Ian
It's late by the time Ian arrives at the Diamond
Cabaret. Somewhere close to midnight, and he's tired enough from
performing that he could conceivably claim ignorance as to the nature of
this particular establishment. When River texted him, she didn't offer
up any sort of warning. But let's face it: Ian knows exactly what this
place is. He doesn't need to have been here, or even googled the
website, to know that a place called the Diamond Cabaret is almost certainly a strip club. And if he wasn't one hundred percent certain before he arrived, he is now.
There's
a moment after he parks his car in the lot where he looks out at the
building, awash in a glow of blue and orange light, and contemplates
whether this is something he actually wants to do. Maybe it's the
exhaustion talking, but in the end he gives this little huff of laughter
and gets out of the car.
Fuck it. Why not.
So
he goes in. The girl at the door is pretty and attentive, and she
smiles at him as he walks past. The interior of the club is plush and
faux-decadent, as higher-end strip clubs often are. There's a room
nearby featuring a display case full of imported cigars, which might be
the most heterosexual thing he's seen all day. He doesn't sit down
immediately. Instead he looks out over the layout of the club, searching
for some sign of River's vaguely-familiar face.
He's dressed
appropriately enough, all things considered. His jeans are a designer
label, and the leather jacket he has on over his t-shirt looks
expensive. But he isn't suited up like some of the other clientele.
River
Well
and so, she had to actually go to work. The community was small enough
that she couldn't No Call/No Show at the club and, frankly, she still
had Work to do. Life had to go on, despite the fact that she was now
sleeping in a bathtub at a hotel with her former mentor and they were
not exactly on the best of terms. The bathtub, oddly enough, had been
her idea. River actually slept in the bathtub even when they were
on good terms, having since concluded that she liked the enclosed space
and the occasional feeling of cold porcelain on her skin juxtaposed
with a nice blanket. She usually came in a few moments before sunrise
anyway, slept a little bit, and then continued her day.
Admittedly,
having a random woman covered in glitter sleeping in a bathtub scared
the ever loving shit out of housekeeping. Without the lights on, she
looked a bit like a dead body and then people had to wonder oh god, is there a dead stripper in the bathtub or is she sleeping? The answer is not usually don't worry, she's just sleeping
so inevitably she gets woken up by housekeeping, vacates the room to go
swimming or do yoga or whatever it is she does in the morning, and then
crawls back into the tub to go back to sleep.
River is at
work, and she isn't dressed like a cowgirl or a cheerleader- she's
wearing a cocktail dress. And not an excuse for a cocktail dress,
either, not something lycra stretchable I-can-see-practically-everything
number. Grant you, it's gold and covered in sequins, but it actually does
leave something to the imagination. River Vasquez rents space; she
doesn't intend on giving people a show that they didn't explicitly pay
her for. She had been talking to a business man, presumably. Someone
with graying hair and a tan who brought out a wiry, nervous looking sort
with him. The table smelled like Big Oil money, like people who made
their fortunes in black gold and they were showing their new accountant a
good time from out of town.
Her eyes go to the door, the way
everyone's eyes go to the door when someone new comes in and she smiles,
barely grazes the older man's shoulder and flashes him a smile. He
calls her a Mexican rose. (Cuban, she corrects, laughs but
corrects) and she continues on her way to go greet the rather
attractive, probably exhausted man who just entered.
"You made
it," she told him, smile bright but not too bright; he can probably
figure as to why. She puts on a great face for the clients- flexible.
River is flexible, "Janette is running the bar tonight, if you want
anything I can cover it."
Ian
He spots River
near a group of business men, her gold cocktail dress winking and
glittering in the warm light. She looks busy, so he doesn't immediately
approach her. Instead he offers a subtle nod of acknowledgment when she
looks his way. There's a girl carrying a tray of empty glasses who
brushes past him and asks, in a trained and flirty voice, if he'd like a
drink. But River is already heading his way, so he declines. When she
gets to his side, he smiles and quirks an eyebrow just slightly. This
knowing little look that says - you did not tell me you worked at a
strip club.
But he doesn't give her a hard time - because he
gets it. And besides, he's seen much worse than this place before. Given
a slightly different set of circumstances, he could very well have
ended up doing something similar.
"I could probably use a bourbon, if you have any good ones."
He
could use more than one. But probably not as much as River could. Ian
doesn't know yet that River just lost her cabal-mate. He doesn't know
that she's been sleeping in a bathtub. There are a lot of things he
doesn't know - yet.
"I like your dress," he adds. "Do you dance here?" There's a nod of his head toward the stage.
River
River
must be a phenomenal dancer on stage because she is not, in fact, the
most flirtacious of the people in the area. Keeps her sense of personal
space just that- personal. Is personable enough that she can convince
people that they want to buy her time versus being able to enjoy it
without a price. Supply and demand, and in the particular business she
is in? River has learned to be able to market herself as a very limited
product.
"Widow Jane, eight years straight?" she asks for a
confirmation. They have some pretty good bourbon here, as far as she
knows. River knows what she gets in her flask at the beginning of her
night off, knows that she cracked open a bottle with Janette recently
and knows that the deep cherry notes are not always everyone's cup of
tea.
Or, in this case, glass of bourbon.
She
compartmentalizes well. Puts things away and handles herself whens he
has a job to do and, provided there isn't anything to churn her stomach,
she might be able to handle it. Or, perhaps, the distance is her way of
mourning, being unavailable even if it comes down to people who don't
matter. Whatever the case. "I do, dance here, I mean," she tells him,
"I'm main stage in about ten minutes if you want to stay? I don't know
if this is your preferred location and I kind of feel like I need to
ward people off so you can actually, you know, relax without being hit
up for a lap dance."
A second, and she realizes he
complimented her dress and she laughs, looks up, "oh! Yes, thank you.
It's hard to take off, which is actually why I like it."
Ian
Widow Jane,
she suggests, and Ian smiles, nodding in confirmation. The two of them
head to the bar and he leans back against it on two elbows, casual and
languid. This place may not be his preferred haunt, but he's far from
uncomfortable. There's a glance thrown to the bartender when they get
there. River confirms that she's about to go on stage and Ian laughs
when she suggests it might not be safe to leave him alone.
"Are
you worried about the dancers or the customers?" Because all things
considered, she could have meant either one. "I don't think I could
afford a lap dance here," he observes. And although he's teasing it
isn't entirely untrue. He's wearing a thousand dollar jacket and three
hundred dollar jeans but that kind of clothing budget leaves precious
little expendable income when one dances ballet for a living (even
taking into account the investments he set up back when he was
modeling.) Sometimes appearances can be deceiving. And Ian, well... he's
all about appearance, isn't he?
"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."
River
She
does order him a drink, and true to her word does put it on her tab,
which she actually has open. Orders a bourbon with him because,
sometimes, you need to drink with the clients. Also, River just lost a
friend. A very, very dear friend; the boss seemed to stay away from her
for the week because she came to work on Saturday and spent half of the
day crying backstage. Grant you, in some establishments this is not an
uncommon sight. For the Diamond Cabaret, this made management concerned.
She
said she'd lost a family member, didn't say which one. Let one of the
bouncers give her a hug because (ironically) she found him incredibly
non-threatening.
"Dancers, mostly? The customers are more like
islands- so long as you don't overlap they're fine. I haven't run into
too many-" she makes a little uncomfortable sound, takes a sip of her
bourbon (she takes it neat, thank you), "-you know. Overly familiar
people."
"It's not a bad place to work, but I'm an independent contractor right now."
So
despite the fact that this was the kind of place where your lapdances
might cost more than the standard twenty? She wasn't raking in much in
terms of take home.
Ian
Given the clientele,
he's also probably not their type. Ian, of course, knows this. It's more
likely that one of them might sit down and try to make small talk than
ask him for a lap dance. River says it's not a bad place to work - that
she hasn't run into too many overly familiar people, but when she makes
that little sound Ian affords her a careful gaze. He knows what she
means by that. Knows why she might want to wear a dress that wasn't easy
for straying hands to remove.
He picks up his bourbon and
breathes it in for a moment before taking a drink. The taste is smooth
and warm and it makes his tired muscles uncoil a little.
"Yeah,
it seems alright." (For a strip club.) Ian's gaze slides over the room,
taking in the atmosphere. There's an older man a few seats away who's
getting a lap dance from a girl who's wearing significantly less fabric
than River is, and Ian watches this with an almost clinical gaze - like
maybe he's analyzing her technique.
His eyes sweep back to
River. "Provided you don't mind the work." It isn't really stated in a
judgmental way. More... questioning. Some people take off their
clothes for a living because they like it. Some people do it because
they have to.
"There are naked pictures of me on the internet, so I can't really judge."
River
"I find the idea of being able to hang seven feet in the air by my thigh muscles alone to be ridiculously
empowering," she laughed, took another sip of her drink. She's got
about half of it left and she knows better than to leave it, doesn't
make enough to feel particularly good about tossing it but, there she
was. Pushing it back to the bar and giving the bartender a little
unvoiced thank you. The drink goes away. She's smart about what she
drinks, doesn't leave things unattended and knows she can't really enjoy
her drink if she's still working.
River took a few steps
back, impossible heals and completely comfortable in them. They can't be
much different than pointe shoes, she thinks sometimes. Except, of
course, when they are different. And they are different, heels
distribute differently.
"I like the style, but I don't much
care for people taking liberties they think a twenty affords them," she
says. Probably shouldn't say while she's at work but the woman is frank.
She smiles something quiet and pleased, "I'm gonna go get ready.
Mainstage, my time slot. I had to do a lot of negotiating to get it so I
don't want to miss."
Ian
He laughs at that, because he gets it. There's so
much ritual and expression and power in the kinds of things they do -
the way they work their bodies. Maybe it's different for her than it is
for him. People dance for all kinds of reasons. But empowering certainly isn't a bad word for it.
She
slides the rest of her drink back across the bar. Ian's eyes follow the
movement and almost he wants to tell her not to waste it, but he gets
that too - why she doesn't leave it. Even with him there (perhaps
especially with him there.) This is not a place for blind trust.
She has to go get ready. Ian nods toward the stage. "Go do your thing. I'll be here when you get done."
Once
she's gone, he takes his drink and finds a seat closer to the stage,
settling down into the plush cushions with perhaps a bit less comfort
than his relaxed body language would imply. The chair, see, it has a
smell to it. All the chairs here do. He can pick it up better than most -
the lingering traces of old pheromones woven into the fabric.
There's
a man a few seats away who looks at him like he doesn't belong there.
Ian just sips his drink and pointedly avoids eye contact.
River
[Dex+art (dance), diff 6 - 1 (aptitude!)= 5. Let's see how this actually goes?]
Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (1, 2, 3, 4, 4, 8, 9) ( success x 3 ) [Doubling Tens] [WP]
River
She
disappears off to back room/dressing room because she does have to get
ready. It's a production, after all, even if she's on for all of three
minutes but it's a solid three and a half minutes of actually focusing
on what she's doing while simultaneously trying to make money. She has
to get her head in the game.
River's head, most definitely, is not in the game.
She
looks in the mirror, is in the process of pinning her hair up and away
from her face. She hasn't talked to too many of the other girls aside
from the perfunctory conversations. There's a strange aire of both
camaraderie and competition- everyone gets time, and frankly River got a
damned fine slot and she didn't necessarily operate like some of the
other dancers. More like she's channeling her inner courtesan. We
digress.
The lights dim and, after a few moments, she does
come out. Knows her audience, knows said audience might have a thing for
secretaries, or at the very least knew she could milk getting out of a
pencil skirt and a blouse for some time. The heels are impossibly high;
it seems to be a standard issue for the girls, something about the way
it makes the body move. It's an aesthetic. Beyonce plays, but it's a
slow song- Crazy in Love. Starts with a piano introduction and she walks
out- hips move.
Her lipstick is brick red. Cheekbones high. Lashes thick.
The
first few moments are punctuated with a purposeful gait and the
occasional moment of fairly intense eye contact with that poor
accountant that the big oil boys brought to the club. She moves and the
world feels like it's breaking down, for her at least. It's the motion
of the universe and she turns, a slow and purposeful moment where she's
slipping out of her skirt, the way that she has to push it off of her
hips before it just falls tot he ground, carefully discarded far enough
away that she won't slip on it, the blouse she's wearing is long but
when she takes herself back to the pole, drops down and there's a peek
of a garter belt and the hints of how very... very little she's wearing
beneath that shirt.
She smiles and it hits one side of her
mouth, closes her eyes because she doesn't want people to realize the
smile won't hit her eyes, doesn't want to break the illusion of
seduction, that there might be a room full of people but she's not
dancing for the other dozen people there. There is a moment when the
shirt disappears, the music intensifies and the motion to remove
clothing is more intense- more purposeful. The kind of frenzied
intensity that comes with passion and then there is art. The pole had
merely been there as an accessory, a prop to hold her up in moments
showing off provocative flexibility but at that moment she went from
mere seductress to acrobat.
River shouldn't be as strong as
she is, most of it is due to the fact that she's lighter than she looks,
keeps a relatively low bodyweight and practices the sort of control
necessary to maintain effortless spins and pirouettes and drops
(and she does drop, at one point, held high in the air when she;s taking
off her bra and she plummets with arms out and back arched and stops a foot above the ground. Walks herself outward and back like she's a gymnast.
The
climax of the music has ended, and the woman takes the time to collect
what she'd earned, comes close enough to people to accept whatever
they'd offer in rare moments. Her mascara is smudged, eyes bright and
glistening and the world threatens to fall apart, only to be built back
again.
She dances like a force of reverent entropy, like
everything comes together for a reason, for a price, and it will all end
just like the song does... but she'll dance anyway because it's life
affirming. It's in the almost half-hearted way that she collects her
money that it becomes clear-
River Vasquez would dance, even if she never saw another cent again. It's fundamental to who, and what, she is.
Ian
It's a good performance, technically speaking.
River has more grace and artistry than probably any exotic dancer
Ian has seen live. That alone catches his attention when she gets on
stage. The way she moves. The precision and the agility. To a dancer's
eyes, it's impressive. He knows how difficult some of those moves are.
And if his response to the dance is a slightly different sort of
interest than the men around him, they hardly notice. They aren't
looking at him.
There's an air of detachment about it though -
and he notices that too. Notices the way she plays the part without
fully feeling it. It's the only thing that keeps her from truly lighting
up the stage.
But he doesn't judge her for that.
The
other men in the audience shout encouragements at the stage, tossing
bills out to try and attract River's attention. Ian is the only one of
them who remains calm and seated throughout the whole performance. At
some point he finishes off his drink and sets the empty glass down,
leaning his head against a curled fist as he watches.
She's
beautiful - with or without her clothes. And it isn't as though he
doesn't notice that (of course he does.) Even appreciates it in this
quiet sort of way. But he doesn't look at her with hunger, the way many
of the other patrons do. Instead there is this reverent appreciation of
the dance itself - the skill and the seduction that she works on the
crowd.
When it's over, he watches her collect her earnings and
exit the stage. Then he stands up and migrates back to the bar to wait
for her.
River
The whole night is a
performance like that- someone has to know she's going through the
motions. People have to know that while River Vasquez is technically
superb she's not connected to this, as much as she isn't
connected to anything. She had connections, some didn't stay buried and
others don't get to rest in the ground; it's a difficult juxtaposition
but if she can teeter on those heels surely she can manage her own
personal life.
River's staying in a hotel, getting to know
Ihsan, who she has deigned to be a perfectly enjoyable young woman.
Someone she can talk to without, well, getting to say very much. Maybe
part of her allure comes from the willful detachment, or perhaps people
just don't notice. At the end of the day, she's a commodity. At the end
of the day, the role she's been cast for has the wrong actress in it but
the production certainly makes due.
And she does come out
again, after she's fixed her makeup and pinned her hair back and put
that gold dress back on that is visually stunning but difficult to
remove (there's a trick to it, she told a client recently, but I don't think you'll get to figure it out while I'm on the clock.
There's other reasons she does this job, and those reasons have more to
do with karmic duty than thrills. She may be seeing that man again,
though she hopes not. Hopes that when she checks in again that he's
managed to redirect his path, as of yet River has not met someone who
seeks the kind of forgiveness she offers.)
River dallies, goes
back to talk to the big oil boys and actually does give the poor little
accountant her attentions briefly. She laughs, kisses him on the
forehead like he's an errant first grader. "Congratulations on your
promotion," she tells him. The boys roar and he settles in to a quiet
blush, "don't let it run you ragged."
Walks away, heads back to the bar. Gives Ian a little wave which is little more than a wiggle of her fingers and a smile.
"Should I quit my day job?"
Ian
"Mm,
depends. You're certainly good enough." It's a diplomatic answer, but
not a dishonest one. By the time River arrives, he's seated on one of
the barstools with a second glass of bourbon (he paid for this one
himself) resting half-empty in front of him. None of the other dancers
have attempted yet to ply their trade with him. They know how to spot
where the money is flowing, and guys like Ian? They aren't nearly
desperate enough.
They also likely noticed that he didn't take out his wallet while River was dancing.
"I did think about tossing a twenty up there, but... it seemed a little cheap." (It seemed a little like he'd be saying that she was
cheap.) Rationally, of course, he knows that it's her job. That this is
just how exotic dancers get paid. But the social dynamics of it have
never sat right with him.
Instead, he pulls something out of
the liner pocket of his jacket and slides it across the bar. If River
looks at it, she'll see that it's a ticket to his show. (The title is
called: Rituals. And the dance company: Pulse. The
performance is in the Buell Theatre.) "So I thought maybe... a trade. A
dance for a dance. Or, alternately, you could scalp that and probably
get about fifty bucks." His mouth curls into a dry smile. "I won't hold
you to it."
There's a pause before he adds, more seriously. "You were beautiful up there."
River
She
does take a seat at the bar, crosses her legs and leans against the bar
as though she is actually talking shop with someone who she could actually
talk shop with. River's done this with some of the other girls, things
she's shown people that you can do on a pole without conceivably
breaking your neck- unlike some of the things River did tonight, which
could actually cause a minor concussion if done incorrectly.
But
there is a ticket in hand and she does take it between her fingers,
feels the paper and looks over the printed pieces and the raised ink.
She doesn't have the kind of feel for paper some people do but she
certainly does have an eye for the way tickets look. They're unique;
this is no different.
"I'd rather see you dance than stand in a
parking lot to get cash," she says with a little wave, as though she
were dismissing a thought, "unless you can do that on the internet now?"
Given
her tone, it doesn't sound like she'd know how to scalp tickets on the
internet. Shrugs it off because, eh- technology. What can you do?
"And
you already had to pay cover to get in, if you paid any more I'd feel
guilty," truth to that, even though she has a playful smile on her face.
He tells her she was beautiful while she performed and some people
might have taken that as flirtation, but she hadn't. In fact, the
entirety of her interaction with Ian, while occasionally playful, wasn't
necessarily flirtatious. She wasn't trying to get into the man's pants
even though, ironically, she was paid primarily by her ability to make
people think that she did want to get into their pants.
Her
cheeks turn pink, not because she thinks Ian is hitting on her (she
does not, in fact, seem to believe this) but rather because he'd given
her a compliment that seemed to mean something.
"If you're
ever interested in learning some of this, let me know? It's actually
easier barefoot," River says, "or, if you want to see me perform again.
Either way, don't be a stranger."
Ian
There's a
soft laugh at that - less because he thinks the suggestion absurd than
because he actually had been thinking about the last time he attempted
to pole dance. River blushes a little at the compliment, and if Ian had been
flirting with her he would have said something else then. But they
aren't flirting. It's probably the first time in a while that Ian has
been in this kind of circumstance with someone and not tried to follow
it up into something more intimate.
"Who knows, maybe I'll take you up on that. I don't think the clients here would like me though."
Maybe
not, but there are certainly places where he could make a tidy profit
doing this kind of thing - were he inclined to do so. He certainly had
the body for it.
He finishes off his drink slowly. When he
sets it down, he purses his lips together and runs his tongue between
them thoughtfully.
"I'm glad you invited me. Even though I'm
about half-ready to fall asleep on this stool - through no fault of your
own." He slides off the seat like he's maybe getting ready to go.
"We should talk more. Maybe somewhere more private next time." That probably does sound like he's hitting on her, so he clarifies: "You know, away from prying ears."
There's a pause before he adds, "You should call my friend Emma by the way. I think she really likes you."
River
He
says that she should call Emma, because he thinks that Emma really
likes River and she ducks down, covers her mouth brows raise and the
look on her face can only be described as delight.
"Really?"
Oh, that doesn't help her not blush at all. "I kind of thought she was out of my league," she admits.
Ian
He
laughs again, and the sound is fuller this time - warmer. "Yeah. Well,
she's a bit... aloof." (Pot - kettle, Ian.) "But when I told her I was
going to see you she made this face... I can't do it justice. It was a
very Emma face. But anyway, I could tell she was a little...
disgruntled."
That was really the best word for it. Because Emma Lakshmi was far too composed to ever exhibit obvious jealousy.
"Don't
sell yourself short." He starts to step away, but turns back long
enough to say, "Thanks for the drink. And the dance." Then he offers her
this lingering smile as he turns and walks out into the night.
