Ms. Avery Chase has the invitations. $500 a head and grace enough not to print the price in black and white on the invitations to the James Bond-themed Casino Royale fundraiser for something called The Healing Place - a drug treatment facility current under redevelopment in the East Colfax neighborhood in Denver. There was a small request for cocktail attire required, black or white tie requested, however, at the bottom of the tickets.
Cocktail hour at 6:30, dinner at 7:30 sharp, the invitations designate. Games of Chance from 9:00 to ?? And come the appointed hour the Grand Hyatt is full of men and women, some in cocktail attire, others dress in formal white Bond-style suits. In the hallway, glossy posterboards are covered with artists' renderings of The Healing Place as a serene bastion of calm in the midst of one of the city's worst neighborhoods. Standing near or close to the adverts for the treatment facility are somewhat more shabbily attired, hang-dog looking locals, who have been prepped and polished to chat with the upper crust about their grateful experiences with this agency or that agency, their excitement about the options the new facility will bring to the neighborhood.
There's been some bad press lately, see. Just enough that the zoning board's getting pushback for fast-tracking approval last year. Not quite enough that anyone's started investigating whether open meeting laws were violated, and the folks behind the facility would like to keep it that way.
Jack Crenshaw, and his wife Donna, stand close to the door leading from the hallway and lounge where cocktails are being served to the ballroom where the dinner will be held. He's a zoning board member, rich as hell, and a former CEO for some pharma company he sold off to a larger pharma company a half-dozen years ago, making him rich as hell. She has had one too many shots of botox, and that plasticine feeling has settled into her smile. Still, the two are charming and engaging and shake hands and greet their more well-connected guests with the sort of effusive familiarity one always sees at such dinners.
Avery ChaseTwo feelings warred in Avery when she found out that her father had a prior engagement that would prevent him from attending the fundraiser for the Healing Place: the first was a kneejerk embarrassment, perhaps even guilt, that she had so readily assumed he would be available and willing. The mistake was understandable, to be fair to Avery: they have been one another's escorts to various functions for years. But that doesn't stop her from recognizing her misstep, or apologizing for it. She inquires as to his plans.
Which leads to her second reaction: an equally kneejerk shock and discomfort to hear that her father, who in her mind has been celibate since her mother's untimely passing, has a date. Avery was still thoroughly unsettled when she called Calden, and it was perhaps noticable -- not in a shaken tone or anything of that kind, but in the way she apologized more than once for the late notice to the invitation, the glossed-over offer that she would 'take care of' procuring a tuxedo for him and having it fitted, in his home if that was more convenient, and of course he wouldn't have to worry about accomodations, it's just that she already RSVP'd for two and her brother is well below the acceptable age for a casino night, and if Calden would consider attending with her she would be most grateful,
and he knows, perhaps, that something is awkward for her about this by the fact that she doesn't use a Sexy Voice when she says that.
All in the past, now. Avery is quite settled when she arrives with Calden at the fundraiser, and she decided to go with the mod look tonight instead of the long, sensual gown favored by Bond's perpetually doomed love interests. The dress is short-sleeved and high-hemmed, all silver sparkles over black. She wears a pair of black hose beneath them and mid-high boots with pointed toes and high heels, a modern concession to the go-go boot era. Her jewelry is minimal but impactful: her earrings are diamond and platinum, dangling in chandeliers from her lobes. She's gone quite mid-60s for her hair and makeup, as well, the lip neutral and the eyes dramatically smoky, the hair teased just a bit and falling in waves around her shoulders.
They get martinis from waiters passing by with trays full of them. Standing beside Calden, only reaching 6 feet of height herself in those heels, she points out the Crenshaws, murmuring in his ear their names, what they do, and so on.
Calden WhiteThe first apology gets Avery forgiven. Or rather: Calden tells her it's not necessary to apologize, really, he didn't have plans anyway this weekend. The second apology -- well, she gets halfway through before he interrupts her gently but firmly, telling her:
Don't apologize. I'd be delighted to escort you. You know I love spending time with you.
Still. Perhaps the apologies are understandable. She is, after all, so very gracious, so very courteous, so very correct and well-mannered. She is also so very careful not to encroach on his time unannounced, even if he's long since tripped over that line. So: she apologizes again, or she doesn't, and either way the discussion moves on to the when, the where, the dress code. She offers to have him fitted, which makes him laugh:
"Miss Chase, this might come as a shock to you, but this particular barbaric cowherd happens to own a tuxedo. I'll let you know if the moths have gotten to it, though. Otherwise: see you at eight?"
And so she does see him at eight. That's when he pulls up her drive, walks up to her door. It feels a little like prom night or something, which is how he feels every time he shrugs into this particular penguin suit. It's not new. It's not a particularly flashy or a la mode cut, either. It's classic and well-made, though, and well-tailored; fitted sleekly to his frame in a way that almost makes him look like he lives and breathes and exists in these clothes. At least, it doesn't make him look like a barbaric cowherd shoehorned into a tuxedo.
He has a bouquet for her when he meets her at her door. But it's just a handful of wildflowers plucked on his way to his truck. And his shoes -- dress shoes, thank you very much, not cowboy boots -- have a bit of dirt around the heels. He doesn't care, though, and she doesn't really have time to notice. His eyes heat up at the sight of her, and she
has to push him away before he smears her lipstick all over her face.
They leave the 'bouquet' in the car. Her car, driven by her meticulous Chauncey: a Bentley as black as ink. Calden smirks when he sees it. When he climbs into the back he takes her hand, and he keeps smirking a while until -- three minutes down the road -- he quietly tells her that this was pretty much exactly the sort of car he thought she owned.
For a man who spends 90% of his waking hours around cattle, he seems rather relaxed and at ease about it all. Their conversation on the way there is quiet and comfortable. When they arrive, he steps out first, beating Chauncey to her door. He hands her out. Her heels are ridiculous. They make her six feet tall, and he has a suspicion that even if her date were five-six in lifts she wouldn't have changed a thing about her attire tonight. They go in. He takes a martini from a tray. She murmurs about the Crenshaws in the sparse few seconds before the two couples meet. Calden smiles; shakes Jack Crenshaw's hand firmly and takes Donna's hand gently. For the most part, though, he follows Avery's cues -- conversational and otherwise.
Calden White[six. at six.]
Avery ChaseAvery has to give Calden her address. The last and only time he has been to her true residence was when he was so drunk that she wouldn't let him drive anywhere until he'd had an hour to wander around and some coffee. It is still enormous. It is still impressive. It is earlier, though, and seeing it in daylight is revealing: here and there one can see the details that mark it as the polo club stables it used to be, before it was renovated and renovated and turned into the palace it is now. A middle-aged man in grey slacks and vest over a crisp white shirt answers the door, and he is also there when Calden looks like he wants to eat Avery alive, so... perhaps Calden doesn't do that. She is delighted with the flowers, and hands them to the butler.
They have a couple of drinks in one of her sitting rooms downstairs. Her father is on his date. A young woman in grey slacks and a pale pink short-sleeved sweater is the one who comes into the sitting room with the flowers, now in a cut-crystal vase, to set them on a table between Calden and Avery. Her brother walks by briefly, in shorts and a tank top, carrying a basketball. He's quite a bit younger than Avery, well-formed and keen-eyed like she is, fair like she is, a little less practiced in his politeness. Calden can feel the curiosity, the awkwardness, and perhaps a bit of stiffness in his demeanor even as 'Oakley' shakes his hand and says that it's a pleasure to meet him. He has a good handshake, though. He and his sister share what seems like a telepathic smile before he heads out to deposit a ball through a hoop multiple times.
When it's closer to six-thirty, Avery slips her arm through the crook of Calden's and they walk out to Chauncey, waiting with the -- vintage -- Bentley. Chauncey's beard is trimmed and his mustache curled and he is dressed all in black, with cufflinks in the shape of ramparts. He drives. They chat. Calden beats Chauncey to the door, appalling Chauncey and making Avery give a gentle Look to her driver before they head inside.
"I'm so pleased to meet you," Avery says, much like her brother said to Calden, as she shakes each of the Crenshaws' hands. "I must give you my father's regrets; he's very interested in your plans but had a prior engagement. Mr. White heroically stepped in at the last minute."
Avery Chase[perception + alertness!]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 5) ( fail )
Calden WhiteThere's ten years between Calden and Avery. Another ten between Avery and her brother. And that's not even taking into account the fact that Calden is Avery's date, which carries connotations no brother ever ever ever EVER wants to think about. Small wonder there was awkwardness there when the two kinsmen met. At least: it was there on Oakley's end. Not so much on Calden's, though. He's one of five siblings spanning nearly twenty years. Age differences and significant others were a fact of life in the White household.
Still. Oakley's as polite as his sister. And Calden tells her so on the way to the car. He means it as a compliment.
Now, at the gala:
"I keep telling her," Calden adds, smiling, "it was my pleasure. Thanks for having us." And -- unless Avery has reason to tarry -- he starts to move on.
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 7, 7, 9) ( success x 3 )
Twilight"You're more than welcome," smiles Donna Crenshaw. Or rather: tries to smile. The intention is there in the movement of her mouth but does not really change anything otherwise about her face. The frame of her eyes or the glazed light in them. She's too plasticene to be expressive, and has shaken hands and nodded to goodness knows how many people she has seen tonight. This is to Calden. An attempt at a benign smile is cast at Avery, but as with the smile she offers Calden, it is no more than an attempt.
Jack Crenshaw is more focused on Avery. He's tall and fairly thin, heavily tanned, with a golfer's stance even in the receiving line. "Pleasure's ours, Ms. Chase - " extending his hand to Avery, then Calden. "We have some literature you can take home with you, and if he's interested in making a more substantial donation, I'd be happy to set him up with a site tour, whatever he'd like. Just have someone contact my assistant Debbie."
"Oh," Donna inserts herself here. "Debbie's wonderful. Gets you anything you need."
And then the crowd is moving on, and Avery and Calden with it.
TwilightJack Crenshaw has a small tattoo in the shape of a cross on the inside of his right wrist. Calden notices when they shake hands.
Avery Chase[primal urge!]
Dice: 4 d10 TN8 (2, 3, 3, 4) ( fail )
Avery ChaseThey go through the receiving line. They shake hands and they talk about literature and Donna fails to smile and Avery is gracious, is endearing, is quite genuinely delighted at the prospect of taking some pamphlets home to her father to go over and discuss if it would be better to donate directly or set up an endowment after it's built or what-have-you.
Other than Donna's immobile face, Avery notices nothing particular out of the ordinary. She doesn't gossip about them behind their backs, either. It doesn't even occur to her to do so.
Calden WhiteThe human eye has a knack for the unusual, and sometime in the midst of that hearty handshake, Calden's is drawn down to Jack's hand. His wrist. What he sees there pings a little on his awareness -- but really; it's nothing that out of the ordinary. Maybe Jack was superstitious. Or religious. Or just had a wilder youth or something. Anyway; the handshake ends in seconds. They move on in moments. Calden sips his martini; he is introduced to people who likely don't recognize him
-- though a very few might think they've seen him somewhere before, and more than a few would have eaten at steakhouses he supplies, shopped at upscale markets he stocks, perhaps even seen a few of those horrid ad campaigns about locally sourced beef featuring a decidedly rugged-jawed, red-flanneled Calden. Plus cows --
and who may or may not recognize his family name. Who may or may not know them as an old, reasonably well-connected and well-respected lot, but nothing ... stratospheric, really. And no aspirations in that direction either.
A hardworking bunch. But merchants and tradesmen, to use a medieval analogy. Not nobility, not by a long shot. His face is shaved tonight, he comports himself well, and he looks good in that tux -- but his hands are rough.
The room opens out, past the receiving line and its assembled glitterati. There's a Casino Royale theme tonight. There are many, many, many men in tuxedos, some of whom wear it better than others; many, many, many women in cocktail dresses, most of whom wear it well enough that their husbands haven't traded them in yet for a newer model. Some of whom wear it well because they are the newer model. Waiters are circulating with martinis and canapes, but Calden is still working on his first drink. He sips. He nods to Avery's friends. When they have a free moment, he bends -- not very far tonight -- and murmurs in the direction of her ear:
"So what exactly is this charity you've taken an interest in?"
Avery ChaseA bit of cucumber with some pate on top and a sprig of something. Avery's eyes light up and she takes one, taking a tidy bite as they begin to circulate. She smiles across the room at a woman about her age that she knows, then turns to Calden as he asks her what he does.
"My father knows more," she admits. "I think they're building a facility on East Colfax to... do something. Addiction recovery, I think." Avery shrugs. She finishes her canape and when she is done she dabs at her lips with the cocktail napkin before tossing it out in a conveniently placed wastebin.
She smiles at Calden. "We could go read some of the literature," she teases, but she's not really teasing.
Calden WhiteIt's good that she's not really teasing, because Calden laughs -- and then he takes her seriously. "Why not. I'm not very good at small talk. Besides, if I'm your escort, I should at least know a little about the party you've taken me to."
And there is literature -- discreetly arranged in areas of the room that aren't too eye-catching. It's a peculiar quirk of the rich and famous: charity as an excuse for decadence, or decadence as an excuse for charity. Either way: mustn't forget the poor and trod-upon. Mustn't let them spoil a good time by being too visible either, though.
Avery Chase"Darling, you're wonderful at small talk," Avery tells him earnestly, either because she somehow believes it or because she wants him to try. "And to be fair, I don't know much, either. For the past few years I've been painfully out of the loop on our philanthropy. I'm trying to do better."
There's a pause. "I wonder if he's trying to help me do that by 'making plans' tonight." She looks vaguely suspicious of her father, for a moment, as they walk towards one of the little tables and start flipping through brochures.
Calden White"All right," Calden acknowledges with a faint smirk, "I'm wonderful at small talk. I just prefer to talk large. And since we Whites are still being very bourgeois about making our money and hoarding it all to ourselves, I save my small talk for people who are going to buy my cows."
The smirk relents into a grin, then. He lifts her hand from the crook of his elbow, kissing her fingers, then laying them back where they were. "I'm playing," he adds. "I'm actually having a good time. That's quite the dress you're wearing, and I've already seen you shake your hair back twice."
Oh. The smirk's back again.
"What were his plans, anyway? May I, or dare I ask?"
TwilightThere is literature. There are a few locals there to hand it out too. Men and women wearing second-hand business suits, some with accessories like neck and knuckle tattoos. Others looking vaguely down-and-out without the need for mediocre prison-style tats. The brochures tout The Healing Place as an addiction recovery center with a [psychobabble bullshit] model with a focus on practical skills layered into real-time interaction with the home environment while building practical job and social skills on the rEEntry model. There's a sidebar discussing the success of rEEntry, a halfway house, essentially, for convicts coming out of prison that boasts, thus far, a 0% recidivism rate.
So they're doing something really well or lying like motherfuckers.
Avery Chase"Tsk," Avery says, to all of it. To him and his bourgeois family! To him and his money-hoarding! To him and saving up all his small talk for people who are going to make him wealthier! To him and his obsession with her hair-shaking! Tsk. She tsks him, then gives a faint shake of her head, her expression discomfited: "He has a date."
With that, Avery approaches one of the knuckle-tattooed men and smiles at him in that way that makes him fall a little bit in love with her. Her hand is out, and though he starts to hand her a brochure, she takes it, and then takes his hand to give it a shake.
"My name is Avery Chase," she says, quite directly, and that directness and those eyes and that dress and the feeling that she might just pin him against the wall and
do something terrifyingly visceral, like actually eviscerating him,
makes him react however he does. But she's smiling. "What's yours?"
Calden WhiteHe has a date. Which makes Calden laugh aloud -- a quick and quickly smothered blurt of real humor. It's one of the few things real in this room. Avery's another one. Just look at that smile, the way she sees that poor fellow they trotted in here as a living billboard. She's as real as sunlight, as real as fire and gold.
Royal, though. And ever so charged with noblesse oblige. There's a faint, quirky half-smile on Calden's face. He doesn't attempt to interrupt the greeting. Raises a hand instead -- a mute half-wave -- before he steals the pamphlet from Avery and opens it up to read.
Twilight"Dwayne Richards, ma'am." The knuckle-tattooed man returns. He has a military straight bearing and something about his parade-rest posture suggests that he served briefly in the military before embarking on a life of knuckle tattoos and street - street something. "Pleasure to meet you."
And there's something about the way he bear that directness, and returns it to her that Avery might find striking and noticeable. Something about the way he returns her smile with a tight one of his own that is more a grimace - not from that animal reaction to the beast beneath her skin - but fro, instead, some fundamental mismatch between his mouth and his eyes.
"Director of Youth Outreach for rEEntry and a graduate of it myself. Our NA program is the model for the Healing Place and I know what a benefit it'll be to the city. Me I never managed to kick my habit until after I got out of treatment and jail."
[Stuffs.]
Dice: 6 d10 TN9 (3, 3, 5, 5, 6, 9) ( success x 1 )
Avery Chase[Truth of Gaia: Intelligence + Empathy // Unknown Diff (Dwayne's Manipulation + Subterfuge)]
Dice: 4 d10 TN8 (1, 1, 4, 7) ( fail )
TwilightOther stuffs for laters.
Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (4, 4, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, 9) ( success x 5 ) [WP]
Avery Chase"Dwayne, it's a pleasure," Avery says, and there's an evenness and a sincerity to her tone that is neither gushing nor guilty. She lacks the simultaneous rigid pride and secret shame that most of the people in this room have for their wealth, their privilege. She makes it as simple as it can be: taking an interest in him.
He doesn't shrink from her. Well: he's a convict. He's been hardened, hasn't he? She tries not to take that too oddly. What does strike her, however, is that his smile isn't one. It doesn't touch his eyes any more than Donna Crenshaw's face moved when she smiled. She notices that. She is a little more on her guard then. Her eyes, pale blue and ringed in silver, seem to sharpen on him, fierce as a falcon's. It is indeed one of her own tribe's totem spirits that she calls on, and she feels a faint tingle in her ears and her eyes as the mantle of her auspice falls over her.
Her head tips slightly as she is shaking his hand, then gradually letting it go. "I can only imagine what a challenge that was -- not just to go through that, but to come out of it and be able to turn around and help others the way you were helped. It's inspiring, Dwayne."
That sounds a little false. It even stings her own ears. She seems more like the others in this room, the charity wives and philanthropists. She smiles at him though, almost conspiratorially. "What do you think of the people who are pitching a little fit about creating this place? Just anti-gentrification whackjobs?"
Twilight"Servants of the devil, ma'am. His hand on earth, if you will." Dwayne returns; and now there's a gleam to his eye.
Calden White[wait, did avery just lie? EMPAFEE.]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 3, 5, 6) ( success x 1 )
Avery ChaseSome think that to get information, you pretend to agree with the crazy person. You placate. You cajole. You conspire. But there was never a fanatic that didn't love, more than anything else, arguing with someone who disagrees with them.
As soon as she hears that, Avery blinks and draws back a bit. Her tone goes a bit too even, a bit chilled. "Tell me, Mr. Richards, is conversion to the faith a requirement of the program that's being offered? Doesn't that seem a bit... narrow, if the goal is to truly help people?"
Calden White[percep+alert: HAVE YOU GOT A THINGIE ON YOUR WRIST TOO.]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 3, 9, 9) ( success x 2 )
Twilight"I don't know the perticulars," the man returns, still in the military-straight and military-ready posture. The gleam is gone from his eyes, though. " - but the program is separate from the church, ma'am. Folks inside ain't even allowed to visit the church, so it ain't 'til I come out I even went there."
TwilightHe has a lot of tattoos. One of them is a cross inside his wrist.
Avery Chase[Avery notices that something is off. She's not really lying, but she's not really being the genuine/honest/blunt self that Calden is used to. Maybe she's just playing up the socialite thing? But she seems quite keen on the man in front of her.]
Calden WhiteTruth be told Calden tunes the conversation out once he starts reading that pamphlet. Maybe it's rude of him, but then -- he's a little curious. What he saw on Crenshaw's wrist sticks with him, like a burr in his boot. It's just odd. It's just off. And he's looking for a link, looking for a tie, when
something in Avery's voice pulls him back. His eyes flick up; one eyebrow's cocked. A moment later his expression smooths, and he lifts his head, folding the pamphlet over once and tucking it into his pocket. He'd fallen back a half-step when he started reading. He takes that step back now, coming up beside Avery. His eyes follow the conversation to and fro, to and fro. Then an interjection --
"Sorry, I must have missed it the first time -- what church are we talking about?"
TwilightAnd Dwayne Richards' eyes swing to Calden as the latter speaks up. The question comes suddenly, from an unexpected quarter that he answers it automatically, with a steady, solemn pride. "The House of the Covenant of God with His People in Exile on the Earth."
Though once he has uttered the words, his demeanor shifts. He frowns; he knows that something is -
"If you'll excuse me. I think they're calling you in for dinner."
Avery ChaseAvery's dark brows tug together. "Well that seems a bit harsh," she says, of not allowing people in the program to even visit the church. Calden interjects a question, and they get the naem of the church, which causes one of those brows to stop tugging inward and just quirk upward.
She doesn't push Dwayne after that. She thanks him mildly for his time, then slips her arm through the angle of Calden's and begins walking, gradually, with him towards the dining hall. Five hundred dollars a plate. The food had better be phenomenal. It's times like these she wishes she had learned the trick of sensing the Wyrm's influence. She should learn that. She just thought that by now she would have a Ragabash to do it for her.
"Whatever else he is," Avery says quietly to Calden, "he's a true believer."
Calden WhiteCalden is a bit more plainspoken:
"I think he's a fucking cultist, Avery."
At least he's quiet about it, though. They keep their voices down. He does his best to look like he's sweet-talking his lady rather than ... gossiping. Or plotting. Or something. They make their way to the dining hall, but they take their sweet time about it, and Calden detours Avery over to a painting on the wall. They stand in front of it admiringly for a moment. He adds:
"He had a little cross tattooed on his wrist. So did Crenshaw. I'll keep an eye out, but I wouldn't be surprised if everyone connected to this little charity had some tie to this House of Covenant of God of Cults And Extraterrestrials... or whatever it's called."
A moment's pause.
"Should we go to dinner at all?"
Avery Chase"Any church with a name like that usually is," Avery says quietly as they drift towards dinner. "Claims of absolute truth, mandatory attendance, strict hierarchy, charismatic leaders, isolation of the inner circle from the outer circle from everyone else in the world..."
She exhales. "Some of what he said was untrue. Nothing immediately, glaringly dangerous, but unsettling." A beat. "Certainly enough to justify advising my father that we decline to donate further than the price of the tickets for tonight's event."
Her hand slips down his arm, to his hand, slipping her fingers through his. He is walking them towards a painting, and she lets him, turning to face him. He pauses and asks her if they should leave. She wonders if she should go make herself throw up that canape just to be on the safe (if a bit paranoid) side. Avery puts her lips together. "Yes," she says after a moment of thought. "I want to hear what else they have to say. Mr. Richards was only one angle of illumination."
They start heading towards the dining hall, passing through to take their seats. "Perhaps... leave the food be, however," she murmurs to him. "Just in case."
TwilightThey are seated at a table for eight. Six strangers, or rather four, as two of seats are never claimed by other attendees. The meal is very well-prepared but suffers as all banquet food suffers from requirements of serving en masse and all at once. It follows an orderly progression with wine and beer pairings from amuse bouche to a cold summer soup to salad and so on, while a pleasant hum swims in the air all around them.
At the front of the ballroom, on a raised dais a number of principles are seated at a long straight table, facing out over the crowd. Jack and Donna Crenshaw, of course. Their daughter Cara Crenshaw White, a key policy analyst for the mayor of Denver a few seats down, though she is not joined by her husband tonight. Several of the locals put on display during cocktail hour are up there, as well as an older man, gray hair streaked with brown, seated next to a very attractive thirty-something with blonde hair. Both are dressed a bit more modestly than the Crenshaws, though rather better than the locals.
After the main course, Jack Crenshaw gets up to make a brief speech thanking everyone for their support and generousity, complimenting the attendees on their committment to their fellow human beings. It is brief and positive and gracious, and then he invites his wife up to the podium. Where she introduces Carlos and Christina Black, directors of rEEntry, "which has been such a boon and blessing to so many men and women of Colorado," Donna enthuses. Without really enthusing because, well. Her face just doesn't move.
Carlos offers a brief benediction. Then, beaming at his much younger and much more attractive young wife, he cedes the floor to Christina Black.
--
She is a woman of modest height, mid-thirties, attractive without being too noticeable, until one takes a solid framing look at her and sees, somehow, how very well put together she is. And when she's left alone at the podium, she takes a minute squinting against the spotlight, leaning forward over the stand to squint at the audience against the glare.
"I'm so sorry y'all," is how she begins, a faint southern accent to her voice. "I'm not accustomed to talking to such a well-dressed audience. We serve whoever comes in and we don't care what they're wearing. That's the promise we're making to you tonight too; that's what the Healing Place will do. Bring the message and light of god's mercy to people who have forgotten that the word exists.
"That's what you all are helping us to do.
"The people are in darkness. Now, you may look at me - I was raised in the church. My father was a preacher, and my father's father was a preacher, and the light of god was in my heart from the time I knew how to breath - and you may look at me and say what darkness can she know. How can she understand what her flock sees on the streets of this city every day.
"We live in the darkness every single day.
"When god made this world, he made it - temporary. Temporal, passing. But there are things in this world that the devil makes to hold us here. The way he digs his claws in and makes us value heroin or golf or trees or our diamonds and pearls more than His ineffable love.
"My friends, the truth is, this world was mean to end. And it must end soon, or we will be mired in the devil's filth for all eternity. The truth that most pastors will never tell you is that god meant to call us home before noon. And it is already past the dinner hour."
--
"So you see, we all walk in darkness. Swim in it. Sometimes in the shadow of addiction to drugs, but just as often in our addition to the temporal realities of our lives. As much as I thought I loved god my whole life, it wasn't until I met my husband, the Reverend Carlos Black, that I realized I'd spent all this time enshadowed and enslaved by this material world world, the way these unfortunate men and women and enshadowed and enslaved by the substances they covet the way King David covered Bathsheba.
"The final battle is coming soon. It must come. It has to come. If it does not, we will be trapped in this hell for eternity. So we wait, and we pray, and we work assiduously to bring about that joyful day. Creating his army, one saved soul at a time."
"What you do tonight in His name, you can not know. Every dollar we raise. Every soul we save. Every body we raise up and cleanse in His name is another soldier of god. Amen and Hallelujah."
Christina Black sits back down. Her husband smiles benignly at her as she does so.
What is remarkable, though, is the reaction of the crowd in the room. She's charming, yes. But so fucking insane. This is not the city for that sort of talk. This is not the crowd for that sort of talk, all dressed in black tie and cocktail attire. And yet: and yet, and yet -
- it starts somewhere in the back of the room, a slow drumbeat of applause. Gradually, the other audience members start to stand here and there, until it becomes a sustained standing ovation.
Calden WhiteDice: 7 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 3, 7, 8, 9, 9) ( success x 4 )
Avery Chase[willpower]
Dice: 6 d10 TN8 (3, 4, 6, 7, 9, 9) ( success x 2 )
Calden WhiteWhen that woman stood up, Calden was -- a little bored, really. Mildly expectant. When she starts talking, though: oh boy. When she starts talking, he feels his eyebrows wanting to rise. He feels them wanting to crawl all the way to the back of his head. Once or twice, he can't resist a glance around.
She's charming. But so fucking insane. And this is not the city, this is not the crowd, this is not at all the anything for this sort of talk. He can't believe they're not laughing her off the stage. He can't believe they're not shouting, demanding their five hundred a plate back, demanding their charity and their donations and their good faith back, because
she is fucking nuts.
But they're not. No one in this room is angry. Or disbelieving. They're all staring at her, they look rapt, they look like she is the voice of the One True God. Calden looks at his plate. He hasn't touched his food; just moved it around his plate and hid some under a pile of greenery. He looks at Avery, a quick scanning glance. He looks at The Woman again, and that's when she's building to her climax, that's when she's building to the rouse and the rally, and that
is when
Calden feels it too. That undeniable pull; the charisma and magnetism-of-presence that marks leaders and madmen -- and both-at-once. A muscle flexes in his jaw. Amen, sayeth The Woman, and Hallelujah.
Inexorable as a tsunami, the hall swells with applause. People are standing all around. Calden can't see any way out of it. He exchanges a glance with Avery, pushing his chair back, getting to his feet himself. And -- hidden by an avalanche of applause -- he leans over to murmur in her ear.
"Should we get out of here?"
Avery ChaseThe world was meant to end. And it must end soon.
Avery has touched her lips to glass but not sipped. She has moved food around on her plate, cut things up, spread them around, almost put food in her mouth but stopped short by asking a question or answering one. She has explained a mild allergy to avoid the soup, laughed softly that she's already tipsy to avoid wine. During the speeches and benedictions she has politely set everything down and aside, nodding to a waiter to go ahead and take her plate of very touched but uneaten food.
She listens attentively, her eyes and ears open, and something about those words strike her hard and deep and painfully. The world is coming to an end. It sorrows her. They, her people, are coming towards their end. They are filled with petty infights, self-loathing, distractions, seemingly insurmountable odds -- yes. The world is filthy, she can agree with that in many ways, and maybe ending it all would wipe the slate clean. Maybe that would help.
It's past the dinner hour. They were all supposed to Go Home a long, long time ago."
Avery blinks her eyes and shakes her head, like someone trying to shake off a ringing in their ear -- though that never works. She blinks repeatedly after that, exhaling, trying to wake up from something. Going home means dying. The world isn't filthy. The world is worth saving. There is no god as these people know it. It doesn't exist, as far as she knows, and if it does, it's a spirit who really got too big for its britches.
But the cadence of Christina's voice abates only for a moment, then the tide pulls Avery back under. The weird religious tone of everything, the fact that they're having a charity function for this cult-like church that is a James-Bond-themed casino night, full of gambling and sex and alcoholism and so forth -- it buzzes at the back of her mind, but does not wake her up completely. She can even sense the falsehood of some of it, the veil over every word out of Mrs. Black's mouth. Something pulls at her from another side: Christina Black, Cara Crenshaw White, it probably means nothing but it's odd and she notices it.
The final battle is coming, or they're all going to be trapped.
A part of Avery wants to crawl into a hole in the earth and let it come.
And then, just moments before applause, certain phrases begin to beat like drumbeats in her ears. Creating his army.
Every body we raise up.
Another soldier.
Calden, seated beside her, sees Avery bow her head and put her fingers to her brow, exhaling as though drained somehow, as though pained or dizzied. She swallows dryly. And from the back of the room, the applause rolls forward, washing over them. She closes her eyes and frowns, deeply, and then something goes through her. A jolt of energy, of conviction, of something. She lowers her hand, places it flat on the tablecloth, and pushes herself to her feet even as the room is giving Christina Black an ovation. Calden is getting to his feet, too, leaning to ask her if they should go, get out. She gives a small, short shake of her head
and waits out the applause.
And waits out the crowd. Even as their applause goes on and on and on and on. Even as finally, finally, they begin to quiet down, settle down, sit down.
Avery remains standing, in those viciously high heels and that glittering, ultramini dress and those sexy eyes and that artfully tousled hair and though she is one of the younger people in this room tonight, there is a moment where by merely holding herself the way she does,
she looks like a queen.
She's looking directly at Christina Black, and all those seated to either side of her like the goddamn Last Supper, with the aura of her moon -- waning in the sky even now -- and her tribe and her rage resting around her like a crown, a cape, a sceptre.
Avery doesn't speak right away. She doesn't need to. Try going into a room and ignoring her. Try seeing her standing there, shining, in a room full of seated sycophants, and pretend you don't notice she's staring you down.
Avery Chase[-1 WP!]
Twilight[aaand, stuffs?]
Dice: 6 d10 TN9 (1, 3, 4, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 2 )
Avery Chase[persuasion: charisma (spec.: charming not applicable) + subterfuge]
Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (1, 1, 2, 5, 7, 8) ( success x 2 )
Avery Chase[charisma (spec.: charming not applicable) + leadership (spec.: compelling) // diff -1 (successful persuasion)]
Dice: 8 d10 TN5 (1, 4, 5, 5, 8, 8, 8, 9) ( success x 6 )
Avery Chase[+pb]
Dice: 11 d10 TN5 (2, 2, 2, 2, 3, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 7 ) Re-rolls: 1
TwilightAnd so: Avery stands. Stands straight up, still and alert and staring at the people on the dais. The Blacks do not notice her presence immediately - after all, everyone else is standing too, applauding and they - particularly Christina - are basking in the applause. She fucking glows with it, as if she were absorbing and feeding on the adoration of the crowd.
Consuming it like a succubus.
If you look closely, she has a small, private, not remotely humble smile on her face.
But the applause begins to die down and people are resuming their seats and the dessert is being brought out so there's this murmur of renewed conversation as the dessert is being served. Calden may notice that... the conversation resumes more or less as it did before. Few people remark on the insanity of the speech, nor though do (many) seem to be parroting her apocalyptic vision of the world, or even remembering the substance of it. Not specifically, not directly.
But then there's Avery, still standing as the people at her table sit down. The others at the tables all around, also sit.
And now the ripple of applause is rippling back to something like normalcy, and the Silver Fang is still standing. The people at the dais do not notice yet but -
- ahh, listen. One of the couples at their table give each other a mildly confused look, then glance covertly at Avery, then stand up and leave. Another couple two tables away peel off after. A handful in the end, maybe 12 to 16 attendees seem to half-wake from their fog and give each other looks and stand up and slip away.
And as this fraction of her audience is being peeled away, Christina Black looks directly at Avery. Narrows her eyes and - smiles, a little jerk of her head toward someone waiting in the wings.
Calden can see Dwayne Richards and another large, tattooed man begin pacing through the crowd intent on their table.
TwilightManipulation + intimidation:
Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (3, 5, 5, 6, 6, 6, 9, 10) ( success x 5 )
Calden WhiteAwe is such a small word.
In ages past, the Nation rose and fought and bled and died at the word of the Silver Fangs: Avery's ancestors; Avery's prior incarnations. Even to this day, the Fenrir and the Fianna are still loyalist tribes, by and large. In moments like this, it's not hard to see why. True, they might be the mad kings. But Falcon's children are still the kings of wolfkind.
Calden had stood to go. But Avery does not leave. She does not slink away, or retreat. She stands her ground and she makes sure she is seen doing it. It is not a cunning thing to do. It does not afford her the protection of anonymity, or the upper hand of a future ambush. It is perhaps not even the thing to do if one wishes to remain alive. But it is righteous. It is courageous. And it is -- Calden realizes -- exactly in line with everything he's seen of her thus far.
So he doesn't leave, either. He stands with her. The two of them in a room gone mad with applause: silent and stoic.
The tide washes out. The audience retakes their seats. They don't talk about the speech. They don't gush about it. They don't thrill about it. They may as well have forgotten, which Calden does notice -- but not half so well as he notices those two large men coming their way.
He wants to reach out for Avery's hand. To protect her, or perhaps to share her strength. He can't say which it is himself. Maybe it's both. He doesn't, though. It would see like weakness: lovers linking hands in the face of calamity, and all. He clenches his hand to a fist, and he clasps his hands behind his back.
Stands his ground, too.
Calden White[will toss a -1WP to stand firm against a 5 succ manip+intim!]
Avery ChaseTwo. Four. A dozen. Sixteen. It isn't much, in a room this size. It is enough to be noticable. It is enough to put a dent in Christina Black's dinner for the evening, which does not appear to be prime rib or the vegetarian option, which is a (rather dry) risotto. No, Avery catches that look on Christina's face, and she sees it for what it is. Succubi do not have a monopoly on feeding off the adoration of a crowd. Leadership is a burden and a duty. Basking in adulation for that leadership, however, is an addiction, and one Avery has been trained all her life to watch herself for.
She knows that she made an impact on the woman. Enough to satisfy her. Enough to get two, four, a dozen, sixteen people -- and their money -- away from this madwoman.
Avery can feel Calden standing with her. She did not doubt that he would. She did not think he would sit meekly behind her and stare up at her in awe. She did not think he would slink out like those who, shaken from their stupor, only want to escape. She knows that, even to his own shock and horror, he was willing to save a bullet, accept a saved bullet, if necessary. Whatever else there is between them, he has strength of character, he has integrity, and of course he would stand with her. All the same, she feels a tightness in her chest, a gratitude that saves her from so much of the madness consuming her tribe.
Christina nods to someone; Avery does not take her eyes off the woman. She stares at her, though intimidation is far from her strong suit. She is not trying to intimidate her. Avery knows who has the upper hand here. She can tell: Christina is summoning someone to deal with them. And if Avery were a mortal woman, she would be wary. She might even be afraid. But Avery knows that even if they are not true men, true mortals, she could very likely tear them limb from limb if they laid a hand on her. But she won't. And she wouldn't.
She knows her limits. She knows her weaknesses.
She knows Calden didn't bring a firearm this evening.
In what time she has, Avery speaks.
"I know who your final battle is really against, Christina," she says, her voice leve but pitched to carry, pitched to ring through the room. There's a strange softness to it, a luxurious persuasiveness. A gentleness, a velvet glove over an iron fist. "I know what you're afraid of, out there in the darkness. I've seen it, too."
Maybe the woman up there, maybe certain members of her goon squad, certainly Calden know what she means: I've seen it. I am it.
Her voice lowers, reverbating through what is now near-silence: "It's going to fight back."
She is done talking to Christina Black. She looks towards the men coming her way, a brief and quelling glance, then looks at Calden. She nods at the door, and turns to go.
Calden WhiteGod, Calden should be terrified. There's a woman up there preaching doomsday and brimstone. She's sent two or more of her goons at Avery and him. There's a roomful of people quite possibly in the process of transforming from rich Republican to brainwashed zombie (hold the there's no difference jokes, please), and he suspects they just might go full-on cannibal at a snap of Christina Black's fingers. They're outnumbered, surrounded, and they have no backup.
Calden is not terrified.
Calden is fucking exhilarated.
It's hard for him not to grin in sheer delight, in shared triumph, in utterly ungentlemanly smugness as Miss Avery Chase, quite plainly put, stuffs Missus Christina Black. Hell -- it's hard for him not to turn around and yank his trousers down and moon the room in a reliving of his rowdier younger days.
He managed to hold on to his dignity, though. He falls in beside Avery, flanking her, shadowing her all the way out. No one bars their way. When the doors shut behind them he reaches out, takes her hand. They're going down the stairs when he steps a little closer and slips her hand through his arm instead. Handsome couple; the woman all mod-chic, the man much more classic in that timelessly cut tuxedo. He leans closer to murmur in her ear:
"That might have been the bravest, boldest, sexiest thing I've ever seen you do to date. Let's blow this joint and get burgers and fries for dinner. Then you should take me home."
Avery ChaseAvery stares her down. Men approach them and she ignores them. Calden ignores them. She turns and walks out, and he turns after her, walks with her, though not at her back. Avery doesn't allow it. She is slipping her arm in the crook of his as soon as they turn. He's her escort. It's his job to walk out beside her.
It also keeps him near. It keeps him close enough to be shielded if they so much as breathe on him wrong. But as they walk out of the Grand Hyatt, her steps are steady and her head is high and no one molests them. They are followed out, but only to make sure they leave. And her car is not waiting, but as soon as they walk to the curb she's taking out her phone and texting Chauncey and Calden is leaning closer, exhilarated. He can feel her all but vibrate with tension, though, and she turns her hand to cup his shoulder, squeeze him there.
"I need to call my father," she says, focused, intent. Then a pause: "No. I'll text him. He'll still be on his date."
Boggling. She can't even say it, even now, without boggling. She blinks, shakes her head, and turns to actually look at him. She processes what he said just seconds ago and huffs a laugh. "That?" she says, as though she can't fathom what he means: brave, bold, sexy. He's so ridiculous. Avery leans over and kisses him, though, full and warm but somehow light, crisp,
sweet as wine.
She's smiling when she draws back. The Bentley is pulling around. "I should never have told you I have a weakness for McDonald's fries, darling."
Calden WhiteThat shoulder she squeezes is exactly the way it's always been, and exactly the way she knew he'd be: so solid, so warm, so thick with muscle and heavy with bone. Looking at them right now -- standing on the curb, waiting for her car -- one could never imagine that she was somehow the more terrifying of the pair. One almost can't imagine the shining, glorious thing she was in there, looking in the eye of the enemy and telling it:
I see you.I know you.I'm coming to get you.
She needs to tell her father. She needs to call -- no, text. She looks briefly nonplussed. He laughs a little, and then she does too, and then she leans over and kisses him. His hand touches her waist through that dress of hers, that glittering ultrashort thing.
And then he laughs. Not a little, but fully, easily, as if they didn't just walk out of the mouth of the dragon. "You really shouldn't have," he agrees, and takes her hand, and
opens the back door of the Bentley for her. Poor Chauncey.
Calden joins her from the opposite door. He opens it for himself, slides in, closes it. While Avery tells Chauncey where they're going -- perhaps it's Chauncey's turn to boggle now -- he buckles himself in. Then he reaches across the leather and takes her hand again.
"I have a houseguest," he says. It seems out of the blue, but he goes on: "She's a Fianna, a kid. Well; I guess she's only about five or six years younger than you. But she's young." He shrugs. "She invited herself to stay on and off for a month, along with her packmates. Bit longer than I would've preferred, and I could've done without the random packmates crashing in my guest suite, but; well. Hospitality. The quality of the guest doesn't determine the quality of the host. And anyway, I think she means well. She's just ... a kid.
"Point is: she mentioned something about this, I think. I didn't put it together until just now. She said something about... checking out some crazy church or other. Truth is I didn't really pay attention to the details when she told me. I didn't think it'd affect me." He looks at Avery. "You might want to talk to her though. Her name's Tamsin. I don't know if you have some other way of getting in touch with her, but you can always call me. If she's in the guest room I'll get her on the line for you."
Avery ChaseThere's a moment there, when Calden's hand is on her waist, when she looks in his eyes and knows how much he wants her. Riotously, happily, the sort of want that will have him tumbling her into bed and play-growling as he goes at her neck, her breasts, pushing his pants out of his way as he goes. Her lips twitch into a glossy smile.
The Bentley slides smoothly into view, and the driver's door opens, but Calden grabs her door. Avery gives him a gently chastising look, because Chauncey must be so disgruntled, even if his face doesn't show it. But not for long: by the time Calden has closed the door behind Avery's legs, Chauncey is holding the rear door on the other side open for Calden. He's not so cheeky to raise an eyebrow or anything like that; he holds it open, and Calden gets in, and Chauncey closes it behind him.
Moments go by, mere moments, before they're on their way. Chauncey is too fine a servant to boggle, just as he is too fine a servant to show his disgruntledness or be bothered, really, whatsoever, no matter what Avery thinks he might feel.
In the back seat, Calden reaches for her hand as the Bentley eases away from the curb and rejoins traffic. She doesn't buckle herself in. She also waves Calden's hand off for a moment, since she's using both hands to text. This is important. But when she's hit SEND, she lets him have her hand. She smiles at him. She shakes her head a little, simultaneously sharing and worried by his thrill. He has a houseguest. Avery blinks, about to tell him they are not driving all the way out to his place tonight, not after that, not when she just found out what's happening in the city, but he's just... telling her. She's Fianna, and she's staying there. Off and on.
Avery's brow lifts at the connection, though. "I will," she says levelly, when Calden says he should talk to her. Her hand squeezes his. "Thank you for telling me."
She leans over, kissing his cheek, then draws back. "You'll stay away from them, won't you?" she asks him, suddenly, her brows furrowed. "That woman's voice... she nearly captivated me, Calden."
Calden WhiteThat grounds Calden, at least a little. Someone it never occurred to him that she, Avery, shining thing that she is, could have been swayed or tempted. He pauses. His brow knits too, if only a little. Then --
then he wraps his arms around her. Pulls her against his side, hugging her tight. "Of course I'll stay away from her," he murmurs. "Don't worry about me. Are you all right?"
Avery ChaseAt the gala, Calden was reserved with her. He wanted to maul her as soon as he saw her, to be sure, but he kept his hands to himself other than what is expected and suitable for public consumption: holding her hand over the crook of his arm, entwining their fingers. And then they confronted Christina Black. And then he was elated at her side, reaching for her arm, her hand, and now positively glomping her to his side, and each embrace and each touch is different in flavor, in tone, in feeling. This one is not lustful. Or elated. It is something else. Avery is startled, then laughing, her hand coming to lay lightly on his chest. The arch of her body where he tugs her close makes the shortness of that cocktail dress all the more apparent, but she doesn't reach down to start adjusting her hemline. Her fingers drum gently on his shirt-front.
"Of course, darling," she says, the term she uses most often for him now, even above filthy bastard or you brute. She settles where she is, head to his shoulder, smiling. "Just --"
She pauses, thoughtful. "I wonder who supplies their food. They have to feed people in that program."
Calden WhiteShe doesn't reach down to adjust her hemline. He does, though. Calden: gentleman. Even if his fingers do linger there, right at the hem, for just a moment too long,
as if considering drawing it up instead.
Her fingers drum. He smiles again, and so does she -- independently; they don't really see each other. Her head settles against his shoulder and he smooths her hem down after all, his hand staying there, warm against the outside of her thigh.
"Are you thinking the food itself might be tainted? I did notice you didn't touch a bite, either." Which is why they're going for MickeyD's now. "Or are you thinking you might be able to get their food supplier to work for you somehow? Cleanse them with food?" He can't help a laugh -- "A genuine detox diet. You could make a fortune, Avery."
Avery ChaseHis fingertips catch on her hose; of course they do, because he is so rough and she and everything she owns and wears are so fine. They are made of silk; what is a callous against silk? And when he catches so does her breath, a hitch in her throat, because however fancy she acts, however important her phone call or her text or however playful she is she wants him with a fervency and constancy that is easiest, simplest, to chalk up to Sexual Chemistry. Just that, though. Avery's breath hitches. Calden decides to adjust her hem over her upper thigh instead of sliding his hand under and up, or simply baring her, for the sake of baring her.
After all, the Bentley is old-fashioned; there is no privacy screen between the two of them and her driver, her Chauncey. Not that Chauncey would notice, or if he did, not that he would show it.
They smile, and he holds her, and she taps her fingers on his shirt thoughtfully. Her mind is always working; as brilliant as she is to look at, as bold as she is when she rises to her feet in a crowded room, it is no wonder.
"I think it could be," she says to the first. "It's a common way that the Wyrm poisons people." A pause. "Actually, I was thinking if you had any contacts in the industry, you might be able to find something out." Her hand strokes down his shirt, rests against his stomach. "A passing thought."
Calden White"I'd be glad to," Calden replies gallantly, and with an immediacy that suggests he might have offered himself sooner rather than later. "I can't promise I'll uncover anything interesting, but I'll ask around."
His hand covers hers, holding it nestled between his palm and the smooth front of his shirt; beneath the cut of his jacket. They really are glomped quite close, particularly considering how polite and proper they were at the gala. Which reminds him --
"James Bond casino night," he muses. "You can't say the Wyrm doesn't know how to throw a party." He laughs quietly. His hand squeezes hers. He watches the world slide tranquilly by outside."What will you do?" he asks, quieter. "I don't want you to confront her alone."
Avery ChaseAvery's driver is not taking them to the house. He's only been there once, he's barely been introduced to her brother, and not her father yet. She is not going to have him stay the night with her in that palace, fucking her hard and sweet into the mattress, making her bite back noisier gasps. Certainly not. The very idea of it.
The very idea of it makes her feel aroused. But: she breathes in as he talks of James Bond and rolls her eyes. "Men and Bond," she says, with a slight shake of her head. Her hand is under his, and she doesn't mind that much. She closes her eyes. Her driver isn't taking them to her condo yet, either. They are drawing into a McDonald's drive-thru. There's a car ahead of them.
"I would never be so foolish," Avery tells him, without opening her eyes, without ruffling, without growing angry at him for even mentioning it. Her tone is mild, her words are firm. "And: I will speak with other garou who may know more, and we will make plans. I will defer to those who are in higher ranks, and I will advise those who lead in battle against making stupid choices. If necessary, I will lead myself. I will do my duty under the Law, and we will scour these ministers of corruption from the city, even if we must use their own blood to cleanse it."
Her eyes open. Chauncey pulls forward a few more inches.
"I think," she says, "I would like a double quarter pounder, with no cheese, a large fries, and a. Vanilla. Shake."
Chauncey, then: "Medium or large, miss?"
Avery lifts her head from Calden, looking at him. "Do you want to share it? Because large, then. And if not, then a medium."
Calden WhiteNow there's a sight rarely seen in the drive-thru of a very ordinary McDonald's: a long Bentley black as night, very obviously piloted by a chuaffeur. Chauncey probably even wears a smart-but-austere suit and white gloves. In the back -- little more than shadows through the privacy tint -- a man and a woman, a lady and her gent, all dolled up in evening wear with just a touch of costume flair.They order double quarter pounders. Two of them. One with cheese, one without. They order two large fries. They order --"Large," Calden says, of the vanilla shake. He's quite decisive about it. And then he leans back as the car advances from the ordering intercom to the payment window, settling back with Avery, his arm coming around her shoulders again."If it's all the same to you," he keeps it light, at least. He makes that attempt to mask himself, "I'd rather you didn't cleanse anything with your own blood."
Avery ChaseCalden fools nobody. Avery doubts he even knows how to tell a lie. She smiles at him, while Chauncey gives their order, then lifts her chin and kisses his cheek. "Of course not, darling. Their blood. Always their blood. Silly thing."
Calden WhiteAvery doubts that. And Avery would be -- !
...well. Right, for the most part. What little dissemblance he's capable of is mostly of the polite, white, face-saving sort. Which might be why he grins with nearly palpable pleasure to be kissed like that on his cheek. His rather clean-shaven cheek, tonight.
Moments later a large brown paper bag full of grossly unhealthy food arrives. Calden doesn't wait to get wherever it is Avery is taking him. He unrolls the top immediately and passes her a carton of fries, a burger. The vanilla shake goes into a cupholder on her side. For his part, Calden goes straight for the burger, unwrapping it, sinking his teeth into it hungrily, mmphing at the taste. Though, given his predilection for microwaved toxicburgers, perhaps he's not the most reliable witness in this particular case.
"I need to stop dining at your expense," he muffles out through a mouthful of food-at-her-expense. "Very impolite of me -- god, I was starving."
Avery ChaseNeither of them is a liar. Perhaps not from lack of talent or skill, perhaps merely from honor, but neither of them engage much in falsehood. He smiles like that, honest and open about it, and Avery rubs her nose on his cheek. She's so pleased with herself. She toys with his shirt front, but no more. It's a hint, only, of what she would like to do with him after they eat. After:
Calden devours that cheese-laden quarter pounder. Double. After she scarfs hers down as well, just as heartily and eagerly, as though she burnt all of her energy tonight in that room, which she didn't, but it feels like it a little bit. She eats her fries and he says something about dining at her expense and she gives his leg a gentle kick with her ankle, a side-swipe as the Bentley is pulling back onto the road to take them to her condo. Chauncey is about to have a fit because they're eating in the car, but he knows better.
When she has swallowed, she looks at him: "You brought the steaks. You cooked the elk. And," she adds, with a half-serious frown, "I don't want to trade off or keep score about that."
Calden WhiteWell; she starts to side-swipe him. And she does make contact. But then so does he: reaching down, catching her ankle in his palm, smiling.
"All right," he promises. "No score-keeping.
"I like it, though," Calden adds a moment later. He's released her foot by then; leaned back again, unwrapping his rapidly diminishing burger a little more. "Bringing you food. Cooking. Well; I just enjoy your company. You know that. But I do ... like ... feeding you." The laugh is embarrassed. "That was one of the odder things I've said."
Avery ChaseWhen his hand cups around her ankle, catching it to his side, Avery lets it rest there. Their legs touch, side to side, as she picks up the vanilla shake and takes a drink, and he lets her leg go. She eats. He says one of the 'odder' things he's ever said to her, in his mind, and Avery's eyes slant to him, a smile cutting her lips.
"No," she says quietly, "I understand entirely."
And when you understand entirely, you do not need to explain it. She just smiles, and now she quiets, eating with him, because they aren't going to keep score and he isn't going to feel embarrassed for saying that he enjoys feeding her, providing meat or wine or whatever else she might need. Chauncey drives them back towards the condo, which she is selling, but has not packed up.
Calden WhiteThis time, when he laughs, the embarrassment is gone. This time, it's the sound she's come to know rather well: warm and low, rough at the edges. "I suppose you would," he murmurs, and
the car drives on.
They demolish their strange little banquet. They eat their burgers -- wolf them down, one might say -- and they eat the fries while they're still hot. He gives her a few of his. Since she likes them so much, he says. She can tell he's teasing her. He shares the milkshake with her, two straws in the same cup, their trash gradually filling up the paper bag that once held their food.
The car smells like fast food by the time they arrive. Chauncey will likely clean it in a frenzy as soon as they've left. Calden feels a little bad, truth be told, so to make up for it he lets Chauncey get Avery's door this time. He even gives the man an apologetic smile as he comes around, murmuring a sorry for the state of the Bentley.
Then Avery's hand slips around his elbow. They go inside. There's no reason for them to stand this close in the elevator, but that is how they stand: a handsome couple, tall, gorgeous people in their fancy clothes.
Which they begin to shed almost as soon as the door to her condo closes behind them. But not furiously, and not fervently. She goes first, strolling into the spaces of her soon-to-be-ex-home. Her keys clatter onto some waiting surface or other. He, stepping out of his shoes, watches her go: his regard sharpening as he sees her slipping her heels off.
He follows her. She lifts her dress up; lets it fall. She doesn't look back, but she can hear him behind her, can hear the rustle of clothing as he strips out of his coat. Undoes his tie. Unbuttons his shirt and his pants. In her bedroom she turns to face him. His eyes are on hers, and then on her body as she sheds her lingerie piece by piece. He pushes his trousers and his underwear down as one. It's the first time she's seen him wear anything but those rumpled old boxers of his: dove-grey boxer-briefs this time, conforming to the strong lines of his body, unadorned and unassuming. When he steps out of that puddle of clothing he leaves behind she comes to him
and he lifts her in a single smooth rise
tumbles her onto her bed. That grin breaks over his face as he covers her. He kisses her like that for a long time, his body heavy over hers, warm and hard between the silken stroke of her legs. Perhaps it doesn't surprise her, though, when he starts to slip down her body. When he slides down her length, kissing her all along the way, pausing to adore those breasts of hers with his hands, with his tongue, but not for very long.
He's smoothly shaven. Even now there's only the barest beginnings of bristle to his jaw. He goes down on her with no hesitation at all, and not the faintest shred of reluctance; of anything but unrelenting hunger. Eagerness. His mouth is on her, his tongue is all over her, he eats her out until she's moaning, until she's writhing, until he's growling, until she's coming.
Afterward he sits back on his heels. He has that look in his eyes, heavy and satisfied and hungry all at once. He wipes his mouth on his palm
and then he slicks his cock with his palm, rubs her fluids into his, smooths it all over. God, he can be shameless. He comes up the bed and she pulls him to her; he rolls on his back as he goes to her, and she swings over him. Her body is still liquid. Her skin is so soft beneath his hands, and he touches her everywhere, explores every inch of her that he can reach. She guides him inside; sees the way his eyes ache with the feel of her, sees the way his eyes close, overcome.
She is kissing him when he comes. He is kissing her, and then he is losing that kiss, losing his mind, losing himself in her. His lips are parted at the end. He groans into her mouth, grasping at her hips, the musculature of flank and abdomen tight; barely moving. Letting her ride him out, finish him off, take what she wants, give him what he needs. When it's over,
when it's over his eyes open. He looks at her and he wraps his hand behind her head, kisses her again with his eyes open, his mouth soft. She comes down over him. He wraps his arms around her. They don't get up to shower, though perhaps they should. If she starts to rise, though, he pulls her gently back. Stay, he whispers. Stay with me.
And so she does. And so they work their way under the covers, and he stays close to her; he keeps her close to him. There's a gentle ache in his embrace. There's a protectiveness there, too.
