2020-06-11 - Rules for the Breaking

(TXT to Dante) Sparrow : I've got a bottle of scotch, a short set of rules and a free evening if you wanna pick a place.

(TXT to Sparrow) Dante : Well, that's quite the invitation. By a place, did you mean my flat or something?

(TXT to Dante) Sparrow : Your flat. My house. Some nice BYO. Park. Beach. Whatever suits.

(TXT to Sparrow) Dante : If I'm being honest, I've not got the ability to relax and keep up my public face at the moment. There's also my office at the casino.

(TXT to Dante) Sparrow : Your place then.

(TXT to Dante) Sparrow : Address?

(TXT to Sparrow) Dante : Bayside Apartments. 402. I'll let the doorman know.

(TXT to Dante) Sparrow : Be there in 20.

(TXT to Sparrow) Dante : I hope you like cats.

(TXT to Dante) Sparrow : I like everything.

Bayside is a plush address. Dante wasn't making a joke - there actually is a doorman who lets Sparrow in and sends the elevator to the appropriate floor.

Sparrow overestimated. Even with the additional step of conversing with the doorman and waiting on the elevator, she makes it in under twenty minutes easily. Without rushing. One of the perks of living in a small town. Of course, it might also imply that she was ready to go before she sent the text, itching for something social to occupy her evening. Tonight's look is definitely casual, a far cry from the eye-catching dress she'd worn to the restaurant opening: a white and black ringer tee that declares her a 'heart breaker' with faded jeans and matte red Doc Martens. A thin line of aquamarine complements her black eyeliner while her lips are painted a dark red just dull enough to keep the look low-key. The ensemble doesn't quite match what she's got with her, held in her left hand by the neck: a bottle of Highland Park 18 Year Scotch that looks like it's only had a few drinks poured from it, still at least two-thirds full. She doesn't change her grip as she knocks.

Dante opens the door, looking, well, more casual than she's ever seen him. He's wearing dark raw denim jeans that do, of course, fit him perfectly. He either got lucky or those were specifically tailored to him. That, and a dark green v-neck sweater that looks like it might be cashmere or something equally soft. His hair is a little more tousled and less bouffant. He looks, well, a bit worn down, though he smiles when he opens the door. "Hello, dear. Welcome." He stands back to let her inside.

Sparrow's easy smile is sharpened briefly with a quirk of an eyebrow that might mean to ask if he's sure he's up for drinking, but the look never crosses the line to properly pointed and the question never actually crosses her lips. What she does ask is, "Aren't you hot?" with just enough of a grin to suggest she might not actually be referring to temperature even if her inflection said otherwise. Her attention readily settles on the baby grand when she steps in, a couple seconds spent assessing the instrument before she moves on and declares the whole place, "Swanky."

Swanky, yes, but not particularly warm or homey. "I run cold," says Dante as he closes the door behind her. There's the sound of a bell as a tiny, naked kitten-goblin appears. She stands there, ears swivelling as she takes in Sparrow. The sphynx is wearing a hot pink fleece sweater and has purple soft paws over her claws. She is...a very gay cat. "Ah, Sparrow, this is Diva. Bestowed upon me by Cris. She'll warm up, but she's a little skittish around new people."

Sparrow's empty hand comes up to turn a little finger-waggling wave toward Diva as if she were a person and not a kitten. "Diva. I saw your photo spread," she half-lies to the cat. What she's seen is a single picture that Cris sent her a while back. "Nude, but tasteful." She didn't have booties and a sweater yet. When Sparrow looks back to Dante, it's to point between the softer seating in the living room and the table in the small dining room, brows arched inquisitively. If she finds anything at all odd or off-putting about the lack of personal touched about the place, she's doing a damned good job hiding it.

Diva eyes Sparrow, then when she moves her arm, startles and goes zooming off towards Dante's office. A fast naked goblin. "I do aim to be tasteful in all things." Rather an understatement. He motions to the living area. "Please." His corner unit gives a great view of the ocean, making the already large apartment feel larger still.

Sparrow heads thattaway, pausing for a moment to look out at the water and smile to herself before actually settling down. While it might be more proper to have both feet on the ground, she sinks in knee first, half-turned toward the remainder of the sofa where she expects Dante will settle in and plonks the bottle against that bent leg. "This was a gift." It might also be more proper to ask him how he's holding up first, but she sets right on into the pretense. "It came with very specific instructions. Rules for who I should share it with. Cuz it's not for solitary drinking. This is a sharing scotch." Those dark brows go up again to show how serious she is. Which is entirely necessary given the little grin playing at her lips. "Gotta be someone who can, and I'm quoting the guy who gave it to me here. Provide stimulation of the body, mind and soul."

Dante takes a moment to pull out a pair of crystal scotch glasses in a graphic argyle pattern which he carries over to the couch. He listens, brows raising. He sets them on the table and the sits at the other end of the sofa. "Well. You weren't joking about the rules. Though I'm not certain I qualify for that list of conditions."

"One out of three, no question," Sparrow answers without missing a beat. Or specifying which of the three. It's obvious, right? "Arguments could be made for the other two," she allows, making no move to pour just because glasses were provided, "but that wasn't what I asked." Eyes set on Dante, she restates the initial inquiry now that he has more information: "How do you feel about breaking rules?"

"Ah, I see," says Dante as he recalls their earlier enigmatic conversation end. "I'd say that would be up to you, as you're the one bound to the rules. But I will say that I do have a liquor cabinet full of bottles with no restrictions whatever." He smiles, but it's a slightly awkward expression. He would normally be able to pull off a witty comment with no trouble, but he's had a rough week.

Sparrow's eyes roll up the moment Dante points out the obvious flaw in her proposition. The bottle shifts against her knee, from a forward tilt to a backward lean, following the slight recline of her posture as she asserts, "Obviously," like that's what she was getting at all along. "What I meant was how would you like to break the rules with me?" She taps a fingernail against the side of the bottle as her eyebrows go up again, a bit sternly this time. "Guy who gave me this? Out of my life. Only reason I know he's alright is because I ran into him at the Waffle Shoppe a few days after someone else told me he got hurt. So. Figure if anyone gets to break these rules with me..."

"Ah, I see. Would this be your policeman ex?" Dante eyes the bottle, then flicks a gaze back to her. "If someone who treated you shit gave you rules to follow, I'd say..." he holds out one of the glasses towards her, "...fuck the rules."

Sparrow squints a little at that description of the referenced ex, like maybe she doesn't know how to answer that very simple yes/no question. It doesn't slow her down from opening the bottle and leaning forward, though. She pours just a couple fingers, enough for some good sipping, then starts on the second glass. And then stops as context clicks into place. "No," comes with certainty and a snort of laughter. "Things got weird between me and the detective, but ended friendly. No." She finishes that pour and recaps the bottle, setting it on the table so she can claim her glass. "This was someone else. Who I probably shouldn't slander. Small town and all. Though I could maybe divulge some details if you need it for a follow-up to your last piece, Mr. Molloy."

"Well, the good thing about me is I'm not from here. That means there's still rather a lot of people I don't know. And I am not yet entrenched in politics." Though now that Dante is involved in the casino, that's rather inevitable. He turns a little pink at the mention of his pen name. "Ah, not for a bit, I'm afraid. Any time now I'll be getting my latest novel draft back from my editor. Between that and the restaurant, there won't be much time for erotica." He looks into the glass, then, "What shall we toast?"

Sparrow gives a little wobble of her glass like she might be considering soiling somebody's good name with her own biased take on a break-up, but she's promptly distracted by the color coming to Dante's cheeks. And the disappointing news which follows. "You ever wanna do some bespoke work," is probably a tease, the way it trails off like that, but it's awfully hard to tell. Especially given how easily she's steered toward the toast, her glass lifting toward his as she says, "To breaking the rules," though it sounds incomplete, like there's a second half there, a blank left to be filled in.

"If I start writing custom erotica, Cris probably gets first crack," says Dante with a soft chuckle. He raises his glass towards her in a toast. "And moving forward," he adds. He extends his arm to meet their glasses in a gentle tap of crystal.

A faint pout answers her potentially second-place position in that wholly made-up line, though the eyeroll that follows seems to say fiiiiine. Sparrow nods for the second half added to the toast, the pleasant clink of the crystal followed by a restrained sip of the scotch. It's lovely, really. Expensive. A single malt with a pleasant blend of citrus and smoke, a balance of sweetness and peat. Whoever she got this bottle from? He knows his scotch. When she sinks back into a more comfortable recline again, she finally asks, "How're you doing with that?"

And not unsurprisingly, Dante is a man who appreciates a good scotch. He tilts his head back, closes his eyes and smiles. "Lovely. I know this man did you wrong, but he's got good taste in drink." As for her question? He ponders for a moment, then flares his nostrils. "Getting there. At least I've plenty to distract me."

"He's got good taste in pretty much everything," Sparrow concedes, though there's a slight gesture to herself which might imply it's hardly a concession at all. Dryly, she adds, "You should see his car." She takes another shallow sip as her brown-eyed attention strays toward the view out the window, a bit of visual distraction from the thoughts flooding her head. "Pretty sure that's how I got through, too. Though." She looks back to Dante, slightly wide-eyed. "I hope your distractions are better than mine were. Everyone's life kinda went to shit at the same time, and I spent a few weeks trying to keep everybody else whole and well. Did the trick, but fuck..."

"Cars aren't something I've got good taste in, I'm afraid. I have a Yaris. That Itzhak souped up and rebuilt, but it's still a Yaris. I spend my money strategically." By which Dante means, mostly on his wardrobe. "But then I don't really like driving, so it's hard to put money in that direction." He sips the drink again thoughtfully. "Mhmm, well I still have the restaurant. Though I think my staff is happy to have me a bit distracted and not on their asses. But we're also starting to find our stride now that we've officially opened."

"I couldn't even tell you what kind it is except that James Bond drove it in one of the more recent movies and it's british racing green." Sparrow levels Dante with a very dry look to punctuate that pronouncement, lending that specified color a little extra weight. "I love driving, but. It's more about comfort for me than speed or style. If I'mma be sitting in one place for several hours at a stretch, I wanna be comfy. And I want the windows to down easy and the music to play loud and clear." With a small smile, she adds, "Lots of room on the rear for bumper stickers doesn't hurt either." With a wide, dopey smile, she murmurs, "Got a couple abductions planned," without going into any detail. Instead, she turns the conversation back toward Dante to ask, "How are you liking it? The actual business-running part that isn't all about looking smooth as fuck and soaking up the limelight?"

Dante leans back. Even though he isn't in a suit, something about his posture still suggests one. One arm drapes over the back and he crosses his legs. "I don't like road trips. I'd rather be on a train or flying. I suppose I've never really seen the appeal. I drove cross country when I first came here from New England and that was by far the most driving I had ever done in my life. And I hope to never do that much again," he drawls, then sips again. He considers her question. "Stressful. Terrifying. A lot of work. And a lot of me being out of my depth. Now that the big picture details are resolved, I'm starting to get my fingers out of some of the more day-to-day stuff and trusting my staff."

Something in there has Sparrow a good bit perplexed. And maybe a little bit defensive. But she doesn't pounce. Yet. She hears out that answer to her inquiry and lets him know, "If you ever wanna talk to someone not, like. Mutually invested in some part of your endeavor? My parents have owned their own business for as long as I can remember. Totally different sorta thing." Definite understatement. "But still." She'll gladly volunteer somebody else's time. A finger unfurls from her glass to point at Dante as her brows pitch upward sternly, and she rounds back on the other topic. "You're wrong about flying. It's the worst. A necessity when you gotta get there fast or gotta get overseas or whatever, but. Roadtrips? They're not about the driving at all. If you're just going from point A to point B, then it's not a roadtrip. It's just. Like. I dunno. A drive. But a roadtrip? That's about all the in-between. The kitschy shops and roadside attractions. The weird natural phenomena you'd never go out of your way for, but hey, it's right over there. It's random go carting in the middle of the day because you just happen to be passing by and why not." With a lift of her glass, she tells him, "Roadtrips are about the why not," with maybe more seriousness than the subject is due. And then she sips.

Dante grins and raises his glass in salute to her as she waxes poetic about road trips. "And this is where we hit a cultural difference. Don't forget that I come from an island. A lrather large island, but still. You can drive almost end-to-end in the UK in...oh a dozen hours or so? What you're describing is a distinctly American, well, and I guess Canadian and Australian - sort of activity. And I appreciate the offer of business assistance. I'm..." he draws in a breath, "...Elias was a good sounding board for that. Even if he wasn't exactly a cutthroat businessman."

"Then maybe whatcha need is a good old fashioned American roadtrip," Sparrow counters without missing a beat. "The Sparrow Jones Personal Abduction Service will work with your schedule and runs trips as short as a single day, though I recommend the overnight package for the best first time experience." It doesn't sound like the first time she's given that pitch, too smooth on the delivery. With a cant of her head, she wonders, "Is the restaurant business in Gray Harbor particularly cutthroat?"

"Overnight abduction sounds like a very particular scenario," Dante drawls with a touch of honey to his tone as he tips more of that fine single malt past his lips. The fact that he's got some of that suave flirtatiousness back suggests he's starting to find his feet again - or at least starting to regain his ability to swagger. "The restaurant business has notoriously tight margins. Which means it doesn't take much to sink you."

"I mean," comes with a crooked grin and a playful roll of her eyes, the sort of response which may well read you caught me, but Sparrow still finishes, "There are a few ways it could go," as if they don't all end the same way. That sharp little smile lingers even as she admits, "Sounds rough," of the industry he's gotten himself into. "But it sounds like you've got the right people involved." It looks, for just a second, like she might say something more, but she seems to think better of it and lifts her glass for another sip instead.

"What is it? Come on now. We're drinking truth serum tonight." Dante waggles the crystal glass back and forth. "And I'm trying m'best. My challenge now is being a good manager so the good people want to stay 'round. But I'm not especially good at giving up control." As it obvious from his very tightly controlled apartment, and his manner of dress.

"Me either," broadens Sparrow's grin. And avoids the initial question. "Prolly shoulda known me and Mr. Good Taste--" She gives her scotch a little swirl to make clear who she means. "--weren't gonna get on when we first hit that hitch." Something in her expression, the way her gaze ges distant for just a second, suggests it wasn't all difficult, but she's quick to redirect toward less intimate territory. "I was just gonna say that Cris suggested I should ask you about a job. What with us being down a roommate and trying to split rent for that big-ass house three ways instead of four, but." She gives her nose a little scrunch. "Seems like a good way to ruin a friendship."

"Oh. I didn't realize you were looking." Dante considers and shifts forward. "It could potentially be an awkward dynamic. Would you actually want me to be your boss? I don't think I'm a very good one, if the staff scrunching their shoulders when I came up to them is any indication." Which is not the most fair, really. Opening a restaurant is stressful business and he was more hands-on for the first few weeks than he intends to be. And he's self-aware about his issues with control. "Perhaps I could put in a good word elsewhere in the casino?"

Sparrow gives her glass a little wobble to express just about how much 'looking' she's been doing. But then he asks if she wants him to be her boss. On the wake of that talk about control. And how she probably wasn't talking about wardrobes and decor. She can't help the wicked grin that flashes, the look which says her thoughts aren't entirely employment-oriented at the moment. It all softens slightly when he gets to that last offer. "You realize I'm seeing the casino's manager, right? That wasn't a one night thing. But." Her shoulders come up in a drawn-out shrug. "I dunno that I'm looking yet. We're scraping by. With some help from my parents. I just need to get someone into the empty room. So. If you know anyone looking for a place with a bunch of college kids, which is way less rowdy than it sounds..."

"Ah, yes of course. So that would likely be more awkward." Innuendo about bosses aside. Dante sips again to prevent any cheeky comments. "Though I'd imagine it's a bit hard for you to avoid working for someone you know in this town. Given its size and your history. And I'm afraid I don't really know anyone who would be looking for a house share scenario."

"Way better in my head than reality," Sparrow murmurs on the potential awkwardness of doubling down on her personal life bleeding into her professional life. "Though. For what it's worth? Mac and I are definitely cool. I'd hang out with her more if she got out more, but. I dunno. That's a different scenario. She hired me full well knowing that I wanted an easy do-nothing job where I could get paid to do my schoolwork. The prospect of a job that expects me to bust ass for eight hours at a stretch while I've also got a full course load?" She shakes her head, amusement draining from her features. "That's what AJ did all year, and I barely fucking saw him. Nah. Sorry. Hard pass. Thanks."

"Then definitely don't come work for me. I'm a beast and expect my employees to bust arse," says Dante with a cheeky little grin. "Especially when we're still getting started. I definitely want people to drink the kool-aid as it were, and be on-board with making a real experience." He does sound like he means that, even if the cheeky tone remains.

"I'm pretty good at busting asses," Sparrow all but mumbles into her glass ass she goes in for another sip. A bit more audibly--and sincerely--she adds, "And definitely a get-it-done sort, but. I can only invest fully for the summer. Soon as classes start back up? My all's gotta be there." Her expression turns pensive for a few seconds, gaze unfocused, but her smile bubbles back up when she looks to Dante again. "So, yeah. We'll have to save the powerplay for outside the work environment, handsome."

"I completely understand. School is certainly the priority. I don't know if I've ever asked you what you're studying." Dante grins a little, eyes dancing in amusement. "I see why you and Cris get along. You're as much into innuendo as he is, aren't you?"

"You telling me you're not, Mr. Author?" Sparrow counters with an impish little grin, though it's clearly rhetorical, more an accusation than a question. "We also both like to keep the company of people who are well-read, whose interests maybe diverge from our own. Pretty sure we both like saying no almost as much as we like saying yes. Depending on the circumstance. And..." She pauses, eyes narrowing slightly as she studies Dante like she might be deciding whether or not to let him in on this little secret. "We've both got soft squishy insides." Of course, then her head wobbles like she might back out of that one, but instead, she adds, "And it's chemistry."

"I am, but not with the same regularity and finesse as the two of you. And I don't tend to deploy it for protection." Like a certain Latino man they both know does. Dante balances his glass on his knee. "I find it's rare that anyone is truly hard on the inside. Unless they've had a particularly rough life."

"Uh. Let's be clear." Sparrow holds up her empty hand just a little bit, just enough to angle it palm-out at Dante for all of a second before she points at him. "I use it entirely offensively." She punctuates that thought with a flirtatious wink, a little over-the-top cheese to sell the sentiment. "I'm not sure hard is the opposite of soft in this case. Like how hate isn't the opposite of love. Some people? Underneath all the shiny outsides? There's just a whole lot of nothing."

"Flirtation as defense. Deploying innuendo like spikes on a porcupine?" Dante grins toothily and raps the side of the glass balanced on his leg. "I've definitely used it to disarm. With varying degrees of success. And that's certainly true. I was infatuated with a few in my younger days. People who were beautiful on the outside bit a bit hollow on the inside."

Sparrow's uncharacteristically quiet for a few seconds in the wake of Dante's words, though her eyes don't stray from him. Even if they do roam a bit. The slight tip of her glass one way then the other as if weighing something out might offer at least a little insight into whatever's going on inside her head, especially when one of those sides seems to win, a synchronized tilt of both her head and her drink held for a moment. "Is it art or armor, then? Distraction or defense? All the effort you go through to look so goddamned good all the time."

Dante is notably not as polished now as he normally is, but he still went to some effort even though it doesn't look like he was planning on being seen by many people today. He ponders her question, then lifts a shoulder. "Mhmm. Part of it's controlling the narrative? Controlling what people see and how I'm perceived? Part of it's vanity. And armor, of a sort, yes. If people are going to look at me, they're going to look at me on my terms."

Sparrow doesn't seem to be making an exception for tonight, accepting that home-turf perfection simply doesn't look the same as public polish. She shifts slightly in her seat, leaning into her shoulder a bit more where it presses into the cushion, both hands circling her glass where she holds it close to her lap. "Trying not to hear any challenge in that," but it doesn't sound like it's easy. At least her self-deprecating grin seems to acknowledge the blame for that is entirely her own. "Hard not to want to crack that armor. See the mess underneath when you're not paying attention to the strings, but. I'm the same way. And." She ends the thought with a srunch of her nose, an expression of distaste, discomfort, disinterest.

Dante motions to Sparrow's hair with a flick of a finger. "I've noticed you switch that up quite a bit. You don't like anyone getting comfortable with how you look, do you? Or do you just like variety?" And yes, he's trying to pivot away from himself. "It takes me a lot to not pay attention to the strings, if I'm being honest. It comes so naturally."

"I know exactly what it takes for me to let go of mine, and I know exactly how many people have figured it out." Sparrow offers no count. She simply takes another sip of her dwindling scotch to hide the flat face she's making. Her expression brightens as she draws the all-but-empty glass back down, smile again tugging at the corners of her lips. "As for this? Usually, it's all me. Something internal expressed externally in a language most don't get, but." She nods. "Sometimes, yeah, it's a big fuck you to people who think they've figured me out. Rebellion against their complacency, their comfort."

"I can understand that. I mean, I am acutely aware that I get a lot of looks walking into the bloody Firefly in a three-piece Tom Ford suit. But that's the way I like it. Especially in an American small town when I'm already going to stick out." Given that he's six foot and change and Very English. "I think we're both expressing a similar desire not to be defined, but in a different way."