Not just anyone was allowed into the Inferno night club. It was part of what he liked about it, but it came with certain limitations. It had been a good two days since any new marks had walked into the exclusive club, and it was starting to bum Cafas out. It's not like he had too many issues with that, but some people just didn't fall for the same trick twice. Plus, too many disappearances in one place, people start asking questions, no matter how much they're payed to look the other way.

In a bid to break the monotony the Australian was out prowling new bars. Newish. He'd pretty systematically burned his way through more than half of Manhattan's bar scene in the years he'd been in New York. New bars were hard to come by. Still, when he did find them it was kind of nice to not have any reputation. Really decreased the amount of guarded people you ran into. Much easier to slip people stuff when not being watched by some bartender with a hero complex.

In the end he just didn't have the energy to search out a new place. He was running on just over half juice and it already seemed much darker than it should be. One of those weird days they'd been having recently where he didn't know if it was something he'd taken or just time being messed up. Cafas pushed past the bouncer of a small punk bar one of his old gangs had operated from. They'd been pretty upset when he'd left them for a better offer. None of them were left to complain.

Some gig or other was getting set up on the small stage, plugging in amps and instruments. For a moment he considered plugging in to one of their cords, but Devon was against him using powers openly. Something about secrecy. Whatever, the guy payed enough for what he asked.

The playboy shoved some leather clad mohawked idiot out of his seat and sat at what had once been his usual spot at the bar. The guy got up and started protesting but the mutant just flipped him off and lit a cigarette. The skinny weirdo seemed like he was going to start a fight over the matter until Cafas fixed him with a look that told him exactly how scared he was of some junkie punk. The kid looked furious, but Cafas just blew a cloud of smoke in his face. For a second he looked like he was going to throw a punch.

"Not worth it kid, walk away while you can."

The electic mutant turned a wide smirk to the barman, who just shook his head and went to fetch him a drink. The kid, rather sensibly, took the advice. He reached for his untouched drink as he turned to leave. Cafas dropped his cigarette in it with a patronising smile.

"Oops."

The kid stormed away without his drink, Cafas lit another cigarette, the barman placed his usual in front of him. Tequila, cheap, dirty, straight, and by the bottle. The man cast an annoyed look at the cigarette hanging from Cafas' mouth, but didn't say a word. Cafas ashed it on the bar. "You got a problem Frankie? The others had a problem."

Frankie stopped having a problem pretty fast.

All the clocks said it was still daytime, but it felt like night pretty damn fast today. It didn’t bother Zed, in fact getting more bang for her babysitter buck was a pretty sweet deal as far as she was concerned. Rather than swinging home, or to the store for groceries (ugh, who even needed dish soap, run the water hot enough and everything nasty would wash away, grease, experiences, the works. Plus the landlord paid for water since it wasn’t separately metered, so screw that guy), instead she took a hard right into the nearest bar that looked open.

It was open, but relatively quiet. Looked like there might be something going on in a bit, but as of yet there was a lot of ‘one, two’ and sound-check strumming and not a lot of rock. She watched from the doorway as the almost altercation between the two men went down. Nice. She flatly ignored Mohawk as he made a pass on his way to the door and he exited, cursing their type.

It was exactly her type of place. Not too disgusting, but sticky enough that no one would complain if a bit of something got spilled. Booze, blood, it was all the same to the dark coloured floor. She sauntered to the bar and took the space next to the smoker.

“Got a light? House spirit, whatever’s closest.” One to the guy, the other to the bartender.

She turned to face the guy, unlit stick between her teeth, a wry smile across her face before you could say ‘hello, cheekbones’.

“Hello, cheekbones.”

Wasn’t this just quite the specimen. Perfectly coiffed, well, everything. From his manicured eyebrows right down to his expensive looking shoes. She shot a word of thanks to powers she didn’t believe in that her hookup had been a douche and she was out and about primped, preened and plucked at this particular bar at this particular time. With any luck this guy could scratch her back and she’d scratch his. A rumble and a tumble all in one afternoon. She glanced at her nails to ensure there was no lingering signs of her disposal of the unsatisfactory date. She looked the picture of coy.

And her nails were clean.

The drink arrived as quickly as could be expected for a bar of this repute and she tipped her glass towards cheekbones.

"Cheers."

Cheekbones. Heh. He'd take it. Normally he just paled next to Devon, but he supposed outside of Inferno he was the highest set in the house. In a fluid motion "Cheekbones" flipped his lighter open, struck the flint, and held the resulting flame up to the woman's cigarette. He flipped it around his fingers, closing it in the process, and making it disappear like a magician. A second later it was back in his pocket unnoticed. That one usually got them at least a little impressed. The unwavering confidence and unbroken gaze always helped.

That out of the way he gave the new woman an appraising look. Not his usual type. He didn't normally go in for the ones that looked any kind of capable, yet here she was making a move, and ultimately he didn't mind. The fauxhawk was an interesting touch. Cafas returned his gaze to the woman's face as she raised her glass. She was attractive enough, sure, he'd play. He raised his bottle, clinking the lip onto the woman's glass before taking a long swallow on the side of his mouth not occupied by cigarette.

The partyboy set his bottle down and raised an eyebrow at his new drinking companion. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" He asked, using his cigarette to indicate to her, his face adopting a smoulder that had broken hearts in the past. Well, actually the hearts had been broken later, but the point remains. Another patron coughed pointedly as the cigarette smoke started to spread through the rather stuffy room. Cafas ignored them, and he heard an aggravated grunt and the scraping of a chair.

What kind of loser punk doesn't smoke?

Oh-hoh, so he’d practiced this little lighter trick before. Well, if he was that dexterous perhaps she was in for a treat. She held his gaze and drew deep as the flame took to the tightly wrapped leaves. Oh yes, this was going to be fun. He performed a head-to-toe sweep and she tipped one foot onto a toe and bent the knee, twisting slightly at the waist to give him something to properly appraise. It made for a better ‘line’, calves accentuated by the heels, curves such as they were accentuated by the outfit. She’d made the first move, so she had to pass the inspection. That was how the game was played.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Ding, that was a pass. She smirked into her drink as she took another swig.

“Date stood me up,” (died) “you were the closest thing that didn’t reek of lame.”

Speaking of lame, Mr special lungs gave her a look as he coughed indelicately into his hand. She blew a plume of smoke and dead air in his general direction and he took the hint to skedaddle.

“Freaking special snowflakes, so unique, but put a little heat on them and they freaking melt.” Except she didn’t say freaking.

She tipped another measure (eyeballed) into her glass and tilted the bottle towards him. If he nodded she would dole him out the same. A shake would mean more for her later. She didn’t need the dutch courage, but it had been a while since she had gone toe-to-toe with someone with so much game. Not since little Pea came along that was for certain. A little push over the edge, to silence the voices that pointed out every stretch mark and dimple from where the parasite had stretched her skin to improbable lengths. It was dark though, and even in the light her tone mostly disguised them.

Bottoms up.

Cafas was starting to like this chick. Attitude and feistiness wasn't his usual gig, but hell, she made better company than most of the people he picked up. Not that he didn't enjoy the attention. God did he love the attention. The needy way they clung to him, the desperation for approval, it was so easy. It felt good. But this was something else. It was competitive. It was the game played at full force. t was as close as he could be bothered to come to liking another person.

"Negging me? That's such a brave move for an amateur. But of course you're brave, not many women can pull of a faux hawk, yet here you are." He smirked and inclined his head to her, sucking in another lungful of earthy smoke. "Getting stood up sounds like a bummer though. Still, his loss, eh?"

Faux-hawk offered a drink, Cheekbones declined, instead picking up his own bottle and lugging from it with practised nonchalance. He set it back on the bar and ashed his cigarette, this time slightly more considerately into his glass. He felt the first swallow starting to hit him, a feeling simultaneously absolutely similar and completely different to sucking on a power cord.

I could go for a power cord actually...

"So sweetheart, don't think I caught a name." He said, turning to scan the room, clearly disinterested. Classic technique, got the insecure ones every time. At least in his mind, anyway. If it failed, clearly they weren't that insecure. He turned back to have another drag of his rapidly disappearing smoke and feign faux interest in the woman's name.

There was a certain fire that came from a dangerous game of words. One slip and she could be dashed against the edge of the blade. It was what made bad relationships so damn good. The danger. She ran a hand along her hair and to her hip, the path it tracked a less than subtle hint of future intention.

“…Still, his loss, eh?” (more than cheekbones could possibly know). She dipped her head in agreement, a ghost of a smile tweaking across her face. His loss of time, his loss of life, his loss of wallet. All of his losses, but most of all his loss of air.

“And our gain.” No backhand to that compliment.

He made the move for a name and she swirled her glass slowly, watching his attention pointed so clearly anywhere but her. She wanted it pointed at her.

“How about a letter? Zed.”

The fact that it doubled as her name was simply a bonus. A little mystery never killed anyone. Well, the guy who tried to catfish her, but he didn’t really count.

“And you? I can’t call you cheekbones all. night. long.” Thank you, implication.

Her smoke done she stubbed it out against the sole of the toe of her heel (how’s that for a description?). The band was starting to make actual tunes now, rather than unmusical tones, and the whiskey was burning a trail through to her fingers.

Zed eh, she was playing the mystery card. Cheekbones arched an eyebrow lazily and flicked the butt of his cigarette into his empty glass. He dropped the eyebrow and shrugged, continuing to look only partially interested despite his rising certainty that his night was ending somewhere with this Zed. Or maybe it would just be beginning.

"I'm sure you'll be calling me God too." He smirked and checked her out very obviously, eyes flickering over the slightly less than proper dress, the heels slightly too tall to be classy. He lingered on the curves, on the exposed skin, and on the tattoos. He pulled his eyes back up her, his eyes telling her he knew his way around. It was a look he'd mastered long before he'd even become vaguely confident.

Confidence boosted (if that were even possible) by the alcohol, unable to think over the grungey tunes of some Nirvana wannabees, Cheekbones bit his lower lip appreciatively. It was rather nice not having to work for a lay, all told. It was part of what he liked about Devon, and he was starting to like it about Zed. A thought flashed through his mind then, forcing its way past his usual ego barriers and the beffudlements of having a third of a bottle of tequila in him. He gave Zed another appraising look.

Huh... It's happened before. God that was a night.

He had to concede, it was a possibility. Oh well, he wasn't a man that payed for things he didn't have to. He shrugged the thought away and found his bottle, nudging hers closer to her. At the same time, his free hand slid onto her leg and up her thigh, breaking the touch barrier first. Testing the waters so to speak. He took another deep gulp from his bottle and set it down while the room began to swim around him. "Besides, I like Cheekbones. It has a good rhythm." His smoulder returned, full force. "Cheek," His hand slid up her leg, "Bones." and back down.

He repeated it once to drive the point home.

She sipped her drink without shame as he weighed her up once again. She’d passed before, she’d pass again. She’d call him anything she liked and he responded to. She doubted there’d be that much conversation, more like instructions. That was her preference for a single night kind of gig. No point getting into the deep and meaningful with the shallow and meaningless.

Magic fingers met the skin just above her knee then went exploring. She inched forward into the touch until she slid off the stool and was standing. They weren’t that far apart in height, and the heels pretty much closed the distance. A small swift step brought her hips between his knees (of course he was a man-spreader) and she tipped her face up to meet his smoulder with her own. He wanted a smoulder-off, she could give him a smoulder-off. There wasn’t much she couldn’t (or wouldn’t) give, actually. Her glass somewhat forgotten on the bar her hand met his own joints, knee, elbow, shoulder, sliding around to the back of his neck and leaning in to breathe against his ear.

“Hey, Cheekbones?” she let the pseudonym hang as a question for a moment. “You dance?”

The music wasn’t anything special, but then neither were they, and it had a good beat.

Yeah, Zed was alright. The mirrored aggression was doing more for him than usual, but maybe that was just the tequila, or how high she'd forced his hand. He slid it around the outside of her hip to find something to squeeze. The shrinking distance between their smoulders didn't fully register until he was practically incapable of getting off his stool. Her hands were all over him too, and he was very much enjoying that. The smoulder got turned to eleven. She leaned in. He squeezed then ran the hand higher.

>>“Hey, Cheekbones?... You dance?”

Not what he'd been expecting. He swigged from his bottle once more before tossing what remained casually behind the bar where it shattered satisfyingly on the tiles. He placed the now free hand in the centre of Zed's chest and pushed her back until he could stand. It took a lot for him not to tase her just to teach her who was in charge. His open palm closed around Zed's shirt and guided her to what passed for a dance floor in the punk dive, more steady on his feet than he had any right to be.

"Zed baby, I was born to dance." More accurately, his confidence and tequila were born to tell him so. He was alright, but he wasn't exactly going on the X factor any time soon. He spent so much time doing it in various clubs that it would have been surprising if he hadn't had at least some skill. "I just wonder if you can keep up, cos I could dance all night." Even to trashy grunge punk. With a cigarette break every now and then.

Speaking of. He pulled one straight from the pack with his lips and then held it out to Zed.

The barman knew better than to stutter his disapproval about the smashed glass. It wasn’t a smashed face, so he couldn’t be that upset. Nothing a broom and mop couldn’t fix.

Zed resisted for a millisecond to the pressure against her chest, holding Cheekbones back for an instant to see the flash of warning in his eyes. It was the type of look that promised a lot of hurt in payment of disobedience. She almost wanted to provoke him, just to see what might happen. But then her shirt was tightly in his grip (and there really wasn’t any spare material to be gripping, so it was quite the show) and they were on the dancefloor.

He teased about her stamina and she stepped in close to hear him well above the music.

“Well, that’s easy when you’re not in heels! I guess they’ll just have to come off once I get tired,” she dropped her voice to just audible above the beat, “or they can stay and everything else go.”

It might be better to leave them on, actually. The floor was somewhat sticky and she hadn’t been on the lookout for rooms-by-the-hour on the way here. If it ended up being an ill-gotten bathroom stall she still would have had worse in her past.

Having hips at equal height made dancing a lot easier as well. She closed the distance between them as he took a cigarette from the pack and tilted the box towards her. Taking her own deathstick with one hand the other snaked around his waistband and into the pocket she saw the lighter disappear into earlier.

Well, there it was. Oooh, and a nice shiny lighter.

With a minor flick the flame sparked to life between them and lit both awaiting ends. She clicked it shut with the barest of winks and slipped it back into his pocket, her hand lingering there for a moment before moving back to his waist, pulling him against her to sway with the music. She was no distance-dancer, up close and personal, in range of hands and lips and breath was her M.O. She had somewhat of an unfair advantage to keeping her partners breathless. But she’d take what she got.