couple of days. I haven't been the rustic type in years, and even then it was more of a snuggle pile of ten surfers in a room made for two. These days I'm climate control and comfortable beds. I'm sure it'll work out ok." She laughs softly then, reaches across the bar, fingers stopping just short of Cristobal's elbow. "Troublemaking, shit-stirring. Like Puck. Rent A Midsummer Night's Dream sometime. You'll like it." He'll hate it, probably.

"Mischeviously playful," Alexander says without looking up, almost like he can't resist answering the question, whether he wants to or not. "Although I suspect Miss Liven's definition is more relevant. To you." He offers her another brief smile that reaches his eyes. "As long as you're," a hesitation, "fine. I also wanted to ask about how the construction was coming. I have a couple of friends who have expressed interest in the development, and was just curious." Nosy. He was nosy.

There's a nod at her reassurance regarding the house sitting. "Climate control is preferable to most other options," he admits. His gaze skitters back to Cristobal for a moment and he studies him with his thinking face. Which looks a lot like a creeper face, honestly.

"People still rent movies in this town? I haven't seen a Blockbuster or a Radio Shack yet, but if I do, I'm beating feet the hell out of town. That's far scarier than some horned bull man." Cris moves his straw to the side of the glass again, using it to stir in the lime but not to drink from instead preferring straight from the rim. "Why are you starring at me, Clayton. Did you just recognize me as the dude who left money on the kitchen table after I fucked your mother?"

"The construction has had its ups and downs. We've had some accidents, but a friend of mine who's knowledgable says construction has a naturally high injury rate..." Love shakes her head. "I stay out of their way. I've been assured," she says assured like it's in quotes, "That the project is on schedule and we'll have at least two units by the Winter Wonderland, which I can't believe I said I'd do, and now I'm low key panicking about finding enough vendors." What the hell is she even talking about? Don't ask. Things happen when she's stuck in a cabin in the woods alone.

"Streaming from Amazon. I don't know. I'm not movie pirating savvy. I grew up on the ocean, not screwing around with all that. I barely Instgram." She texts like it's her life's blood, though. The shitty cell reception at the cabin is going to kill her. "Jesus, Cristobal. Be nicer. Please." She seems somewhat taken aback, though Cris doesn't usually talk much when he's working.

Alexander's head comes back and up like Cristobal had slapped him. It doesn't make him stop staring at Cristobal, but it does make the scrutiny more pointed and unfriendly. "I don't think my mother deserves that implication," he says, flatly. "Please don't insult my family."

He turns away, at last, back to Love, and takes another swallow of the beer. There's only a bit left in the bottle. "Winter Wonderland? And if you want me to look into the progress of things, I'm happy to do so." A pause. "What sort of vendors are you looking for? A lot of locals are looking for income options in the winter. We don't get many tourists, so..." A shrug. "People will probably be interested, if it gets some business their way."

A remarkable thing happens when Love asks Cristobal to be nicer. The man actually complies. And whether it's that request from Love or Alexander's own, the bouncer offers a murmured apology of, "Sorry," down to his drink, instead of pressing the irritation further.

Love reaches across the bar and touches Cris' elbow when he actually apologizes. "Muchas gracias, ñero." The last is a little Mexican slang for compañero. "Refill?" She smiles, her fingertips sliding down Cris' arm and away, provided he doesn't jostle her off or slip out from under her hand sooner or entirely.

"Food trucks, handmade goods, skilled laborers like old fashioned wooden toys, perhaps some winter wreaths. It's more winter holiday than strictly Christmas, and is really an excuse to show off the cabins. Face painting, candles, costuming, sparkly cheerful everything. This town keeps trying to eat people, and they need something beautiful to look forward to when the nights grow long and cold." She needs something to look forward to, she's saying. It's obvious that Love is not a person who enjoys the frigid or the hurting of other people. "Family friendly, of course. If you know anyone who can make vintage candies..."

Alexander blinks at the apology. He clearly wasn't expecting it, and some fraction of tension eases in his shoulders. "It's fine," he says, curtly, but without any particular heat. The look he gives Cristobal is still wary, like he's a dog that might bite unexpectedly.

Love's words draw his attention back to her. "Try Corey." A pause. "Corey Jones. He's a culinary student. If he doesn't know how, he'll probably be able to learn a few. He's very talented." He pulls out his phone and sends her a brief text - it'll have the name and number. "I think he's friends with other college students. Might know some face painters and costumers among their number." A pause. "Have you considered, um, what was her name?" He gestures at the stage. "I think she called herself Echo? For costuming? She said she did hers herself, right? The one I saw was lovely and well-made. So she probably knows how to do street-friendly sewing, as well." A shrug. "I'd think."

There is a grunt of irritation out of Cristobal as Love voices her appreciation in his native tongue, but he doesn't draw away from the reassuring touch. He just nudges over his glass with a push of his fingers, "Sure." Love well aware he's not drinking anything alcoholic so he doesn't need to specify. He doesn't touch alcohol before or while on a shift, to keep sharp. "I can make tamarind candy, but I'm not sure any one up here would have a stomach for it." He sighs, as if his mood and attention is caught up in something else instead of the here and now.

Love pulls her phone free and glances down to look at it, "Corey Jones. Excellent. Thank you, Alexander. I love supporting students." She's quiet for a beat, then asks, "Who, if I may ask, mentioned Cracker Barrel?"

The bartender nods. "Roxy. Maybe Ruby. Though this kind of thing is more of a 'make the stock, hope it sells'. I'll be soliciting Etsy vendors within a couple of states." She puts her glass down, gives her drink a stir, and tops it up with cranberry juice. Her long nails tick off the side of the glass lightly.

When Cristobal acquiesces, she takes his glass to refill it, topping up the ice, too. "... Can you?" His mention of tamarind candy has her attention. "Would you? I haven't had those in years." She slides his glass back shortly, her pale gaze on the blue-eyed latino for a moment before it returns to Alexander.

At the thanks, Alexander gives Love an actual smile; brief and bright, it takes about ten years off his age in the moment that it lasts. "He's a good kid, and I know he's looking for opportunities to try new things." He rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "Byron Thorne. I understand his Wraith ended up as part of the minotaur." There's an actual, pained grimace. "That was a beautiful car. It drove..." a sigh, "it was lovely." He clears his throat. "I think that would be nice to try. What does it taste like? Tamarind candy?" Genuine curiosity lights up his eyes, masks some of the wariness with which he regards the other man.

Cristobal gives a little guff of laughter as Love asks him to make some, "Fine, whatever. I'll make a small batch, but you Owe me." Capital letter and all. His attention lulls back to Alexander at the question, turned so mouth bets obscured by a moment with his shoulder, and his blue gaze flashing over the top of it as if he's considering whether or not it's a genuine answer. "Some say tobacco. Others say it's a sweet and sour with a bit of zest, but you know us Tejanos. We like everything with a little kick."

Love doesn't say anything for a while when Alexander mentions Byron. She nods at the mention of the Wraith's transformation. She hms and stirs her drink, then tucks the straw into her mouth, sipping. "It doesn't taste like anything else. Once you've had it, you'll never forget it. It's also not for everyone. Kind of an acquired thing." Love rests her elbows on the bar and looks to Cristobal, and nods. "Sure, I'll owe you. I draw the line at painting a naked mural of you on your own bedroom wall." Love reaches up to pull her hoodie off, now that she's acclimated to the temperature inside the club. On her shoulder is a little burping blanket decorated in tiny elephants. She reaches up and sweeps it off, stuffing it inside the fold of her hoodie before she stows it. Woops.

"It sounds...interesting. I would be curious to try it. I've never met a Tejano before," he adds, offhand, to Cristobal, "but I will remember that." He finishes the last swallow of the beer and slips off the stool. His gaze goes to the burping blanket and he blinks a couple of times, and barely restrains himself from asking a question about it. He clears his throat. "At any rate, I didn't intend to disturb either of your evenings. Miss Liven, a pleasure." He turns and regards Cristobal flatly. "Mister Cruz. I suppose you're interesting." And then he turns and starts to slouch away.

"And I suppose you're tolerable, Clayton." Cris is quick to quip back, like he can't leave any bait - real or imagined - unbitten. He shakes his head and reaches for his refilled drink, light colored gaze going back to Love. "Draw me like one of your French girls." He grins wickedly, sprawling sideways with one arm stretching out across the bar and his leg kicked sideways onto one of the neighboring chair.

"Alexander." There's a pause after she says his name before Love adds, "Be safe out there." She's always a little distracted at work, sometimes missing nuance or questions she might otherwise ask. She watches Alexander going. "Send me your friends names if they'd like to see the cabins before they're officially on the market." It pays to know people, does it not?

Once the investigator has gone out of earshot, she turns to the bouncer. "Do you have payment in mind, or would you rather it be a surprise for a later date?" Either way, the tattooed woman seems unconcerned. When he speaks up about being drawn, she lets her gaze roam. "If you mean it, I'd be happy to paint your portrait." She circles her finger, indicating his posture. "Maybe not in that position, but I have a few in mind for you."