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Log Title: Jordan Gets Stood Up

Log setting: All over. On Bourban st, then the Lost Raven, then the streets again, and lastly “Dark Secrets.”

Log Cast:
Jordan
Mikaela
Grace
Benjamin

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Jordan folds his arms again, but he's actually... smirking. Trying not to laugh, because all this is /terribly/ funny. "No, darling. No, I'm sure you have potential. Why look... Look, your lips are full, very pretty, but you mush them up in this scowl, it's just terrible. And we won't start with your hair. That's just... Mm. Very eighties, child." His eyes blue eyes are lit, amused. "Kind of a Boy George and Cindi Lauper cross, you know? I almost... like it. How frightful."

Peyotr stops dead in his tracks with a smile on his lips to see who Jordan is speaking of

Mikaela's lips pull back from her teeth as she glares at Jordan, her hands rest on her hips, "At least I'm proud of who I am, don't gotta act. Fuckin' poser." Yes, she really is a bitch, a mean onry one too.

Marilyn is standing near Jordan, or rather, she was, as she has stepped back, figuring this isn't going limit itself to shouting rude things. She looks at Casey, then to Peytor, then at the charming couple. They love one another, on some alternate plane.

Casey halts her progress, ignoring the drizzle despite the accumilation on her lenses.

"Act?" Jordan ponders this. "No, I don't think so. Hmm! I've never had someone tell me I have too /little/ pride before. That's interesting. Maybe I should talk to my shrink about it. Yes, I ought to! I'll say 'Lars, this gutter punk pointed it out, and it's just plagued me. I have /no/ self esteem. I looked at this girl, with her ripped up close and her little punk sneer, and I thought, my /god/, I'm so /beneath/ her...!" He laughs brightly. "Yes, clearly a thought Lars must correct!"

Mikaela grins wickedly, moving ever closer to jordan, "At least I doan gotta go to a god damn shrink ta tell me my problems." She neers at Jordan, "And just because I ain't gotta money doan make you better then me."

"Oh no," Jordan agrees, "You're absolutely right. I'm better than you because I have the decency not to shove people about walking down the street, or to look daggers at everyone, and, you know, I /shower/ once in a while..."

Marilyn waggles her fingers at Casey, while everyone gawks at Jordan and Mikaela who are standing in the middle of the walk, shouting.

Grace walks up the street with a small lag to her step. Her hands are dug deep into her pockets, head down. The tufts of red hair obscure most of her face from view, though soon part once she lifts her head, studying the group gathered outside the bar.

Grace’s Desc:
Let's face it. Grace isn't going to win any modeling contracts in the future; though she does possess something (God knows what -that- could be) that may make you look twice. Is it the confident way she holds herself? Or possibly the devil-may-care smile that flashes whenever she encounters someone. She's pretty small, really. About 5'4" and 110lbs., if she's lucky (and eats all her veggies). Speaking of veggies, her hair is a carrot-red color that bounds to mid-shoulder in a mess of curls that don't seem to want to ever stay where they should be. Her skin is impossibly pale with a light splatter of freckles that flare over the bridge of her nose. How about those eyes? Green, sorta. With a burst of orange around the pupil. Green.. and orange.

Her body is thin; not hard, mind you - just thin. No muscles could possibly be found within the soft flesh and bony limbs. Today that body is covered in a pair of faded bluejeans (that seem to have -really- seen better decades) and a white wife-beater that screams "Hanes." All of her fingers are laden with silver rings of varying design and size, and her lower lip is pierced once.

Casey waves back with an arched brow.

Mikaela raises a brow at Jordan, she bares her teeth and growls at him, "I bathe when I can fucker, not all of us whore for our money. Or take advantage of whorin' ta take fuckin' baths, some of us got standards."

Jordan purses his lips, looking at Mikaela with big and slightly puzzled ice blue eyes, lifting a hand to his chest, like 'me..?' "You have me mistaken for someone else. A whore? No, no. I'm.." he gives a satisfied smile. "Well, I'm a homemaker."

Some sort of amusement quirks Grace's lips; whether from hearing Mikaela's rant, or by simply basking in the tension surrounding the small group, well, it's difficult to discern. Nevertheless, she seems to enjoy it. Pausing in her steps, she drops into a lean against the outside wall of the bar, arms folding over her chest.

Marilyn repeats that phrase to herself. "Homemaker.." New euphimisms are always fun. She saunters towards Peyotr.

Peyotr sets his guitar case down and smiles at Marilyn as she walks towards him

Cassidy has arrived.

Mikaela glares at Jordan for a moment longer before laughing, "Homemaker?!" She laughs, actually laughs, nothing fake or evil sounding about it. Sounds like any other seventeen year olds laugh.

Marilyn is standing out of the way of the confrontation, talking to the tall man.

Peyotr pulls out a notepad and jots something quickly

"Well..." Jordan protests, sputtering a moment, suddenly offguard. "I mean... A homemaker is a perfectly worthy.. profession." Then he just breaks into a big grin and giggles a little too. "Okay, it's a cake deal and I know it."

Peyotr writes a note to Marilyn

One shaky step after another takes Cassidy up the street at a pace that would make a turtle guffaw. Hands clasped together behind her back, wild blonde curls taking each gust of wind to a heightened extreme. Dark slashes of red curve into a grin as bloodshot eyes take in Marilyn's visage. "Long time," she murmurs, near the other woman now. If she even notices the rest of the people gathered outside, you couldn't tell.

Cassidy’s Desc:
You've seen Cassidy Devoire before. She's been in films with almost every actor from Tom Cruise to Robert Deniro, and has won several awards for her 'efforts.' Maybe she's not as gorgeous as she appears on the screen, however. Maybe she looks a lot skinnier, and a bit more strung-out than she does in front of the cameras. Maybe that's because of the rehab she just went through. Her hair is a rich blonde color, somewhat resembling the finest champagne, and usually hanging loose around her shoulders in a mass of wild spirals. Her eyes are turquiose, but more often than not lined with red streaks from a late night? A hangover? Again, it's hard to pinpoint the cause. Her nose is thin, flaring lightly at the nostrils to frame her full lips, which may, or may not have some excess baggage in them. Not many people not of African American descent have such full lips, and it's the -thing- in Hollywood to pump your lips with fat from your butt. Everyone knows that. Maybe she's not as tall as she appears on screen. She looks to be about 5'7" tall, and looks to weigh around 130 lbs. Even with all the after-effects of a serious drug addiction, however, Cassidy still has the smile that broke the heart of many a Hollywood Actor, and the appearance of a model.

Her style leans towards casual elegance if the black jeans and black cashmere sweater she wears tonight, is any indication. The jeans are new, or at least really well maintained, and hug her form without being so tight as to seem indecent. The sweater hugs her body, outlining every curve and hollow in her body. Her skin is pale, so much so that it doesn't appear to have ever seen any sun - or much light for that matter. Her shoes are platforms, boosting her to a lofty 5'10" or so, and giving her legs that extra mile that made them so famous just a few short years back. She doesn't seem to carry herself like a star, however. She almost seems to slink in and out of places, trying to not be noticed.

Mikaela's grimy hands grasp her sides as she continues laughing for a few more moments, "Homemaker..That's a blast.." She wipes her eyes with an arm before looking at Jordan, "An' I'm tha tooth fairy."

Marilyn gestures towards Jordan and Mikaela as Cassidy approaches. She smiles at her companion, "No..just a little disagreement over who should move out of whose way." then she waves at Cassidy. "Sid! Darling..."

The cigarette that had been clasped between Cassidy's fingers flutters, unnoticed, to the ground as she leans forward to 'air-kiss' Marilyn. "How are you, sugar plum?" The words laden with a thick french accent. Is it possible that it's even more pronounced than it was before? Who the hell knows. Impossibly thin hands find their way into her pockets as she takes a step back, studying Marilyn's companion with a cocked head. "And who is this?"

Jordan smirks. "Huh. Well. Come on, tooth fairy. It's sprinkling out, and my shoes don't like that, so let's get inside and continue this professional 'discussion'. I'm getting a drink with or without my stupid date."

Grace's attention moves to Jordan for a moment, and she takes a step back from her position near the door. Far be it for her to block anyones way though, with a wry smile, who wouldn't just walk through her? Bitter, bitter, bitter.

Mikaela smirks at Jordan and waves at hand towards the Raven's doors, "Fine, lead tha way Suisie." Yes, as in Suise homemaker. She tugs off her baseball cap.

Peyotr looks over Cassidy with a good deal of scrutiny for a few long moments, placing his pen and pad in one hand as he rubs his chin, He looks to Marilyn for her explanation after a smile and a nod to Cassidy.

Casey squeezes in before they all 3 get stuck in the door.

Casey steps into the Raven, the sounds of classic blues drifting out onto the street for the time that the door is opened.

"Removing your hat before entering an eating establishment," Jordan approves sardonically. "There /is/ a polite bone in your body!" He saunters on inside.

The Lost Raven
The colors of the main room are dark, intense shades of blues and purples, all shadows of its former glory. To the left of the room is a long mahogany bar, its wood scarred and blackened in places, which, with fresh varnish is kept to a high sheen. To the right is a stage, its dark purple curtains drawn back with bright red sashes. Tables are scattered about the room, each bearing a small centerpiece of candles and various playful little brass statuettes depicting clowns and satyrs, acrobats and unicorns. Toward the back corner of the room, connected to the bar, is a grill area, a fire pit from which tantalizing scents arise. The music that is usually playing comes from a juke box in the opposite corner as well as small speakers set at various points around the room; the sounds of classic blues or jazz surround you.

Mikaela enters from the mundane world

Casey calls over a waitress and orders. The waitress brings Casey her rum & coke

"So," Jordan wonders with soft amusement, his eyes roaming the establishment to stake out a spot to sit. "What do you think you know about me?"

Mikaela raises a brow at Jordan as she clips her baseball cap around a belt loop, "Well, you a male whore. If ya still workin' tha streets, if not, ya a nailed down piece of ass."

"Nailed down so nice..!" Jordan laughs, quite amused now as he strides towards the bar. He still doesn't look at his wild-haired companion as he speaks, as though that'd acknowledge that he was having an actual, like, conversation with street trash. "No, I'm not a whore. You're right in that, at one time in my life, I -- considered some dubious methods of financial gain. To be blunt, and therefore within your vocabulary, I thought I might fuck for money. But now.." He peeks over and smiles sagely. "Now, I love for money. It's very different. Very nice. My man, he loves me so... And I love him loving me so. Don't you see? It's total win/win."

Mikaela rolls her eyes at Jordan and follows after, growling, "nailed down piece of ass, slave dip shit." She shakes her head running her hands through her clean hair, yes her hair is actually clean.

Casey sips her drink

Well, Jordan's not going to /acknowledge/ that it's clean, of course. It's horribly styled, all crimped and frizzy-bizarre, and that's as good as filthy, right? He slips onto a stool daintily, knees pressed together, slender hands clasping on the wooden counter. "I'm freer than you," he smiles. "You must leech for your cash, or deal, or steal, or whatever it is you do. Your options are limited. I could go horseback riding tomorrow, if I liked. I don't have a horse, but I might, if I wanted one. I could go to, to Panama, to France! Anywhere. Don't you see? Be careful who you call slave." He looks up and considers the menu scrawled behind the bar, then peers over at you to say something quite unexpected. "Do you have a fake ID? You must."

Mikaela and Jordan take a stool at The mahogany bar.

Mikaela's brows raises as she smirks, "Me? Nope, I doan have a fake ID." She looks rather smug about it for some reason, "At least I'm not stuck in what I do, if you leave your man, you back on the streets bendin' ova for any man willin' ta pay."

Jordan blinks. For a moment he doesn't have anything to say in return. Finally he rallies his wits and retorts weakly, "That isn't true. I, that is, I've picked up plenty of.. of marketable skills! I've been tutored, and, and experienced things that would make me a fabulous employee someplace nice, I'm sure. Or I'd just... find someone else who loved me like Anthony. It wouldn't be hard." He waves a dismissing hand. "The world is full of lonely souls."

Mikaela glances at Jordan, grinning wickedly, "Who'd hire an' ex whore? Even a smart exwhore? And ya damn skills wouldn't save your ass out on tha streets till this mysterious company hired you. And what if when ya lova kicked you out on your rump, you were old? Who'd want an old piece of ass? Used and abused."

Jordan draws in a steadying breath. No, this is not supposed to be how it works. They aren't supposed to dig in to the heart of matters like that. Jordan is quite accustomed to having the upper hand, and staying well-protected in the armor of his icy smile. He looks over at Mikaela, chin lifted, but his eyes are shaken. "Well. See if I buy you a drink then. You just... you look out for yourself, and I'll do the same." He slides quickly off the stool and pulls himself upright, indignant and regathering pride.

Sevrin enters from the mundane world

Sevrin’s Desc:
An amalgam of stereotypes sets a standard for nonstereotypes in itself. A tall, slender man whose ancestral roots are hidden by his other ancestral roots. Short hair runs the gamut from platinum blond roots to black tips, with at least a dash of everything else in between. A mask of serenity, an expression of absolute peace with the world. Usually. His skin is the light-brown colour of caramel, his facial features a keen mixture of european aristocrat and moorish lord. His lips are thin and often set in a straight line, slipping only occasionally to offer a brief smile or frown. His strangest feature, however, are his eyes. The wide-eyed Sevrin disappeared some time ago, leaving behind the more lazy-eyed jade of the man before you. Eyelids drooping, he offers only casual interest in most things. The eyes are slightly tilted at the ends, the right a metallic green, like the wing of some exotic insect, and the left an almost shocking pale blue. Sevrin himself reaches an inch or three over six feet, with a whipcord thin body.

Sevrin wears a long pair of black jeans, ending in heavy black boots that cover his feet. Over his chest he wears a slightly baggy black t-shirt with a large white spiral on the chest. On his hands are a pair of black leather gloves.

Sevrin slips in through the door of the Lost Raven, moving between people as if afraid of actually touching anyone. As he passes through the room, he glances once to the left and once to the right, then stops at the bar, ordering from Nate, "Three shots scotch."

Marilyn enters from the mundane world

Jordan has just risen from where he was seated beside Mikaela, his body rigid and poised with offense and bruised dignity.

Jena Rey enters from the mundane world

Mikaela glances at Jordan, shrugging, "Fine, frun from tha truth. I wont shove it down ya throat, though it needs it."

Marilyn walks in with a new face, the other two people she was speaking with, elsewhere.

Jena Rey comes in a beat after Marilyn, pausing to flip the worst of the water out of her hair at the door.

Sevrin waits until Nate has set down his drinks, then turns slowly toward the man who is standing. Softly, but plainly, he says, "A moment please."

Marilyn has managed not to get too wet. She was standing under the awning. "Were shall we sit Jena?" Jena Rey mmms. "Just about anywhere will do really."

Marilyn glances around, then figures they might as well sit at the bar.

"Didn't need anything shoved down my throat tonight," Jordan admits softly, coldly. "Stood up, and then a gutterpunk's gonna get up in my face about shit that's not even her b--" Whoa. Whoa, that's not the quiet, upper class tone and inflection that Jordan typically sports at all. He clears his throat and looks faintly embarrassed a moment, still off guard, and shakes his head faintly. "Just... Just disappear," he sighs, rolling his eyes. Okay, not much of a come back, but we're running on fumes here.

Jena Rey pushes her damp hair back over her shoulder and nods at Marilyn, angling them toward the bar.

Marilyn takes a stool at The mahogany bar.

Jena Rey takes a stool at The mahogany bar.

Mikaela smirks at Jordan, a brow raises, "Why doan ya just get off ya god damn high horse and be for real? Eh, you might make friends." She sneers faintly, "Friends that doan wantcha ta bend ova tha couch for them."

It's not real, but you feel it. It -can't- be real, this feeling of something sliding up your nose for the barest of seconds. It's gone before you can react. Did it happen? It's hard to tell. If it did - what was it?

Jena Rey leans an elbow on the bar and raises an eyebrow...what a unique thing to wander into...

Sevrin shrugs slightly at being ignored, mutters, "I tried, Lucy." and turns back to the bar. Leaning against the countertop, he knocks back his scotch, one shot after another, with no obvious results other than empty glasses. Pushing them toward Nate, he mutters, "Three more, man, and be quick."

Jordan's ice blue eyes blink wide for just a moment, startled and distracted by something. He rubs at his nose in confusion for a moment, glancing about, then looking at Mikaela suspiciously for a moment. But she's just sitting there. This night... He's just had /quite/ enough of this night. He scowls to himself. Even his nose is fucking with him.

Mikaela smirks and slides off her stool, she shoves her hands into her pockets as she eyes Jordan, "If ya ever feel like not bein' a piece of ass, or at least not acting lke ya /still/ got somethin' shoved up your ass, come by for a visit."

Sevrin glances sidelong toward Mikaela and murmurs, "She looks like you, but down an eye or two." He looks back at his drinks and scowls briefly when he sees that someone has yet to refill them. Fortunately, Nate hurries his scrawny bartender ass and is there momentarily with three new shots of scotch, the first two which Sevrin gulps down before finally having to take a moment to shudder.

Mikaela stands and leaves The mahogany bar.

Mikaela glances at Sevrin, a brow raises as she glances around then back to Sevrin, "Who looks like who mista?"

Jordan just shakes his head. Too weird, all of it. His platforms click sharply against the floor as he turns on his heel and struts out of the bar, into the drizzle. Better to wait outside. Or taxi home. Or to a club. Must be /some/ way to salvage this night.

You leave the club behind, stepping into the mundane world.

Bourbon and St. Peter -- Vieux Carre
A cacophanous din greets whomever ventures out onto this intersection, as the press of flesh makes it nearly impossible to move during the busiest times, and the various street personalities and garbage underfoot offer exciting obstacles to the club goer. Towards the river is Preservation Hall, where tourists and locals alike are drawn for real, traditional jazz, while on each corner of the intersection itself is a club devoted to different clientele and interpretations of the style.

Grace is sitting on the curb with a cigarette dangling from between her lips. Hard to tell if she's awake or not, as the rain seems to have absolutely no effect on her.

Mikaela comes out of The Raven, the sounds of a classic blues tune drifting out as she enters the world of the mundane.

Jordan strides out of the bar, his platforms clicking sharply. Not a happy boy, nosir. His lips are pursed. He decides he'll give the boy just a /little/ longer to show, and then he's out of here, on a quest for better prospects. He sighs and moves over to lean against the wall of the Raven, crossing his arms and leaning back gently so he can rest his head against the cool brick without mussing his hair too much.

Benjamin comes down St. Peter from riverside.

And out comes Kae, her shoulders are hunched beneath her jacket as she eyes the street before rounding on Jordan, "Hey..Ya said ya wanted a drink, right?" Okay, time to play nice.

Grace angles her head up a bit, wet lashes spiked a bit as they blink a few times. She watches Jordan for a few moments in silence, her fingers lacing together once the cigarette falls apart to become mushy tobacco on her flesh. "You'll probably melt if you stay out here too long." She pauses a moment, her brow furrowing as Mikaela speaks. "Shut it, Grace." The last words muttered to herself.

Sevrin comes out of The Raven, the sounds of a classic blues tune drifting out as he enters the world of the mundane.

Benjamin wanders up the street, head tipped thoughtlessly, staring off into space. Prime target for pickpocketing in the thick Bourbon street crowd, but such a thought hasn't occurred to him. Lost in his own daydreams, he makes his way semi-toward the Raven.

Sevrin walks out of the bar, hands in his pockets, walking in a vaguely woozy manner. He mutters under his breath, "There they are. Try again, Looo ... see. Maybe you can scare them away."

"No," Jordan says in a tight, clipped voice, training his eyes on the puddles out beyond the street. He's leaned against the outside wall of the Raven. "I don't want a drink anymore. Not in there, not with you. Go... go dye your hair some more colors or something, and let me be." His ice blue eyes thaw just a little as he flickers a glance to Grace, and he comments, "Yes, I may. Wicked witch that I am, and all." The faintest smirk, then the puddles deserve his attention again.

Mikaela snarls softly at Jordan, her lips pulling back from her teeth, "I was just gonna say I can fuckin' get you one, damn you’re an asshole." She shakes her head, a quick glance is thrown towards the Raven as she hears Sevrin's voice.

Benjamin’s Desc:
Wandering through the world with foggy eyes and a furrowed if curious brow, this twenty-something young man bears the slightly dazed half-smile of one foreign to his environment. Although his thick, floppy brown hair is supposed to be styled out of his eyes, it often breaks free and settles impertinently arbout his forehead and temples. Thin brows frame large, girlish brown eyes, set in a face that could almost be feminine if the jaw wasn't a little too strong. Perhaps in an attempt to age his youthful face, a carefully-kept mustache and goatee cling close about his mouth and chin.

He dresses half-casually, though his clothes are slightly worn. His shirt is an olive, longsleeved buttondown, carefully pressed and smoothly tucked in. Blue jeans are a bit worn, slightly loose, and fall in a comfortable slump of denim to his ankles. Worn brushed-leather brown shoes are on his feet, comfy but creased.

Sevrin nods a bit, "Who isn't." and turns to start up the sidewalk toward home.

Grace's brows raise just fractionally over the dripping lashes that fan her eyes. "It sees me? Le gasp." The words uttered on a harsh note, her legs uncoiling to allow her to stand from the curb. Aw, her butt made a nice dry-spot. "Shit, from what I can tell - and don't get me wrong, I don't know ya - but from what I can tell, all you do is bitch. Witch, bitch, you get the point." One hand scratches idly at her stomach through the wife-beater now plastered down with rain. "I don't have a damned clue why I'm talking to you." That one, at least, seems sincere.

Sevrin has left.

The sound of a familiar voice turns Ben's head as he approaches the bar. Ground control to Major Tom; he has to tune in to the world again from whatever distant planet his mind was on, focusing on Jordan for several moments, well into the rudeness time period. The words from the young ladies begin to register, and it connects that they're aimed at Jordan... oh my, is that the beginnings of a smirk? Ben's steps slow as he nears the beleagured beauty, wondering if he'll be taken notice of.

Paris comes down Bourbon from downtown.

Jordan draws in a breath and rubs at the bridge of his nose and the inner corners of his eyes for a moment. Untouchable Jordan, yes.... Serene, yoga-calm Jordan. Nope, can't pull it off. He drops his hands and belatedly snaps at the girl crouched at the curb, "You know, I don't know you either, of course. But what the /fuck/ did I do to you? Did I slight you somehow? Do I just piss off the world with my very /breathing/?" He whirls on the smirking man and jabs a finger towards his chest. "How about you? Just some stranger on the street going to start--" Wait, oh my. "You." His breakdown grinds to a quick halt, and he blinks at Benjamin for a moment. "Hi. I didn't -- recognize you without your jacket." He crosses his arms and mumbles sullenly, "Sorry."

Paris comes to a stop on his trip down the street before the Raven. He looks through the window trying to catch sight of something or someone.

Mikaela smirks at Jordan, she glances in Benjamin's direction, then looks back at Jordan, "S'what ya get for trin' ta be betta then peeps. Ya get pulled tha fuck down." She grins wickedly and shakes her head, "An' when ya decide that ya want that drink, come find me. I'll be in tha gutta some where."

It could have pissed her off. It could have made her contrite. It could have even shut her up. It didn't, however, do any of those things. No, Grace's laughter follows quickly on the heels of Jordan's outburst. One hand raises to push against her lips, shoulders shaking with the hilarity that struck her, however oddly, by the rant. Her free hand waves helplessly as she bends at the waist, foot stomping once. "My God, am I the only one who expected to see steam come out of his ears?"

Paris turns his head and glances over his shoulder, then turns back against to the Raven window. Wether he found what he was looking for is uncertain, but he proceeds over to the door and opens it.

Paris steps into the Raven, the sounds of classic blues drifting out onto the street for the time that the door is opened.

Benjamin's eyebrows wander up and the hint of a smirk falls away at Jordan's tirade, though 'insulted' isn't on the list of things he might look at the end of it. Bewildered would explain it well. Stunned approximates the expression as well. For certain at least he comes to a halt, glancing between the ladies and Jordan, and blinking quite a bit. "It's, ah, all right, Jordan," he murmurs just above a whisper, probably only the warm tone carrying to the young man. "Are you...?" He's about to ask if Jordan's all right, himself, but the thought is only half-formed, stifled by uncertainty as to whether he should involve himself at all.

Angelica comes down Bourbon from downtown.

Mule comes down Bourbon from uptown.

Mule Walks down the way, eyes falling on the crowds of Bourbon and finding them lacking. Beyond aloof, he's plain cold with a hard expressionon ihs face. He flicks his gaze to those near the Raven as he passes through it's doors.

Ever meet someone whose presense leaves an almost tangible impression on you? You'll get that from Angelica as she approaches. Each step nearly perfectly measured for the optimum in movement blended with a lazy grace that comes naturally. So obvious as to go unnoticed. A runway model without the tell-tale smirk. The rain filters over the cloud of dark red hair perched on her shoulders, leaving glittering droplets along the halo. A tilt of her head leaves her gaze open to measure those gathered around the ever-popular bar, lips hinting at a polite smile to anyone glancing her way.

Benjamin lingers near-ish Jordan, looking faintly puzzled at an apparent disagreement between him, Grace, and Mikaela. He shifts his weight indecisively, looking for a reason either to stay, or go.

Mule steps into the Raven, the sounds of classic blues drifting out onto the street for the time that the door is opened.

Mule has left.

"No, I'm not alright," Jordan whines softly, his lips taking on a pout now. Apparantly, whether the sentance is completed or not, he's certain Benjamin will be quite anxious to hear about how terrible tonight is going for him. "I'm /terrible/, I had /such/ a pretty boy coming for me tonight, but he didn't /come/ and everybody's a bitch tonight, and I just..." He sighs shakily and looks up at Ben with pleading blue eyes and murmurs, "Wanna - wanna go dancing with me? Or for a drink, or - anywhere? I, my night is /ruined/, and I don't want to go home." He clasps his hands hopefully and tries a look he hopes will be effective. Teary eyes, but not over-doing it to the point of getting them all red and frightful, not letting any fall. A lip just slightly bitten, but not enough to show teeth, just cut into his pout cutely. Will it work? Will you save me? Hope, hope!

Grace rolls her eyes heavenward, turning to head up the street without another word.

Mikaela snorts and shakes her head, having been nice in the end. She flips Jordan off, luckily not throwing a punch, because, yes, she is that cruel. She fishes out a clove cigarette, and lights it with a cheap ligher.

Angelica's expression reflects her surprise at the speech given by Jordan, her wide gaze shifting from the boy to the door of the Raven, indecision flaring another cant of her head. Arms fold languidly over her chest, one heel tapping upwards for a moment before lowering in a slow arch. "Is he all right?" The question posed to Benjamin, who appears to be Jordan's companion of sorts. Quite certain the latter is too distraught to speak.

Angelica’s Desc:
Angelica isn't a woman that your eyes would skim over dismissively. She commands attention with each gesture, each stride taking up the earth at an alarmingly long rate. She stands at close to 5'10" tall, and looks to weigh in the range of 130-140 pounds. Her features are clearly defined; high cheekbones framing a roman nose that, oddly, fits with the rest of her face without dominating her visage. Rose and blush combine into full tiers that seem to always be curved into a patiently polite smile, but can occasionally mature into an abounding grin. Her eyes are set wide on her face, an interesting kaleidoscopic gaze, with swirls of fragmented emerald and luminous veins of gold that surround the two orbs. Her hair is a dark brown color, shot through with red highlights that falls in loose waves to her shoulders, framing her face in a tousled halo. Her skin tone is a soft, pale olive, giving testament to her heritage which veritably screams Italy.

A soft, light coating of makeup has been artfully brushed over her features; nothing gaudy, but enough to prove that she does pay careful attention to her countenance. Her neck is long, slender. The gracefully sloping arch of her throat tapers down to a defined collarbone and shoulders normally squared with determination.

Black appears to be her favorite choice of colors to adorn her body in, though it doesn't oppress her coloring, it conversely accents those features that are her most appealing. The Hugo Boss pantsuit she's wearing currently looks as though it were tailored for her body alone. The jacket tucks in at her waist, flaring lightly at the curve of her hips, and buttoned at her chest, left to hang open from the lower curve of her breasts. She wears a crisp white shirt beneath, a mens' buttoned-down work shirt with no frills, lace, or otherwise distracting facets; simply the shirt. The pants are light, flaring over her legs with enough form to shadow the long limbs, yet not so much as to cling. One her feet, she wears a pair of black leather loafers.

Oh, dear. Though Ben has a decent hold on his self-control, his resolve to it wavers easily, especially with someone who knows how to settle his expression just perfectly to melt that hold onto resolve. Though wary, remembering the way Jordan once treated his friends, perhaps there is real trouble for the young man now. "Well..." A glance about, missing Angelica the first time. "I suppose that would be all right. Dark Secrets? It's right down the..." And then the woman's words register, and he turns to her with a blinking, dreamish sort of vague smile. "Just a bad evening, I'm afraid," he murmurs gently to her, impressed with the kind concern. Easily impressed upon, our Ben.

Paris looks to both sides before exiting the Raven doorway. A glance is cast towards the people talking, but that is all. He stays close to the building as he heads for the nearest alleyway.

Paris steps into a dark alleyway, across the street and a few buildings down from the Lost Raven.

Jordan lets his hopeful pout melt into something grateful and admiring, smile curving, and he presses clasped hands to his chest and gushes, "Oh, /thank/ you. You're my angel tonight, okay? My very savior."

Angelica nods once, a genuinely relieved smile crossing her lips. "Of course." She takes one step backwards, executing an admirable turn towards the door of the Raven. Perhaps she's just a little -too- smooth? Eh, whatever.

Mikaela rolls her eyes and mock gags herself at all the 'love' spread around, she moves towards the alley, flopping down on the sidewalk, fuck the rain, someone once told her she needed a bath anyways.

Angelica steps into the Raven, the sounds of classic blues drifting out onto the street for the time that the door is opened.

Jordan doesn't offer Mikaela a wave goodbye, because she's been written off on the 'Bitch List', and besides, she has bad Eighties hair.

Benjamin slips a glance upward, the corners of his lips following to bend his mouth into a really sweet little smile. "Oh, dear. I seem to have lost my halo," he murmurs wryly, and then looks back to Jordan, the recipient of the little smile for a moment. "Shall we, then?"

Mikaela's pale blue eyes narrow faintly as she watches those across from her, perhaps plotting against a certain piece of ass.

Jordan boldly slips his arm into the crook of Benjamin's and lifts his head up. Okay, some self-esteem regained. He has an angel now, and they're going dancing, see? Not just some sad, stood up boy waiting outside a bar and getting cut on by gutterpunks.

Mikaela snickers, "Fuckin' piece of ass." She mutters to herself, laughing a bit.

Benjamin glances oddly at Jordan, but allows his arm to be taken. Denying it subtly would likely be counterproductive, anyway, and the last thing he wants to do is mash Jordan's self-esteem back down anymore. Though he's not entirely comfortable escorting the pretty boy, he allows it as he leads Jordan downtown. Trying very, very hard to ignore Mikaela's comments.

"She doesn't exist, don't listen to her," Jordan murmurs to Benjamin with a sweet smile. "Let's go. You do like to dance, don't you Angel?" How convenient to have stumbled across a sweet nickname to address Ben with, having forgotten his actual name, of course, since last they met. "I bet you do. I bet under these proper clothes you got yourself a regular dancing demon under there." He bats his lashes.

Mikaela snickers, nodding before calling out louder, "Just a fuckin' piece of ass! Admit it!"

You sense Benjamin coughs quietly as they wander off, and blinks sidelong at the younger man. "I do, but... I'm not very good at it. And I'm far for correctly dressed for clubbing. You don't mind being seen with someone looking so drab?" That last is murmured with a touch of wry joking. But then Mikaela's words come, and why he cares about what a dirty little streetpunk says is beyond him. But if that's what he looks like, then... Ben tries to finagle his arm back from Jordan, though his course doesn't shift.

Jordan isn't letting go of that arm, nope. That's his lifeline right now. He's /not/ alone on a Saturday night anymore, nope. "Oh, I think you're lovely, I don't mind." He looks Ben over just a moment. It'd have been better with the jacket, but it'll do. "Alright then. Let's check out this Secret place of yours," he grins. Aren't innuendos fun? "I've never been."

If only people knew what Kae was thinking, she slouches back against the wall, growling faintly.

You head uptown, to Bourbon and Toulouse -- Vieux Carre

Benjamin is more led than leading, now that his equilibrium's been thrown off. And of course, to the perceptive, he's rustled in that way that people only are when they hear something true about themselves that they don't want to admit. "Dark Secrets," he corrects quietly, as you leave the St. Peter range and come upon the area of said bar. A deep sigh, a brief close of the eyes, and Ben admits softly, "I need a drink. Or five."

"Well, good!" Jordan chirps. "You can buy me one too. I - don't have my ID with me." He lifts his shoulders in a little shrug. "If you want a line, you can have that too." He pats his purse with his free hand. "Anything you like. I'm just - along for the ride. Saturdays, don't you just love Saturdays?" He smiles, oblivious to any discomfort the linked arms are causing you. Well, actually, he's not oblivious. It's just that boys aren't supposed to be ashamed to have him on their arm; they're supposed to be grateful.

Oh my, he'll be contributing to Jordan's delinquency? Well, it won't be the first time Ben provided alcohol for someone of questionable legal age, and at least he'll be able to see Jordan home. "Of course," he promises quietly, getting the door for his companion, all politeness. Away from Mikaela's taunts and into a more crowded area where less people will actually take notice of him, Ben relaxes somewhat. "And yes. About the Saturdays, not the lines. It's -such- a relief not to have to go to work.

Jordan nods faintly. Hmm, work, what's that? But tonight's angel is holding the door open for him, and he gives a sweet, pleased smile and saunters on inside. "And it's such a relief everything's open so late, and people just dance all night, and everything's just lovelier on Saturdays..." His voice is a bit more broken and less comprehensible as he moves closer to the crowd within and his words are soaked into the din.

You step through the large iron door and into Dark Secrets.

Dark Secrets - Foyer

This is the entrance foyer for the Dark Secrets Complex. Two archways are located on the oposite wall. Above each Archway is carved the name of the section to which it leads.

The one to the right leads to the club Nightshifts and the one to the left leads to the more sedate Darkwoods cafe. Under the sign for Nightshifts is a plaque that has simply inscribed 'Party On Dudes'. Under the sign for Darkwoods Cafe is a matching plaque with the inscription 'The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep'

On the wall to the left as you enter is a cloak room and counter with atendant present at all times. Standing inside the foyer area are two burly security guards. You can tell thats what they are from the uniforms and shoulder patches clearly stating 'Dark Secrets - Security'

Next to the cloak room is a locked door.. Inscribed on the door in a flowing script is the word 'Angelines' and below that 'Members Only'

Benjamin walks in through the iron doors from outside.

Benjamin chuckles lightly, lost in the thump of music from upstairs and the chatter of the crowds. He stays close to Jordan, obviously old enough to get in upstairs, and smoothly ushering his companion on through, as well. Practiced at this, oddly, the club-scene. Even if he is horrendously under-dressed. Still, the world needs normals so that the exotic ones can stand out even more. "I haven't been dancing in ages," he confesses as you follow the crowd inside, leaning in close although he never voluntarily touches. "Forgive me if I'm uncoordinated?"

Jordan touches, yes. He smiles /so/ sweetly, whirling, and placing a light touch of fingertips at your cheek as he vows, "I'll work you through each step, alright? I'd love to show you." His smile stretches slightly, more amusement flashing into his eyes as he murmurs, "Though it may be strange to me. I can dance, but I'm not used to... leading." Very impish as he says that.

Benjamin allows the touch obediently, rather dazzled by your manner, still quite swept along by the whirl of the last few minutes. Hadn't he expected a quiet evening of sipping coffee and chatting wittily with strangers? And now... this. And you. His mind is spinning, quite. "Well, I am," he tells you decisively, voice raising from a murmur now that the noise around is louder. "And I'm sure you're fabulous enough on the dance floor that you can show me how without even breaking a sweat."

"Course not, ladies don't sweat," Jordan chides, taking your arm again and tugging you out towards the dance floor. His feet already shift more in time to the music now, not quite dancing yet, but not a straight walk either. Okay, it never is; bad word choice. Anyway, he tugs you right out into the thick of the crowd. Going to be seen, yes. He gives the floor a final, circumnavigating glance, then a slight, satisfied dip of his head. "Just.." He starts to move, starts a bit slow considering the beat, watching you. "I guess it's hard to teach someone to dance," he smiles. "Just... stay close, and move like... Like you wanna peel my clothes off, but you're not allowed to touch. So you just.. sway, and snake your arms about, and stay... close. It's the best." He grins wickedly, obviously pleased with the lesson, and the rhythm of his movements, the shift of his hips, his liquid arms, pick up. In time to the music. Racing with it. He still watches you.

Like he wants to peel... oh lord. Ben giggles nervously, ducking his eyes away from Jordan. In the dim, it's difficult to see, but he does indeed pinken just a little, in the cheeks. "That shouldn't be too hard," he says, low, though now near enough for you to hear him when he talks in his normal tone. Slowly, he begins to move, watching your movements with a clinical sort of eye. At least, not appreciative. Not on the surface. He must learn the basic physics of movement before he can progress to the aesthetics. Just a slow swivel of the hips near you, shoulders loose and arms flowing. To the beat. Don't worry about looking like an idiot, no one can really see you except Jordan.

Jordan is one of those types who can just let a dance take over him. It's hard for some, but easier when you know you're pretty, and your partner has already claimed to be uncoordinated. Some of his black hair falls down in little wisps as he tosses his head, and sometimes moves in very close to you. Maybe he's trying to hypnotize with that belly button ring, the way he circles his hips for a moment, playfully. Very close sometimes, bringing his face up close, such a tease. And not conductive to lessons, but fun! His eyes will close sometimes, swept away, his whole face lit up with the adreneline and freedom of it. But inevitably, he'll return his eyes to you, admire how you're trying. Watching you, and most especially, making sure you're watching back.

Watching you, most definitely. Now that he's got the hang of simple movements, and can mimic them with a much less fluid body, he can step back from the pure physics of movement and admire the talent of his partner. And perhaps return the teases, just a little. For awhile he simply allows the swaying in closer, but slowly, eventually, as you lean in, he'll angle toward you, almost close enough to brush his chin with the soft dark hairs against your cheek, but not quite. Lips fold up into an attractive little bow and his lids lower. Tiny things, almost imperceptible, but overall gives the definite aura of loosening up. Not nearly as practiced as you are, but he does know how to make himself appealingly presented.

Jordan's eyes flutter slowly open in pleased surprise when your goatee nearly brushes his cheek. He looks as though he almost wishes it had, and leans in close to murmur, "I bet... you can tickle so well with that, huh." A broad grin, and he whips back, faster, faster, and for a moment you and he are two seperate entities, just so he can feel what it's like to pull away. But then he comes back to you, slides in close and just grins.

Benjamin laughs, the sound reaching out to nip at you even as you pull back. Comfortable, now, he moves faster, picking up the pace from you and beginning to find his own ground in movement. Once you're back again, he leans in and confides, "I rarely, if ever, get the chance to tickle -effectively-." Mirth has a brief, passionate affair with his dark eyes and then steals away again, leaving him veiled and clouded once more. Though the perfect incubus smile is still curving his lips.

"Oh... tease me, will you?" Jordan giggles. He licks lips made dry from dancing and snakes his arms up, close to you, tracing your figure without touching. Maybe he's playing with the same lessons. The song is winding to it's close, and he puts his all into the dance, just because it's not infinite. Then, "Didn't you need like five drinks?" he asks, pulling his hands back, to shift near his own hips instead. "First round after this song?"

Benjamin's brows go up and his eyes round, not terribly good at the innocent-puppy look though he does put his all into it. "Tease? -Me-? I assure you, I'm wholly incapable of it," he chuckles, leaning in to tell you that in low tones. Then leans back, tipping his head back and concentrating on moving sinuously while you run your hands over his aura, if you will. Lost for a few moments inside his head and inside the intangible bubble your hands create. "Yes," he calls, snapped out of the daydream. "I really need to loosen up."

"Oh, I don't know," Jordan chuckles approvingly. "You're doing good, real good." The song ends, and very soon another starts, but Jordan takes your hand and smiles, tugging gently, and then starts the interesting process of squirming his way back through the writhing forest of club-goer limbs and away from the dance floor.

Benjamin follows like a good doobie, his fingers limp when you take them and only barely touching yours. Taking steps is not his forte; following where led is. At one point he's shoved from behind, and stumbles forward, resting a hand on your back to steady himself so he doesn't crush against you and knock you over. "Sorry," comes murmured from your shoulder, the hand slipping away again. "Crowded," as an explanation. "Oh, it's no problem. Clubs tend to be that way, you know?" For one not used to leading, Jordan does a pretty good job of it now. He's surprisingly good at finding little spots in the crowd where it's possible to duck through or sidestep to ease his way closer to his goal. His smaller stature helps a little, but he stubbornly clings to your hand. But for that, he'd probably be at the bar already.

Taller, Ben can see just a little farther at once, and a gentle pressure on your waist directs you toward a break in the crowd where you can slip through to the bar. "I need to start with something sweet," he decides, reclaiming his hand to lean on the edge of the bar near you. "Something frufru. Fuzzy navel, I think."

Jordan nods, "Sounds good to me." A bright flash of white teeth. "I can usually go for frufru. Sweet is always good." He reaches up and fingers a wisp of hair that fell from the pin, but mostly just toys with it rather than risk trying to put it back up properly. Pay? With an angel around? That's about as foreign as work. "So.. what do you do with yourself? Are you and Holly still friends?"

Benjamin gestures a bartender over and orders two fuzzy navels, handing over the appropriate payment promptly. He realized it would be an expensive evening the moment he went off with you, and can accept that. His reward comes from seeing the pouty lips turn into a smile because of him. "Mostly my work, and spending time with Holly and the boys," he responds with a nod. "I'm over there practically all the time, or they're over at my place. How've you been, yourself? I guess I shouldn't be surprised I haven't seen you since that one night."

"No, I suppose not," Jordan admits, taking his drink and sipping at it. A little, appreciative smile gets aimed right your way, buy and get one free. Then he turns his thoughts back to the matter at hand. "I don't exactly have much reason to seek Trace out, you see. Excepting the night we met, which was a special circumstance. And now, there's less chance of it. They just, they don't like me much any longer. And if I /do/ see them, I've promised Anthony I'd apologize." He wrinkles his nose with distaste.

Benjamin fails to sip, intent on getting the alcohol inside and getting it working. He drinks, solidly, though not messily or anything gauche. Ever polite. A small, gentle smile is aimed your way. "Well, I think you and they just have different priorities," he points out, with a gesture of drink. "They're worried about having a roof over their heads and finding their next meal, and acquiring money somehow. You..." and he glances over your form, your attire, "... don't have those problems. See?"

Jordan sips. Ladies sip. He peeks up at you from over his fuzzy navel and nods a little. "You're right, I don't have those problems any more. I suppose I'm lucky." He rolls his shoulders in a little shrug and sips again at his drink, his eyes considering. "But don't you think, if I /did/ apologize... I mean, what good would it do? Nothing /I/ can think of, except humiliate me."

Benjamin watches you with quiet intensity as his drink quickly disappears. For as reticent and daydreamy as he is, he certainly takes on his share of masculine qualities. Well, so you can be a boy and be a cute pet at the same time. "Depends," he considers. "Would you be sincere? Or just apologizing because Anthony told you to?"

Jordan bites his lip and looks down at his drink. "Well, it just. That is." He blows out a sigh and looks up at you. "It wouldn't matter. And I'm not sure. Okay, so I get - upset about things sometimes. I get overwhelmed. But he, I mean, did you /see/ the shirt? It was beautiful when he loaned it to me. And to expect me not to get even a little mad, I just, well, I don't see how I did anything so terribly wrong. You know? I liked the shirt, is all." He tips his head to the side. Not my fault, see?

Benjamin leans over and bumps his shoulder against yours just a little, not enough to endanger your drink in the least. "At least you can admit that you get a little too upset. I think the problem -there- was that Trace's well-being meant less to you than the shirt. It -was- his blood on it, and it didn't -seem- that you were concerned," he murmurs gently, leaning toward you, face sympathetic and explaining. Nono, not your fault at all. Just a misunderstanding, see? And here he is to put it right again.

Jordan blinks a little. "So it /was/ his blood. I didn't know. I thought maybe it was... someone elses, like he robbed someone or something." A shrug. "I didn't know. How could I know? Not like Trace and I have anything in common besides Keats." He lifts the drink to his lips and sips delicately, then lowers it again and runs a light finger around the rim of the glass, for something to focus on.

Light fingers touch your wrist in reassurance. Ben must be either a peacemaker at heart, or gullible beyond all gullibility. "You're not required to get along with him. He's a sweet boy, and so are Jason and Batiste. And Holly's a wonder." Definite affection, pride as his voice rolls over all those names. His family.

Jordan smiles a little at those last two. "Holly... Holly is assuredly a wonder. I just /adored/ her show. It was weird, seeing her out of costume that one night, though. But she's so talented. And Batiste. Mmm. Batiste caught my eye the day I first laid eyes on him, when he and Trace came to borrow the shirt. Don't know why. The eyes, maybe? Very pretty, if a bit skinny. Shame, really." He smiles and sips at his drink. Well, two of your family has his approval, it seems.

Benjamin's eyes fall to his drink, quietly smiling. Yes, those two hold a special importance for him as well, his nearest and dearest. "You know, I have yet to see Holly perform. But he has a show coming up soon, in a couple of weeks. Maybe you should come?" He remains silent on the subject of Batiste, though he nearly glows with the praise of his friend.

[ Ben and Jordan dance some more, drink some more, and in the end Ben gives Jordan his number and address, but nothing ‘happens’, per se. Jordan goes home alone. ]

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