A Friend in Need


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Scene Title A Friend in Need
Synopsis A friend in need's a friend indeed, a friend with weed is better. A friend with breasts and all the rest, a friend who's dressed in leather. A friend in need's a friend indeed, a friend who'll tease is better. Our thoughts compressed, which makes us blessed, and makes for stormy weather.
Date December 15, 2010

The Surly Wench

A punk rock pub through and through, The Surly Wench is dim, cramped, and incredibly popular. It's a small, rectangular venue with a bar bordering one entire wall. Despite this, ordering a drink on a weekend can be an exercise in line-waiting and rib-elbowing. There are a few small tables ringed with high stools for seating, but these are prime real estate. The majority of the patrons are forced to stand shoulder-to-shoulder on any given night. Almost half of the cramped interior is devoted to a low stage for live music. There's no dance floor. If you feel the need, you'll have to thrash in place.

Punk rock may not be what someone in a suit would normally be enjoying on a weekday evening, but Kincaid August isn't entirely what he may seem. The dark blue jacket is visible, with a long black coat hanging drapped over an empty stool. The pub is often crowded wall to wall, with all seats taken, but such is not the case at the moment. The chill keeps people from standing in line, and the riots may have made those who usually come in a little wary. There's still a few seats open, so the coat draped over the high chair isn't blocking anyone out— but at the same time he isn't really offering it to anyone. All the other chairs at his table have been moved away, to join with other tables, where small groups gather.

The music is loud, and the drinks are flowing. And it's black coffee that's sitting in front of this man. Black as his eyes are. But a double shot glass sits next to it, filled to the top with something most definitely not coffee. A rather hard whiskey in fact. One he seems to be contemplating.

Or perhaps waiting to share.

A woman with brown hair worn down in loose curls cradles a tequila sunrise against her chest, stepping away from the bar where she ordered it. She approaches Kincaid's table and offers him a wide smile. "Is this seat taken?" she asks. The crinkle of lines at the corners of her eyes suggest she's a bit older than her youthful style of dress and the way she carries herself is meant to portray. "I don't like to sit by myself," she explains, being as how there are plenty of open spaces she could settle into. "All the weirdos come out of the woodwork."

The fact that she doesn't find it weird that the man is drinking coffee in a punk bar either means she rather finds the fact intriguing, or maybe she just thinks he's cute enough to sit next to. She's still wearing her coat, a red plaid thing fashionable enough to be just a step up from a sweatshirt, and fur trimming the hood. It's left half-unzipped over a white tank top that's been tucked into a pair of leather pants.

Some men in their mid twenties may find this particular moment a gift from above— Dark eyes slide up her body, to settle on her face, before he looks back down at his coffee, hand taking it up and drawing a generous sip before he answers. "It's not taken by anyone, if you intend to sit there." With that said, Kincaid slides off the seat to pick up his coat, so that he can drape it over his lap instead, to make it free for her.

The hand that wraps around the coffee mug is discolored in a few places, signs of mostly healed burns and even older ragged scarring.

"Seems like a lot of people prefer to stand up close to the band, that what you do when you come here… Miss…?" He trails off with a questioning tone. Fill in the blank.

"Hawk," the woman responds easily, setting her drink on the table and then taking the now open seat next to Kincaid. "Lorine," she offers almost belatedly. "I don't usually come here by myself. I used to come here with a friend, and we'd sit at the bar. But… Well, life is crazy and I needed a drink."

The sunrise is sipped on as Lorine tucks a dark strand behind one ear. "What's your name? You don't look like this is your scene. Is the coffee that good?" Her chin dips to indicate the mug in his hand, though her grey-blue gaze moves to the double of whiskey.

"With a friend, huh…" Kincaid says, looking down at his coffee as he shifts the liquid around in the cup into a small swirl. It's hard to tell it's moving since it's so black, and there's nothing to stand out among it. "The coffee's okay, better than some places." And the double shot of whiskey still sits untouched. "I'm contemplating life, choices… decisions. But I didn't want to do it in your usual depressing bar."

And it seems the punk music and the excited chatter are the one things keeping it from being more depressing than it probably already is.

"I'm afraid I won't be very good company, but I'll buy you a drink if you want one."

"I never turn down a free drink," is admitted with a smile. "And my usual partner in crime, well… This is where we come to talk about life, choices, and decisions." Her smile is reassuring and she rests one elbow on the table, resting her head against her head and lifting her brows to entreat Kincaid. "You wanna talk about it? I'm a good listener if all you want is someone to talk to. But I don't mind giving advice, either."

"My problems aren't exactly easy to explain," Kincaid says with a laugh, as he sets down the coffee cup and slides his hand over to the shotglass. It could be he's considering moving it in her direction, but instead he lets go of it and stands up. "But I can give you the short version at least. Name's Kincaid August," he adds, since he'd perhaps not been planning to give it right away.

"What do you want to drink?" he asks, and once he has the answer, he disappears to the bar, leaving his coat draped over the chair he just evacuated. It won't be too long before he returns, sets the drink she ordered in front of her, and reclaims his seat.

Pleased to have another tequila sunrise ready for her once she polishes off the first, Lorine reaches out to trace a finger over the line of Kincaid's shoulder, curving along his bicep. "Complicated is okay. I'm good with complicated." She looks like she means that, too. "I live complicated. Sometimes it's nice to know I'm not the only one. So…"

The brunette shrugs. "Lay it on me, Mister Kincaid August." The corner of her mouth quirks up in a smirk that's a little toothy. "I like that name, by the way."

"Hawk's a very nice name too. I have a friend who would love that last name," Kincaid says as he reclaims his coffee mug, and glances down at the shot glass instead. He doesn't pull away from the hand at all, and there's definitely muscle under his clothes. He works out, despite the suit.

"I just have a big choice in front of me. One I know'll lead to a lot of pain… and the other may not lead to a lot of pain, but could anyway. And I'm not sure which one's the best. Taking the chance, or sticking with what I know."

The woman's hand is withdrawn, and she leaves it to rest against the table's surface, her thumb curled around the edge. "Well… Will taking the chance make things better for yourself or others in the long run, even if it causes a lot of pain in the short term? That's usually where I start." She shrugs, lips pursing in a thoughtful pout. "Sometimes we have to hurt the people around us, for their own good. To make things better."

"Make things better, huh— " Kincaid says with a hint of a laugh. It's nearly a cough. "Maybe you're right— maybe you just have to do what you think is right for the people you care about, even if they'd probably slap you for doing it." Sometimes it hurts to help. The scarred hand moves to the mug again, taking a long sip before he lowers it to look at her again, "So why'd you come out here tonight if you haven't been in a while and you're old friend isn't here with you? Looking to make new friends?" That last is said with a smile that goes against the serious and depressing talk of moments past.

That brightens the face of the woman trying to convince people she's still closer to girlhood. "That's one way of looking at it. Certainly not… an unfair way. I was kind of hoping I'd find him here. I mean, I knew I wouldn't. He hasn't called for a while, but he's one of those types of people that shows up in the strangest of places. You know the type?"

A brow a little paler than the shade of her hair quirks upward. "Are you looking to make new friends? You seem like you could use one. If only just for tonight."

"Sometimes new friends are the best friends to have," Kincaid says, grinning a bit as his hand slides over to the shot glass again. It still seems like he's trying to make decisions, and he hasn't quite gotten there yet. "Cause they only have the last few moments to judge you by, and you can make those moments just about anything you want." Or choose.

"If you're offering to keep me company, I'd like that. Better than listening to the radio all night," he says with a grin, actually lifting the shot glass finally and throwing it back. One quick drink, no pauses for breath.

"I am," Lorine confirms. "Listening to the radio all night isn't all that bad. Especially if you put on music that's got a good beat to it, and you have someone to dance with. Talk radio, though, if you're listening to that? That's just sad. And in which case, I will definitely keep you company to save you from yourself." She laughs, a throaty sort of chuckle that sounds a little husky after the tequila she's drank. "She lifts her glass and clinks it against the side of his mug of coffee, since his shot's been downed. "To new friends, then."

From the way the whiskey goes down, it's obvious Kincaid isn't lacking in alcoholic consumption. Even if he had an interesting way of making his coffee Irish. "That's pretty funny actually— you happen to be talking to one of the assistant producers at Studio K, Syndicated Radio, and one of the many shows I help run is one of the risqué talk shows. One of these days we'll get nude guests on the show— course the audience will have to use their imagination."

But him and the radio host won't? Well, in a perfect world. Standing up, he pulls on his long dark coat but doesn't bother to button it up. "To new friends." He doesn't tap any glasses against hers anymore, but he does drink one last sip of the coffee— though it may not counter that double shot, even then.

Speakeasy Hotel and Casino: Lorine's Room

There is character to the room, if in the way that 'character' carries negative connotations. The paint is peeling off the skilful wooden moulding, the carpet is faded and the bedding looks old and tired. The painting hung behind the bed is so old as to be retro and the bathroom sports a clawfoot tub and a pedestal sink. Both leak and have hard water stains. The whole place carries a faintly musty smell, though it's clear the staff have attempted to keep it at least somewhat clean. The sheets are stain-free and the bathroom is always stocked with little bottles of toiletries. The windows are thin and let in a fair amount of traffic noise. The one good thing is that the old radiator keeps the room toasty warm in winter.

The room at the Speakeasy is a shithole. And that's being kind to it. "Sorry," the woman on Kincaid's arm murmurs. "It's not much, but it's a place to sleep and no one complains about the hours I keep or who I bring home with me. Been kind of displaced since…" A hand is waved vaguely toward the window as though it would indicate enough that she means to reference the riots of November 8th.

"I don't know if you smoke," the room smells of it, "but you can, if you like." Unlike at most bars around the city. Lorine sheds her coat and tosses it onto a wooden chair that wobbles once, a shortened leg removing some of the stability. A radio sits on the night stand. "Did you want to listen to some music?"

"My place isn't much better, to be honest," Kincaid says, setting his coat down, after he retrieves a small object. A flat case— with a few cigarette inside and a lighter. "I didn't used to smoke, but I started recently— Nicotine's a powerful stimulant." Drawing one up to his lips, he lights it, and then offers the hard box to her, if she wants it. Ifs he doesn't, it's replaced into his coat pocket.

Someone likes his stimulants.

"Did you know that tobacco plants are in the same family as the deadly nightshade? And tomato, paprika and chili, actually, but deadly nightshade just sounds scarier." Poisons hiding in a harmless looking plant. "And no— unless it's CD music. I listen to live radio all day, I don't need to listen to it now." And who knows who might be listening.

She declines the offered cigarettes with the murmured promise of later, and shakes her head. "Didn't know that. Deadly nightshade, huh? That does sound scarier. And like a lot more fun, huh?" She takes a seat at the end of her bed, unzipping the sides of her fashionable, yet practical boots and tossing them off into a corner with a dull thunk, thunk!

"My name isn't actually Lorine." Dark hair is shaken out, a grin on her face. "At least, it isn't the name I go by. But if you like it, you can keep using it." Her eyes sparkle with mirth and mischief. "I'll answer to just about anything you like, really."

"Sometimes it needs to be scary to be fun," Kincaid says, pulling his dress jacket off to reveal a clean button up white shirt. Clean cut lines and well laundered, his clothes don't even smell like cigarettes. Either he doesn't smoke much really, or he's careful not to do it in closed places. Until now— likely he'll leave the place smelling like his own tobacco.

"My name actually is Kincaid," he says, as if to give her a 'record' there. "But since you mentioned it— you looking to share the name you actually go by? Don't get me wrong, Lorine's pretty enough, but sometimes it's good to know what to call a person if you see them again by chance."

"If you see me again, you should probably call me Lorine," she notes. "It is the name on my ID. But… My friends call me Gina." Except when they call her Niki, or Jessica, or Hey Bitch!


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Gina Sanders crooks a finger to beckon Kincaid closer. "Look at you. You look so sharp. Do you always dress so nice, or is that just a work look?" She sweeps him up and down with her eyes appraisingly. Suggestively.

"But tonight you can be Gina," Kincaid says, taking a long drag on the cigarette, before he lets it sit in an ashtray so he can abandon it all together as he moves closer to her beckoning hand. "I try to dress sharp when I can, but not always— " There's a sudden grimace as he brings his hand up to touch her cheek, brushing dark hair back. For a moment, his eyes don't seem as dark, almost as if catching the light in a way that makes the black seem like a navy blue instead.

The hand falls back, but not before she catches a glimpse of the scarring on it. It's on boths ides, palm and back of hand, on all the fingers, even on his wrist. His eyes go dark again, and lower down to her own clothes. "Do you always dress like that or were you trying to lure your friend into calling you back next time? Cause whoever the guy is… if you're the one answering the phone, he's missing out." Suggestive seems to work fairly well both ways.

"We don't have that kind of relationship," Gina admits of her friend. Her own eyes flash for a moment, but with concern and a glance to his hand, but she doesn't bring it up. She can recognise scars for what they are. She doesn't need an explanation. She has plenty of her own in various places, faded with age. "He's the type that's too busy feeling sorry for himself to notice there's someone right in front of him that wants to make him feel better. Not like you."

Grey-blue comes down briefly to appraise her own attire, but stops at Kincaid's belt buckle. She honestly meant to look back up to his face. Honest. "I'm a tank top kind of girl, but the pants? Would you believe me," now Gina forces her gaze back up to Kincaid's face, "if I told you they're my lucky pants?"

Even if that's where she meant to look, Kincaid must not mind the lingering gaze, cause once she looks back up, he's moving even closer, left hand touching her neck instead of the scarred one, as he leans his face down against hers, foreheads touching, noses touching cheeks, breath playing along her lips as he responds. "I have no doubt… that those are indeed lucky pants."

It's not quite a kiss, but the breath seems to have it's own touch. Coffee mixed with mixed with whiskey and topped off with fresh cigarettes. "I normally don't do this— going home with women I just met." That scarred hand raises up, touching her side and sliding higher. "But sometimes the only choice is to let go." Each word the air seemed closer, and at the end, his lips touch hers.

It's been a long time since Gina's had control to seize a moment like this. Jessica uses it to get her way. Niki sells the idea of it, but avoids it. Gina lives for the uninhibited moments shared between a man and a women. The tease of their proximity, his breath over her lips is intoxicating. Her breath catches in her throat. She feels alive. Tempting as it is to just lean up and take it, waiting pays off and the moment their lips touch is that much sweeter.

Slender fingers belie the strength Gina possesses, but doesn't tap into, and work at buttons deftly. Her eyes slide shut and she leans up into the kiss enough to make it a crush of lips, and need.

And from the way that his hands touch her, trying to get closer to skin, and the force in which Kincaid returns the kiss— she's not the only one trying to find something in this. Letting go is sometimes the only choice, and if it's inhibitions someone needs to let go of right then, he's certainly throwing them out the window.

The cigarette will burn out in the ash tray long before he remembers it was there. But they both have plenty to keep their minds, and everything else, occupied.

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