Proactive Guilt


logan_icon.gif raquelle_icon.gif rhys_icon.gif

Scene Title Proactive Guilt
Synopsis While trying to decompress from a stressful week, Rhys Bluthner finds his time at the Cambria Day Spa and Salon interrupted by an unexpected person…
Date September 23, 2010

Cambria Salon and Day Spa

Raquelle Jesus Yoshi Cambria is a really long name.

Cambria Salon and Day Spa is easier to remember, but about as long.

It's in the latter place with the former's magnificent care that finds Rhys Bluther cleaning up after an unfortunate series of days in bitingly cold rain and too much mud for one young man to handle. Sitting on one of the padded barber's chairs with a frock around his shoulders and chair laid back with his head in a sink, he just needed a day off, a day to be someone else, a day to be somewhat normal. Staring up at the owner of the Cambira salon, elbow deep in the sink and risning shampoo out of Rhys's hair, the conversational topics that the young frock-laden man offers are entirely mundane for once.

"…that's about when I decided it was completely hopeless to get him to dress like anything other than a GI Joe doll or something. I mean," blue eyes alight to Raquelle and the red-cheeked boy offers a roll of his eyes, "it's a black fleece vest on top of some sort of black denim shirt, black cargo pants and boots. I know he thinks he's tough, but did you know he has a pony tail and a soul patch too?"

Both of Rhys' brows go up. "I swear to God, I'm just going to sneak up behind him one of these days with a pair of scissors and just put it out of my misery. I don't care how badass your kung fu or whatever is, there is no excuse to dress like that, even if he is Asian."

Alright, maybe partly mundane.

Raquelle Jesus Yoshi Cambria is used to listening to people share their life stories or what happened the other day and so on and so forth. As talented fingers knead and massage Rhys's scalp, he mmhms and ahas and oh reallys on cue.

The owner of the salon wears a pair of fitted black jeans, fitted black turtle-neck and a dark red vest that matches the band of red on his black fedora and the laces of his docs, toolbelt/black apron in place so he can easily access his tools. He just smiles slowly to himself.

"Travesty honey, truely a disaster. You should be like a humanitarian and get an award for what you did…totally messing up my people's reputation with the ponytail and kung fu soul patch…thank you!" He fakes a sniffle. "Close your eyes before I blind you with the rinse honey."

Being a mobster is really stressful. Being excessive and metrosexual is not.

And so, not an uncommon face at the Cambria Salon and Day Spa, if not as regular as some asshole might try to peg him as being, Logan sweeps into the building with enough ease that it's clear he knows the basic shapes of the layout, the texture of its ambiance. He likes this place because it is expensive, or maintains the appearance of being so, and he hasn't heard Caliban's credit card complain each time it's been slotted through the till. Not once! Blonde-related touch ups, unnecessary manicures, or, if the New York weather is being particularly clammy on a given day, a facial.

It's a warmish day, at that, his white shirt light and open-collared, waist trim in the buttoning in of a waistcoat of slate gray, fitted slacks to match, with scarlet satin as its backing. Frivolous scarf of similar red is already loose around his neck, undone in the car ride, and his shoes are handcrafted, Italian, and just as shiny as any mirror within the place.

Call for attention is simple announcement: "Knock knock. I've only an hour and a half today to call my own, you know."

Eyes shut the moment John Logan comes into the Salon, Rhys Bluther offers a crooked smile to Raquelle. "In that case I didn't mean anything by the Asian crack either," the boy notes with a raise of one brow as Raquelle akes fingers through his short hair, "you know it's just— he infuriates me to the point of irrationality, and worst of all he's one of those people who just walks away whenever there's an argument." There's a click of Rhys' tongue adn he shales his head, turning reflexively at the feel of hands moving around his hair.

"Just the other day we got into a shouting match in the middle of a downpour in this god-awful muddy little field in Europe and— " the boy exhales an exasperated breath, "I swear I was just going to up and smack that look right off his face and he just turns around and starts walking away. He never gets mad, not even when I screw something up, he just stands there all stoic and cool as a cucumber."

Rhys may never stop now that he's started, yammering that is.

There's nobody really at the front desk, but one of the 'girls' who works in the salon recognizes Logan as a customer who has been there before and gasps softly, finishing setting her curl and flailing. "MR CAMBRIA, SOMEBODY RICH!" She hollers, giving a bounce.

Over —> there where Raquelle is finishing up the rinse. "Mmm, I didn't feel anything by that Asian crack…" A pause. "…does he have a nice asian crack?" He laughs softly and shakes his head, listening and he drapes a towel around his head, wrapping it up and nudging the young man to sit up. "I know what you mean honey, well. If it helps, I can give you some Japanese insults to fling his way or statements to surprise the hell outta him."

He grimaces at the yelling. "Send him back Sharin! I'm not deaf! I'll take him as my second, yell at me again and I'm telling Tommy you've been faking it!"

"Have you?" is Logan's query to Sharin, now, his smile a sharkish kind of charming. Sharkish for the teeth it shows, and the fact it never quite reaches his eyes, as he draws his scarf off his neck entirely and sets about carefully folding it over, the material fine enough as to pushing into a pocket. "Enquiring minds, love, now that we're on the subject. I can wait a few minutes, don't panic."

And so a magazine is plucked up, Vogue Italia, gravitating for pricey glossy pages, capturing interest where— you know— books have always failed to do so.

"Oh god Hiro's not like that at all," Rhys bubbles with laughter as he sits up, "boy's got his head in his job and nothing else, besides I'm not much for the short and kind've doughy in the middle kind've guys, he's my height and I'm not exactly long legs and tall strides here." Breathing in deeply thorugh ihs nose, there's an exha;e of a sigh as Rhys looks askance at Raquelle.

Unaware of Logan's predatory lingering by the front desk, Rhys spins around in his seat to follow Raquelle's movements. "Besides, I think he's hung up on this long-distance relationship or something. I caught him looking at this photograph he keeps, you know? He's probably four or five years younger in it, all flannel shirts and glasses and bowl haircut," there's a roll of his eyes, "but he's on the arm of this darling redhead at some kind've birthday party."

There's a dry laugh from Rhys. "Normally I'm pretty good at figuring people out, but this guy's life is like a knot of fucking— oh gosh sorry," there's a hand up over his mouth, "sorry." Embarrassed by the slip of the tongue, Rhys ducks his head down. "Ah, you— " then, of course, Logan is there in Rhys' periphery, with a magazine and enough subtle charm to strike an unprepared man dead in his tracks. It is neither John Logan's good looks nor his charm that has rendered Rhys speechless.

Sharin just blushes. Hard and stammers as she fidgets, the little Indo-Asian-European woman with her curly hair, toes the ground. "D-do you need some tea?" She flees!

Raquelle looks amused before just quirking an eyebrow as he gathers items to put on a small cart, sorting through some combs and laying them out as he listens and snickers. "Well I'll teach you how to say 'your mother' at least." Then he waves things off. "Oh baby, don't apologize…do you know how much I say fuck in a day? I happen to be very fond of it." He winks and then turns to look between Logan and Rhys and back to Logan and then back to Rhys. He blinks. "…Master Metrosexual…uh we talking ex here or have you not seen a pair of shoes that nice before?" A squint. "Damn sir, those shoes are nice." He rests a hand on his hip.

They are pretty nice shoes. Shiny like an oil spill, with indentations of tortoise patterns in silver stitching. As he waits, Logan polishes the toe of one against pant leg at the back of his calf, elbow set against high countertop as he flips through editorial photographs and their miniscule tiny fonted articles.

It doesn't, inevitably, hold his attention very long. Things rarely do, especially when the magazine is from the prior month, Logan restlessly flipping it closed and tossing it onto the surface from which it came. Pale gaze darts around the interior of the salon, skimming over the top of Rhys' brunette head to settle on Raquelle's returning assessing glance. While we're all checking each other out: not Logan's type, but that doesn't mean he can't afford fellow business owner a cut of a smile, which he does, not impatiently.

The look that narrows on Rhys, in turn, is not so patient, dismissive and a little off-guard by the stare he's getting, enough to set defensive tension in Logan's satin and wool clad shoulders.

"John," is enough of a greeting that Rhys didn't mean to give, his jaw set square and throat tight with an anxious swallow. Sure, they've never met in person, that doesn't mean that there needn't be some sort of introduction. Usually, of course, you introduce yourself, not the other person. Rhys is having a hard enough time keeping his tenses straight in public than to get that politeness correct.

"I— mean— you're John Logan, right?" One of Rhys' brows arches as he looks down to the former pimp from his slightly higher perch in the stylist's chair, offering an askance look to Raquelle and forgetting whether or not he'd asked Rhys a question or not. Awkwardly, the teeth toys with his bottom lip between his teeth, then slides one hand out from beneath his frock to grip the arm of the chair.

"He's— not an ex," Rhys offers with a grimace, looking over to Raquelle after he pieces together that answer. "My… family did business with him, thorugh his new job." There's a tightness in Rhys' voice, it's a poorly constructed lie. "They are nice shoes though," almost sounds wistful.

"…uhhunh…" Raquelle gestures towards Rhys's head questioningly. "So what are we doing again?" He asks distractedly, toying with a comb and moving a few steps to peer at Logan more closely. "…you gonna just sit there pretty boy or you coming back to claim a seat and let me know what you want so I can have a threesome without needing a condom for once."

He hesitates. "It doesn't sound like this is nice business so how about we just sit down, have a cup of sake laced tea, and talk about asses?" Aha…ha. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "C'mon now, lets get things rolling."

'Nice business' probably wouldn't have Logan getting cagey just because a stranger knows his name. He remains where he is, at first, until Raquelle's summoning— and the promise of pampering~— has him breaking off from the front area, steering his gaze from Rhys towards Raquelle. Thusly invited, he moves on over, side stepping to allow one of the salon employees to flit by with a brief smile in her direction. "All business is nice business," he says. "And in this case, I see I should have booked ahead.

"Yes, I'm John Logan," is more directed at the younger of the pair, icy demeanor thawing out just a little once his hackles are down, coming to sit and fold a leg over the other. "I don't think I recognise you."

"Unsurprising," Rhys offers in a cheerfully bitter tone of voice, forcing a smile that might as well be a sneer to Logan. Green eyes avert to Raquelle and one of Rhys' small hands musses about at the top of his head. "It needs a trim, it's been a couple of months since the last time I had it handled and I'm all shaggy in the back. Keep the style the way it is though, maybe a little closer by the ears…" green eyes hood partly as Rhys looks down to the floor, then back up to Logan.

"I'm not sure offering John a drink would be the best idea," he calls him John if only because history says he dislikes it. "But if you actually have like a spritzer or something that'd be nice," says the boy not even old enough to buy cigarettes on his own yet. Not that he smokes of course, ugly habit. Do you hear that Logan? Ugly habit.

Raquelle twirls a straight edge around a finger and holds it up, blowing over the top like a pistol in a Western and he winks to Rhys. "Trust me baby, I'll keep you looking fabulous." He hesitates for a moment, looking between the two. "You here for nails and a seaweed or honey facial? We have a new type of facial coming in too soon, I /might/ have a free sample for somebody special…"

He trails off and blinks. "I do have a spritzer…will ya'll excuse me for onnne second." He holds up a one moment finger and saunters off to fetch drinks.

It's working. The name thing. Logan's jaw sets enough for a slight dip to shadow along the line of it, though he doesn't let himself scowl, fingers lacing together. "I'll go for a beer, if you have it," is told to Raquelle's back, very manly, leaning enough to echo his actual order out with, "and whichever of those facial treatments that come with the thirty minute hydrotherapy, if the girls aren't fully booked, ta!" And he splays fingers, a brief check over of his nails to see if they need any work, giving Rhys a reprieve from his study.

But only for a few seconds. "Now what family did business through me, exactly? My name's Logan, for future reference — just that. What's yours?"

"Bluthner," is an attempt at getting a rise out of Logan, "Rhys Bluthner." It's an attempt that Rhys isn't certain will work, but the way the green of his eyes seems just a bit darker when his pupils dilate indicates he's searching for something while Raquelle is away, now in the proximity of John Logan, sweeping through the dust of time with a thought becomes a muich simpler and much clearer endeavor.

Something makes Rhys withdraw, widens the green rings of his eyes and steels his posture in that chair. "It was personal business," the boy explains in a hushed tone of voice, looking away and furrowing his brows. "It wasn;t apparently very impotrant either." That Rhys is holding John Logan responsible for something he hasn't even done yet isn't fair.

Life isn't either, admittedly. "I didn't know you came here," is offered more hushed than his earlier barb, attention shifting to the mirror in front of himself. Rhys' tone implies that he may have to find a new stylist, this is harder than he'd imagined.

"Spritzer…Beer…" Raquelle is gone for a little while before returning with a spritzer for the younger of the two. "Plenty fruity without needing extra stuff to color it up, it looks clear and fizzy but trust me. Your mouth will be on a tropical island and your hips won't get any wider." The glass is set on the cart next to his chair.

He spins smoothly to set the beer in the sleek silver container next to Logan. "And this is for you, I'll tell Lulu to see to you today, she thinks you're a hottie." He blows a kiss.

The name doesn't ring a bell enough to get much out of Logan but studious squint, trying to remember if he ever. Killed anyone by that name. Severed their fingers from their hands. Hired an older— or younger— sister. Something he's done in his history — the one he is at least aware of. "Well, on the subject of importance, I wouldn't take it very personal. And I'm everywhere in this city," is unapologetic dismissal, allowing a brief, faintly chilly smile to Raquelle as he brings along his drink, picking it up one-handedly and angling it to view the contents.

Flows to his feet a moment later, in expectation of leaving tinygay to his haircut from tallgay. "Shall I let you girls get on with it?" seems more directed at the younger of the two, a glance through reflection, though phrased as invitation from business owner to go soak in luminous water with cucumber slices over his eyes, beer in hand, for the next half-hour.

Reaching out to take the glass offered by Raquelle, Rhys' brows furrow and his throat works up and down in a tense swallow. "Yes, I— I have very important things to do in a few hours," that most certainly have nothing to do with slogging around a muddy trench, this time anyway. "It— was nice finally getting to see you." There's visible tension from Rhys, one moment he's sneeringly commenting to Logan and the next he's awkwardly trying to speak, he clearly doesn't know what it is he wants. Typical, in a way, likely genetic too.

With Logan hanging on Raquelle's permission to move on, and Raquelle likely no longer wanting to entertain Rhys' own personal grudge against John Logan for something that hasn't even happened yet, Rhys lifts up his glass and takes a sip from the drink, one brow raising and a small, appraising noise in the back of his throat. Raquelle was right, his mouth is on a tropical island.

"Mmhm, tip them well pretty man, they might give you something else special." Raquelle drawls with a soft laugh before turning back to Rhys. "…you gonna spill or am I no longer gonna get to hear about the soul patch and the asian dough boy ass cracks?" He fakes a pout, getting a spritz bottle and prepping his razors and chuckling softly to himself as he watches Logan quietly and turns back to his current client. "I'll give you a cert for a mani-pedi to cheer you up bubba, now sit back and let Daddy Raqui get back to fabbing you up, okay cupcake?"

Logan veers from awkwardness and pendulous feelings of others like a dog might from the spritz bottle in Raquelle's hand — veering off with purpose and avoidance both, a hand gesturing in princely communication of whatever. "I always do," is small-talk backchat to Raquelle's advice, before the authorative clipclop of his shoes against the tiled ground end his contribution to chatter, mundane and less so.

Staring down into the bubbling surface of his spritzer, Rhys breathes in deeply and raises his shoulders, then exhales a slouching sigh as he watches Logan's retreating figure practically sashaying out of sight. Swallowing audibly, Rhys offers a faint smile to Raquelle's hospitality, to the fact that he's putting up so well with his own depressive mood. Lifting up his glass to take another sip of his drink, Rhys looks askance to the front of the salon, then back to where Logan is headed.

"Actually," Rhys begins in a smaller, somewhat conspiratorial tone of voice, his green eyes focusing down into the bubbly surface of his spritzer again at his own warped reflection. "I… I think it might be good if I got something else off of my chest." Rhys' green eyes alight to Raquelle with a more honest smile. "But first, maybe you can help me with something."

"Are you close with your father?"

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