Participants:
| Scene Title | So Smoov Part 1 |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Everybody parties like it's 1999… and it's all caught on film! |
| Date | February 25, 2011 |
Hands grasp.
Shoulders bump.
New York City is falling apart. Gunfights almost every other week, powers burning down buildings. Government trying to black bag people, terrorists trying to blow up buildings. The City needs a strong response from the people. A strong retaliation to revitalize the city. So how does New York City respond?
It spends a lot of money and gets drunk…
I love the way you move~
The powerhouse is a new club on the New York City. Higher end, they quickly leaped on the chance to get the kind of publicity that having the top names of Studio K have an all night party to get the name of the Powerhouse out into the general population.
The building itself is rather ordinary from the outside. Sort of resembling the dark gray and plain exterior of a power plant. Wide rectangular, yet darkened windows dotting the walls. Upon entry, however, all will see the dramatic change of the Powerhouse.
Upon getting past the hefty security team, of which Smoov's own Big R is a part of the guests are ushered through the plain looking foyer. A typical lobby for any office building, staircases lining each side of the lobby. But there are large double doors, practically quaking from the heavy bass reverberating from behind it. Once opened, they reveal the real party.
Of a more exotic design, the 'interior' is actually outside. The building surrounding it in a courtyard type fashion. The bottom floor has a large pool, steam rising from the rectangular water filling up the base. There are balconies overlooking the pool, where plenty of people have already begun dancing. Heatlamps are everywhere, making what would be a night too cold for outside fairly warm.
"Welcome to the powerhouse, now." Smoov's voice carries through the speakers through the entire club. The song interrupted, Smoov slapping a knob at the DJ booth that he stands on, positioned behind the pool. As soon as he does, the entire club experiences a seizure. Either that or strobe lights are turned on temporarily. "If you're 'ere now, you ain't leavin' til the sun come up. And we aint gonn stop dancin, we ain't gonn stop drinkin', till dat light start creepin'. Can you 'ear me?" Stepping back from the booth, Smoov smiles smugly up at the club, holding his fist up to all those dancing above him.
The three story party building's cover was a bit steep. But once in, drinks are free. The place even has rooms to rent out for those who don't mind spending the extra money. Drop a few bills and you could have a place to stay after your done drinking and dancing your face off. Or a place for a little intimacy should some desire it. As well as a snackbar on the second floor giving those who are hungry. The third floor has a quiet room, for those who need to make a phone call, write a business e-mail, whatever. But besides that the building rocks pretty loudly.
Stepping down from the DJ booth, Smoov's fist raises up to give a dap to a man who waits for him. A heavyset camera man follows Smoov and will be for the whole night. Smoov smirks over to the man before looking up at all the people come for his party. Come to see him. A light smile creeps up his lips.
He's coming back.
Smoov may be coming back, but Peyton isn't sure if having come back is the right move or not today. The trip from Massachusetts is short enough, and she was invited to the party by one of her old friends from her life before. Before manifestation and the roller coaster her life has been since. The tall brunette watches from a corner, sipping a glass of something electric blue in color. Her friend, one of New York's hardest partiers, is long gone from Peyton's side, no doubt coked out and in one of those private rooms doing God knows what with God knows who.
She shouldn't have come. This isn't her life anymore. It hasn't been for more than a year. This city isn't even her city any more. She sighs, glancing down at a cell phone in her hand to check the time, wondering if the decisions she's made recently would protect her from being caught out after curfew. But there's no cabs to be had, no subway trains to catch.
Escapism.
Pure unadulterated escapism.
And Bradley Russo can’t even enjoy it; his thoughts are elsewhere, even if in body he’s here flashing that infamous white set of teeth for the cameras and public. But no drinking. Not yet anyways. Not right now. Besides, in general, he’d rather drink alone. Smoking, however? Totally on the menu.
The cigarette that hangs between Brad’s lips semi-loosely as he takes a long drag only to blow out at his leisure. There’s a smugness in his smile and an unusual stillness in his blue-grey eyes. Stillness but not peace. In fact, if anything, he lives and breathes the opposite of peace. His jaw tightens as he takes another long drag. It’s going to be an interesting night.
His grey suit is a perfect fit, tailored for him and his broad-shouldered build, but there’s no tie tonight. In fact, his black dress shirt has two open buttons. Flying wild tonight ladies and gentleman!
He puts the cigarette out in a nearby ash tray and flashes another patron an easy grin, easier than before, although there’s still a tug at the corners of his eyes. An nearly uncomfortable tug, nearly undetectable. A glance is given to the bar itself before he pushes off it, only to turn to catch Peyton in his gaze. “Heeeeey— “ his eyebrows knit together a little, this time with easy good-humour. Such are his theatrics. “— didn’t you fall off the face of the planet or something?” The smirk on his lips twists somewhat ironically, “Or is it just that kind of party?” The kind where everyone reemerges on the other side. Like the host himself.
There's a little crowd of people surrounding… Dirk? How can that be? Why is it happening? The petite blonde man is chatting rather animatedly to a couple of girls who are accompanied by a couple of giants, the kind that usually intimidate the little blonde but not tonight! All of them seem rather enraptured by whatever he's saying before one of the large men interrupts with a loud, "NO WAY! You know him?! But you're kind of a douche and he's… like… important or something."
Frowning, Dirk takes a small sip of his drink and eyes the man for a moment before raising his chin haughtily and sniffing. "You bet I know him, I was the first victim of the cannon hands of doom, my friend. We're compadres now though, no harm done. Even got the phone number of a hot little nurse at the ER." He did, sort of, he got the number of the hostpital at least… and the employee number on her badge.
Shaking her head, Kristen Reynolds meanders up beside Russo and Peyton before waving the star of the reality show over. "Kojo! Over here, come and meet Brad and Peyton Whitney." The celebutante should be good for some ratings, after all, she used to be something of a party girl a year or so ago. Since the producer was unwilling to pay for one of the more current hot party goers to attend, the brunette will do very nicely.
A young blonde thing already has her hand on Smoov's chest, a light smile winding up his lips as he starts to do the Smoov thing. His hand comes up, palm out. And a drink is put in it. It's like magic. Who needs an ability when you can make alcohol appear in your hand out of nowhere. Bringing the glass up to his lips its poured back some. He is already looking forward to the toilet the next day. Taking a drink, his attention is snagged by the boss lady. Duty calls. Looking back to the blonde he gives her an apologetic smile, starting to step away. But the girl is a clinger.
Normally he would just call security or something. Ask someone to take care of this. But there's cameras on him all the time. Have to play it up. So Smoov makes a little show of trying to get away. It doesn't work. So then his hand is reaching up, giving the blonde's face a little smoosh as he tries to push away. That should look good on the show. Just great. Eventually, the man is crossing through the crowd over to the group. Bradley is given a little nod before his attention centers on Peyton. "Good evening." It comes out with a charming smile.
Dark eyes dart up to Russo and her brows rise and she gives a nod, before taking a sip of the blue drink. "Hey. Something like that. I don't really … live… in the city anymore," she says a little awkwardly. She needs a better story for that sort of thing.
But suddenly the wall she was playing flower on is a popular place, with Kristen and Smoov heading in their direction. "Shit," she says under her breath, before taking a bigger gulp of the drink.
"Hi," she says with a smile and a nod to Kristen and then Smoov, shifting the drink to her left hand so she can offer her right. "Nice party."
Tartarus had cop death outside it, and closes for curfew. So on a friday night, the promise of an all night shindig of exceptional caliber happening, Hortense had shucked her uniform, got her hair and nails did and was one of those lucky few who got past security and bouncers - without needing to resorting to flashing top or tail or a little benjamins - and was dancing on the floor with her and a couple others of her friends.
Mini skirt riding nigh to indecent, strategically ripped tops and hair up and back like a proper jersey girl, she's been grooving and grinding on the floor in those same black patent platforms that push her over six feet. She puts dear old snookie to shame in the height department and does pretty good on her own in the chest department without any help from Victoria or her secrets.
Parting from her friends, in need of more sustenance of the fermented grain variety, she passes by dirk, giving him a come hither smile, just at least to see if she's still got it and a little wiggle in her step. Maybe he'll get a masseuses number?
"Where do you live?" Brad quips quickly. "I'm shocked you could move. Honestly, I don't think I could ever imagine moving out of the big apple." His grin eases some as he reaches into his suit jacket to extract his box of cigarettes despite having just put one out. His hand fishes into another pocket for his Green Lantern zippo. Which he cannot find. But he doesn't frown. Cameras are around.
In fact his smile extends as his producer and the host approach, both receiving a quick nod and greater curl of lips in greeting. "Peyton and I were just catching up," he soothes easily while his hands retreat into his pockets. His blue-grey eyes flicker back to the producer momentarily. There's something odd in his expression, theatrical perhaps, but it lingers longer than he intends.
It's with a smirk that Quinn makes her way over towards the growing group consisting of her boss, coworkers, and a certain former socialite. How can Quinn resist that? "Weeeell, don't get t' see the boss often enough," she remarks as she walks up behind Kristen, patting her on the back as she peeks over her shoulder. A look is cast over to Russo, Quinn quicrking her eyebrows. "Heya, Brad. Hope you're doin' well?" And then to Peyton, who Quinn offers another smile to. "Nice t' see you again!"
What? Are you kidding? Things like this never hap— No wait, they always happen to Dirk and lifting one finger to the disbelieving bruiser, he wriggles it after the masseusse. "See that? She wants me. Women can't get enough of this package. Did I tell you that I had Russo's fiancee rubbin' all up over my bidness in a club? Yeah, she wants this too." A shift of his eyes toward the group containing (knuckle bite) the Quinn that dreams are made of, K, Princess Peypey, and some guys.
"Anyway, Rambo, I'm going to see what Jersey-girl is willing to part with… clothing wise~" And Dirk melts into the crowd after the brunette, eyes on the prize.
"Catching up? Ah, yeah, you sort of dropped off the planet for a while, didn't you?" Perhaps the only reason Kristen noticed is the 1,001 phone messages left on the woman's voicemail about appearing on the show. Turns out there were numbers transposed and the guy receiving the messages wasn't too happy that it wasn't him they were after. "Remind me that I need to get your number before you leave." She might get it now, except that she doesn't have anywhere to put it, other than inking her hand or some other piece of exposed flesh.
When Smoov comes up on them, the producer gives him a little smile and a nod in greeting, keeping a professional distance. "Good party so far, it looks like it'll be a good episode. Is Tic still conscious?" Moving slightly to the side when Quinn comes up, she widens their circle a little bit to allow her room to join in rather than peer over shoulders. "Robyn Quinn, this is Smoov or Kojo Clarke, if you haven't met him yet."
Dance, white boy.
Except that Joshua isn't a dancer by any kind of stretch of the imagination. Beyond moving in vague rhythm, musician enough to recognise the beat beneath the melody and respond accordingly, and sparrer enough to know himself — but not a dancer. Which doesn't mean he can't jump in place — and he does, going bounce bounce bounce in the crush of the people on the dance floor, arms kind of like they were strung there by the wrists, jolting on meaty shoulders. The lights of the club reflect in Ray Bans, and he's gone to some trouble to dress beyond his usual preference towards hoodies and jeans.
Jeans are still there, but he wears a button-down shirt that has the same colour a liver might share when split open. It hangs loose over a wife-beater, a silver chain, sleeves rolled enough to pose old burn scars on his arms. And he's seen some familiar faces already, but that doesn't mean he has to stop doing what he's doing. Which is being awesome.
A smoothe smile is delivered by Smoov. "Peyton Whitney." The man recognizes smiling gently at her. "A pleasure." His hand is offered to her for a moment. And then he's looking to Russo. "Good to see you as well Russo." The former superstar murmurs before his eyes go to Kristen. His smile is a little broader than hers, a knowing hint to it. Watching Kristen for a moment he gives a simple shrug in response. "I 'aven't seen 'im." Looking over to Quinn, Smoov smiles lightly.
"Robyn Quinn, here now." His hand goes over to take the other recording artists hand in greeting. "A pleasure, you comin' here to me business. Glass Wonderland is a beautiful albulm, love. You did solid work, there then." Smoov smiles charmingly at her before taking a step back. His eyes then go to Russo. "I'm sorry, I thought Bradley Russo was coming to this party. Bradley Russo always has a drink in his hand." One hand flings up to beckon a waitress over. "Whatya wann'?"
The sudden circle of people around her has Peyton looking a little nervous — not at all like the party girl of old, though in appearance she is more of her former self in a skimpy silky dress and tall strappy designer heels that bring her five feet and eight inches to something closer to six feet. "I'm staying with family in Cape Cod," she says quietly to Russo, then smiling at Quinn and nodding. "You, too," she says warmly, and then the same to Smoov.
How was she ever this social on a nightly basis? She brings her own drink, at the mention of Russo's need for one, to her mouth and gulps before her dark eyes move to Kristen. "I'm not sure if any more television appearances are really in my future, but, sure. I'll call your studio and leave it with your receptionist." That sounds a bit like 'I'll have my people call your people,' perhaps. Her eyes dart to the dance floor before back to the assembled throng around her. "I think I'm getting too old for this," she muses.
Hortense can see up, way up to the balconies, the little huddle of stars - local and international - as she slinks her way to a bar to get a drink. It's when she looks over her shoulder that she see's Dirk, moving like a shark in the water following the trail of her perfume in the sea of sweat and other colognes fighting for attention. There's Smoov and .. Is that… Peyton Whitney.
But the squint is abandoned in favor of bestowing Dirk with that same come hither smile that promises of something more. There's no accounting for taste and Hortense has a proven track record of dating all sorts of jerks, sleezes, lechs and even marrying one asshole. "Hey handsome" Forget that she's nearly twice his height. And there's.. someone else, looking over Dirks shoulder to Joshua as he becomes visible in a well timed parting of the crowd. Why is he so…. familiar?
"Robyn~" Russo virtually sings as he shoots his colleague a dimpled grin. "You know me, never better— " the tone is even, convincing, and murmured around the cigarette hanging between his lips until. AH-HA! His lighter! The cigarette is lit and he takes a deep puff on the stick of death. "You look good," he notes in return with a slight nod of his head. "Success suits you."
An eyebrow is quirked at Peyton as he stifles a chuckle, "You're never too old for a party, Peyton," he offers with a charming grin. "I'm here and there's no way you're older than me, so there you go. You just have to let yourself have fun." One of his eyebrows quirks slightly.
Smoov's comment about Brad's lack of alcohol has his blue eyes ticking to Kristen. The cameras are on and he's being offered a drink. "Ha! Bradley Russo is taking it easy tonight." But the comment reads like a challenge. And Russo isn't one to shy away from a challenge. His lips twitch up a little higher exposing two distinct dimples, "Scotch. Neat." Nothing like falling off the bandwagon on national television. There's another glance cast to Kristen followed by one to the man of the hour. Within moments his hand curls around a glass which he raises into the air.
Introdoced to Kojo - Smoov - Quinn can't help but blush a little when he compliments her album. She's not even remotely used to those kinds of compliments yet, so all she offers in return, at first, is a bit of a nervous laugh and a shake of her head. "Aw, beautiful? You're bein' generous," the Iriswoman replies, smiling wide. "It's a pleasure t' meet you, Kojo, an' t' be here, supportin' coworkers an; artists alike. Wouldn't've missed it for the world, you know?" A hand is offered out for a handshake. "Glad you liked the CD though. I heard there's going to be some more ads for it floatnig around soon too, I'm not sure I'm prepared for it."
"You think?" she offers back over to Brad, quirking na eyebrow. "It's somethin' t' get used t', certainly. I'm glad you an' Nicole were able t' make it out t' the show, pass on a hello t' her for me, would you?" When a waitres passes, she places a drink order for herself, before following suit with Russo and pulling a cigarette out of the bag hanging from her shoulder. "Going t' be doin' a few smaller shows up in Boston soon, if things work out. Feel free t' drive up, they'll be different form the big one teh other week."
Taken completely by surprise by the boobs in his face actually talking to him, Dirk's thrown a little off his game. Does she have a face? He wouldn't know. As if divine providence a switch in the song has the petite blond man's blue eyes widening slightly before a very girlish squeal comes out of him. After clapping his hands together a few times, he seizes Hortense by the wrist and begins dragging her toward the dance floor. "I LOVE this song! We dance!!" This will give her the ultimate test. Is she woman enough to handle the Dirkster on the dance floor?
He stops less than a foot away from Joshua on the congested dance floor and begins elbowing himself a bit of room by doing… the Vogue. His lips puckered into a tight 'o' he stares at the brunette's chest as he weaves and bobs his head while making mime boxes around it with his arms. He's a master of the art of Madonna. All he needs is a cone bra. Twirling on one heel, he faces Joshua, coils down and then up again in a serpentine motion. Wiggle the magic fingers. Weave the head. It's a hoe down throw down white boy, you're about to get served.
"Oh my god…" From up above, Kristen's eyes can't help but fall on the widening circle of space that's clearing around her executive assistant. Sliding up to the glass balcony, she jerks her head at Smoov and then points. "Make sure the cameras get this…" The producer doesn't have a drink in her hand, nor has she even made a move to order one. No cigarette either, she's clean livin' apparently.
What is love?
Baby don't hurt me.
Don't hurt me.
No more.
"Augh what— "
Joshua's jump jump jump raising the roof stalls out around when a little person starts doing an offensive dance all ins his space with a hand almost taking his specs off his face, head tipping them to slide down his nose and send a scathing look at Dirk's efforts, and then past him towards Hortense. Jersey girls all kind of come from the same herd, as difficult to pick apart as antelope, but in this case, there's a glimmer of recognise for her that responds to the glimmer of recognition for him in turn, and a crooked grin to go with it.
Yes he was being generous. But oh well. Shaking her hand, "You'll do fine, love." Smoov smiles brightly to Quinn. "You got the knack for it, you'll go far." The former top recording artist gives her hand a light squeeze before releasing. When Bradley Russo gets his drink however, Smoov is grinning broadly. "That be th'right thing, then." Holding his hand out, Smoov himself gets a glass of scotch. He slams it back with Russo, before putting it away. "That's how we do things 'ere." Smoov looks over the ladies and gentleman gathered near him.
"Alright ladies, who's dancin' with me first? Someone better volunteer before Russo does, or people might start takin' the Advocate less seriously. Come on now." His hands wave enticingly. His eyes run over Quinn, then Peyton, then finally: Kristen. "Why aint you drinkin' love, come on then."
The tall brunette gives a wry smile and a bare shouldered shrug to Russo. "Well, you're a guy. That makes you more immature as a rule of nature, I think," Peyton tosses to Russo, before taking another sip of her fruity blue drink.
Her brows arch as she watches the commotion below, resting her wrists on the balcony's ledge as she peers down. "I'll have to check out your album," she says with a smile toward Quinn. "Congratulations, though, it sounds fabulous." She tucks a long strand of dark hair behind her ear.
Agile feet make sure that while Dirks dragging her along so that he can do his little test - she's oblivious but interested. He's also not the first man to ever clap his hands and squeal effeminately and Hortense is more than happy once he starts getting in and doing the Madonna, to get right in there too. Dance move for dance move, she twist and turns gyrating as the music and dance partner demands. All while managing to not flash some derriere like one might fear from a skirt that short.
The look sent from Joshua means that Hortense is grooving in his direction, making sure that a little hip sliiiiides against his, oblivious to Kristen's demands for the camera to be turned onto the potential burgeoning dance off that might ensue. Where's David Bowie when you need him?
Smoov will suffice, if that's to end up being what happens. But there goes Hortense, shimmying up one side of joshua while Dirk does disco and then shimmy's back down the other. You'll have to pardon her, memory like a goldfish sometimes. And then back to Dirk, draw the two men, make them wrestle for her attention, to the winner goes the spoils?
"Thanks for that, Whitney," Brad resorts to using Peyton's last name as he lowers his glass to the bar. A hand reaches out towards his producer, offering her his fingers and an all-too-knowing familiar smile. "We should relive the spring formal— minus that hang over. And the general activities that led up to it." And then with another curl of his lips, "Dance with me or all of America will know— " he turns to face the camera a moment, but the phrase lingers, letting Kristen have time to interject.
It seems like attention's being turned back down to the dance floor now, and with good reason. Smiling at Peyton, Quinn dips a hand into her her bag (what she wouldn't give for a skirt or corset with pockets, but a bag is better than storing things in her cleavage) and produces a small peice of stock cardboard, offering it over to Peyton. "Here you go. go download a copy, an' pick one up if you like it, before you head back up north."
With that done, she turns her eyes down from the balcony, narrowing her eyes a bit. And actually, she's a bit surprised by the moves being displayed. And then she recognises Joshua, and she can't help but shout down. "Someone's putting their street performance money t' good use!" she offers teasingly, laughing amiably afterwards.
It's the salmon dance! Well the one they do in the water when they're just about to squirt eggs and a cloud of crap all over it. On one side of Hortense Dirk's elbows come up to shoulder height as his feminine little fists stiffen in the air and he pretty much vibrates to the beat of the music. It's possible that he hits Joshua a few times with his knee but it's totally not his fault. This other guy is mackin' on his Jersey girl.
Kristen's face blanches as Brad delivers his threat and she narrows her eyes a little and grits her teeth. "You wouldn't dare." She answers in a little growl. Shooting a glance between Peyton, Quinn, and Smoov, she raises her chin just a bit and jerks her head down to the dance floor. "Come on you three, I'm not going to be alone in humiliation." Because she is minus a drink and therefore not even remotely prepared to trip the light fantastic.
Regardless, her palm claps into Russo's and she gives him a little bit of a glare before giving a final answer. "What the hell, I haven't been humiliated enough tonight." Then she's leading him to the dance floor and looking like just another member of the crowd in her embroidered leather pants and camisole. At least she's dressed for the occasion.
Joshua's got this. And the familiar sound of Quinn's voice cracking through the noise has his attention jerking upwards — a big arcing shameless wave is given to the fellow musician before it's back to business. This mostly amounts to bumping and grinding, as if maybe his groin were magnetically attracted to Hortense's booty, while keeping a gentlemanly inch of space. Murdering people in front of other people is not a good way to shortcut the introduction of names and the buying of drinks.
So Josh has been told, anyway.
Then he realises Dirk is just on the other side and he's involved in some kind of dance off. Super gay. A strategtic pelvic thrust bounces the Jersey girl into Dirk. "Hey, you mind?"
What is love?
Excuse me.
Smoov glances to Russo, his brow quirking slightly in irritation. He was going to dance with Kristen and then Mister Advocate is all aaa im gonna threaten you cause im cute hyuck hyuck.
Smoov reaches up to straighten his collar. Looking over his shoulder, Kojo has the waitress bringing him another pair of glasses. Making his way behind Russo, Smoov is hurriedly handing the glass to Russo. "To Bradley Russo!" Smoov shouts out happily, going to drink his own glass happily. Pausing on the dancefloor, he looks over his shoulder to the waitress. "Absinthe." He gives a little dip of his chin before waving a star-smile at Russo.
Smoov makes his way onto the dancefloor. Dirk. Yuck. Looking through his sunglasses, Kojo sighs quietly, glancing to Dirk then Joshua then the woman they're fighting over. Hm. Don't mind if I do. "What a gwan." Smoov greets loudly over the roar of Roxbury beats. "Dirk. Do me a favor, I needya to check on Tic, now." He jerks his chin upwards. His own drink tilted into his mouth.
The clairvoyant is stepping away as the others begin to make toward the dance floor, shaking her head and moving in the opposite direction. "I've got a phone call to make, and a bit of a headache coming, so I'm going to go … find a place out of the noise," Peyton offers for an excuse. Yes, this song constitutes as noise.
She flashes a toothy and polite smile that doesn't make its way to her eyes. "Have a good evening, you all." She moves quickly so she can't be detained and pulled with them, should they think she's playing coy in any way, and hurries to find her way to one of the private rooms.
Hortense bounces into Dirk, a little stumble as her shoes weren't quite made for that but she rights proper and looks over to Josphua, a very annoyed look coming onto her face. Maybe about to tell him to share the space, maybe about to tell him she does mind, does mind if he doesn't come over here and get all up in her business and show her a move or two.
But that niggling feeling that she's seen him before - previously hazy thanks to repeated consummations of aforementioned fermented grain - clicks.
"OH MY GOD YOU'RE THE GUY THAT KILLED THE TWO COPS!" Bam goes a finger against his chest, tapping repeatedly. "You killed those cops" Wait, he killed those cops with his bare hands. "Oh my god someone call the cops! This guys a murderer! An Evolved Murderer!"
"Wouldn't I?" Russo smirks back to Kristen with that same easy manner about him. Over his shoulder, the glance from Smoov met with a arch of his eyebrows. There's something powerful in memory, and The Advocate host is too aware of both it and his producer's tendency to be eternally focused on work.
"You look beautiful," his hand moves to her waist, the familiarity of the touch reflecting in the softness of his eyes. Even with the beat pumping, there's a difference in his very mannerisms at the closeness. It's all been work lately. All work, all the time. His jaw tightens somewhat. The reality of the work has its effect on the host, but the reality of his own life, his own story weighs heavier. The truth is too obvious. His non-liquored hand reaches up from her waist to her cheek, brushing wispy hairs out of her face— so much for staving off rumours. "K..?" he asks her name rather than says it as his hand drops to his side entirely. Quietly his lips part thoughtfully, a profound revelation about to be revealed to his best friend… only to be interrupted. By yelling.
His eyebrows arch high and he leans forward, grasping her shoulders to whisper into her ear, "Call the cops. I'll try… " his eyes track back to Hortense and Joshua.
Turning on his heel, he strolls up to the pair, his open palms raise in the air, "Just take a few deep breaths, it's probably a misunderstanding, Miss…"
Straightening her top, Quinn laughs as she turns to follow after Kristen, offering a wave to Peyton as she departs. 'I'm not sure how much dancing I can do without riskin' poppin' outta my corset…" Granted, this is TV and probably exactly what they want, but that's not raelly what occurs to Quinn at the moment. "But I'll give it a shot! Seems like it'll be a good deal a fun…" Of course, then the yelling starts and Quinn is a little dumbfounded as a woman starts accusing Joshua of murder. "Well, that can't be right," Quinn mutters with a quirked eyebrow, hanging back on the edge of teh dance floor. Not that she knows Joshua well, but there's no way a random street musician she jammed without could be that bad. …right?
The bump of a Jersey girl causes the tiny blond from Atlantic City to stumble backward and fall to the floor. Sitting there for a moment stunned, he stares up at the strobe lit forms of Hortense and Joshua for as long as it takes for Smoov to wander up and send him off on an errand to find his lesser nemesis. Tic. God he hates that guy. Not as much as the Advocate host pawing his boss though, that earns a little bit of a scowl before the executive assistant gets up and brushes himself off with a curt nod to Kojo. "Tic, got it."
It's the accusation of a murder that has Dirk wheeling around to see the brunette poking at— oh wow, the guy that— The room goes a little dim and then darkens completely as the blond's eyes roll back into his head and he crumples to the floor in a faint.
Russo is much more sentimental on the dance floor than his producer, which causes Kristen to stiffen a little and the smile to freeze on her face like it's forced. This is public. In front of cameras. He's touching her. Trying to be intimate. There are so many things wrong with that she can't even begin to count. Her hand comes up between the two of them to stop him from saying whatever it is that's on his mind and her eyebrows knit together in a slight frown when—
She's saved by a woman screaming murder. "Oh thank god," she accidentally blurts out before Russo's grabbing her shoulders and giving her a directive. Hey! She's the boss… she should be telling— but Dirk's on the floor, fainted and being useless. "Cops, right— " Beat. "No cops, I'll— " Turning, she disappears into the crowd in search of whatever the alternative to the law that she's thought of.
Woah hey. Joshua's mouth pulls in a scowl when a lady finger is jabbing his chest, accusations piercing, rising to the roof above the dulcet melodies of Haddaway as he yanks off his glasses to level a furious hazel stare at her stupid face and the stupid words coming out of it. His hand whips out as fast as a snake to clamp his broad fingers around her skinnier wrist, and a dull ache of pressure zwizzes from the back of her hand to her elbow, along the bone — nothing breaks, but it feels like it could.
"Lady," he growls, "shut the fuck up."
Quick temper already heightened, Russo's soothing words only get a sharp glance and a scowl, and automatically— with a deceptively sweet chime-like sound, the glass in Russo's hand crumbles — a delicate explosion of glass fragments and liquor that pierces his hand in small, bug-like bites and soaks through his sleeve. Hortense is shoved aside, then, with enough strength for her to go tipping for the dance floor.
"What up, Captain Firehands. Why don't you mind your own business," Joshua suggests, and suddenly, starting from beneath his feet, the concrete floor cracks, a black line that runs through the ground and opening up an inch beneath Russo's foot.
Russo's contact with Kristen has Smoov pausing in his partying. He watches Russo intently, and unabashedly. He's a few feet away with plenty of drunk people in between them. His lips tighten up as his brows narrow slightly. It looks like Smoov might be making a move over towards Russo until someone is screaming about murder. Fffh. What. He glances over at Hortense and Joshua. He'll just have Big R throw the woman out. Which is unfortunate since she was going to be a nice distraction from K but.. Crazies can't be tolerated. With his glare still somewhat on Russo, Smoov steps to the side, waving a hand up high.
"R!"
"Ruff!" Smoov calls out, hands cupping over his mouth. "Big Ruff! Big R!" The Jamaican star yells out.
He glances back idly to Hortense and Joshua before his brows raise. Hey—Hey! He should not be grabbing her like that, and then… Oh boy. Glancing over to Russo then back to Joshua then to the toppling Hortense, Smoov dashes forward to catch the young woman woman. His glass is still held in his other hand, of course. Evolved. Making a mess of his party. "R!!!" He screams.
Hortense looks down to the hand grasping her's, the way he makes her feel like he just might break it, might just make her turn like jelly. All intent to lodge a stiletto between a pair of testicles is abandoned with the visual memory of the Cop. Russo makes his way over, assuring her that it's a misunderstanding, that the masseuse couldn't be right.
And then there's glasses breaking and she's taking an unintended trip towards the floor and away from the - hot - murderer.
She's expecting her ass to connect with the floor, bruise something more than ego when Smoov to the rescue. Her chest heaves, scared all of a sudden, the bravado that she had facing down Bao-Wei on her boat is long gone from here. "Killed two cops, Killed two cops out front of Tartarus, smashed a car oh my god, the floor" She's holding her wrist to herself, trying to insinuate herself behind Smoov, keeping him between her and Joshua. "Turned them to jelly" At least she's not yelling it anymore. "I saw him, I was there!"
Brad's eyes widen at the glass that shatters in his hand, his second hand instinctively drawn around it for a moment as he takes a few deep concentrated breaths. The heat is forming in each, that dry nearly arid feeling permeating each— even with the forming beads of blood (adrenaline is a wonder drug), but Russo breathes through it— his own determination the only thing keeping him from losing control entirely. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, but his hands linger where they are, in front of him. "Look," Brad hisses through his breath, "We don't want any trouble. Just. Please. Head out— everything— " he takes another deep breath as his body tenses underneath the surmounting pressure. "—will be fine — "
And that's the truth. Although there are cameras here. Accusations thrown. And power displayed. Sometimes it's nearly impossible to undo already done damage.
A single hand is extended— not as a threat, but to allay any intended aggression.
"Whoa. Hey. Hey!" Quinn shouts, trying to get attention as she moves to step forward, even as Kristen's retreating away from the scene looking for alternative means of handling the situation. Her eyes level with Hortense for a moment, before looking over to Joshua. "You sure about that?" she inquires, quirking an eyebrow. "I know this guy, and I've worked at Tartarus. Can't say I've heard anythin' like that." She's not entirely sure what she's going to bat for Joshua, but whatever. Musicians roam together or something.
Looking over to Josh, she lets out a sigh, then turns to Russo. "Was gonna get this guy on my show,” she grumbles. "If you're makin' him leave, let me show 'im out?" she inquires, a quirked eyebrow offered back to Joshua.
Kristen's departure unnoticed, but Smoov's snarling for back up is, Joshua distracted from both Russo and Quinn to draw himself up to his relatively average height to see who's on him for a few seconds before Hortense is back to her accusations. "Hey." He points at Hortense passed Smoov's shoulder, showing teeth between consonants that clap closed like steel. "I didn't smash any car." That was Calvin. "So shut the hell up, bitch." With the other musician cruising up to his side, Joshua is taking a few steps back from Russo.
Overt dislike for the other man clear in the pull of his mouth, the vein that stands out at the back of Joshua's hand. "Don't tell me t'leave, you fuckin' sellout," is snarled back. "I'll go when I go. Don't trust the guy." This, to Quinn, suddenly. "Not a word he says ain't bought and sold. Remember that."
But he takes a step back, all the same. Progression.
Smoov is standing. Shielding Hortense from Joshua. But he's evolved and the stuff this guy does. Or is reported to do? He is not happy he is standing in front of Hortense. But his cameras are on. He has to look like a hero. Adjusting his suit collar, Smoov takes a step forward staring down Joshua. His teeth bare as the man starts to talk dirt on Russo. He fully agrees, but with the cameras. "Watch yourself boy! Y'ain't welcome here, galang lef' mi." The man spits out bringing up his fists as if ready to fight. The display of courage takes a lot out of him. It's time for a drink.
Fortunately, Smoov doesn't have to stay brave for long.
He pays a man to be brave for him.
Bzzt. It's the sound of the stun gun that connects with Joshua's side. The man behind the weapon is none other than Big Ruff. The hulk of a man pushes the taze into Joshua's side before bringing it back. One giant hand going to grasp him by the back of the collar to ensure he doesn't go too far. Big R isn't alone. A team of bouncers piling in around him, all dressed to the nines. The men in black suits make a sort of a barricade around Joshua, one effectively pushing back Quinn.
"I was there" Hortense re-iterates to Quinn, shooting Joshua a dirty look that he cops at least to the murders but not the car. "I was there and I saw everything and no, I will not shut-up! They're gonna call the cops and your ass is going to be in ja-" Oh look, Smoov is defending her, that is so sweet.
Hey wait, that's Smoov.
SMOOV.
She watches enough television in her boat, that HD flat panel gets a few hours logged on it and she knows who he is. And while Joshua is being tasered and doggy piled by bouncers, Hortense is planting a kiss of Smoov's cheek from behind. "You were going to punch him for me. Oh my god that was so brave of you. That pint sized lech was gonna run away! But you didn't. Fuck, you're my hero!" Too bad there's not an opening for a stiletto to go stomping down on white boy foot.
Before Brad can respond to Quinn or Joshua for that matter (awful lot of randoms calling him a sell out lately) Smoov's guards do their job, causing the television host to back up entirely, his breathing still laboured in his throat. With another deep breath he takes a single step back, his head shaking slightly. He needs to practice those cannon hands and soon; that much is clear.
With a single sliding step backwards, Russo disappears into the crowd, the hubub giving him a kind shelter for his thoughts and a means to get out. He needs a breather to get his fight or flight response under control.
Well, it hadn't been smart of Joshua to refuse to leave when asked, particularly when someone started shouting a pretty strong accusation his wa. But abruptly tasing him? This, Robyn Quinn is not down with. "What the fuck!" She shouts, eyes darting between the newly formed barier between her, Joshua, and the ability to do anything about it/ "Fucking //Christ, was that really necessary?" She glares, eyes narrowed as she looks between them. "You know, even if he did do somethin', Christ, lady, think before throwing around Evolved murderer so loudly." She flounces, but there's really little else she can do at the moment besides cross her arms and look pissed off. She is so out of here if it isn't already after curfew.
Getting tased sucks balls.
There's a strangled snarl from Joshua before he's going down with a dull thud of bodyparts siezed for as long as it takes for electricity to spend itself. The scuffle is blocked off from view with the pile on of security guys, and then suddenly— there's a sharp cry from one of them, the feel of his ribs shattering beneath his skin when Joshua flings out a hand, and then another one, a kneecap neatly dividing when his other hand grips onto a meaty chunk of leg, one of the many that surround him.
"I'll kill you!" is gravel-throated threat, not necessarily hysterical, if what some might see as an overreaction. Joshua doesn't. Just believes that he might have to. That it's an acceptable option. "Get thefuckoff me! Assholes!"
His Ray Bans skittered away, and blood on his mouth where he smacked his face on the floor. Looks like he has his night cut out for him.
"Think nothin' of it." Smoov murmurs as the woman presses a kiss against his cheek. One hand coming back to rest on Hortense's waist for a moment. "You alright, darlin?" The reality star looks from Joshua to Hortense. Looking her up and down for a moment, to ensure that she's okay, of course. "You look like you could use a drink love." Smoov throws his hand up and beckons over a waitress to attend to Hortense. "Oh wait, here, love." The glass he had been holding the whole time, even while ready to fight is handed over to Hortense. "That'll take a bit off the shock, you airee? You wit' me?" Kojo himself leans in to plant his own kiss on the woman's cheek in return.
To Robyn Quinn, Smoov is arching a delicate brow. He motions to the ground where there is a crack in the ground. And then to the remains of Brad's broken drink. "Robyn." Smoov starts gently, trying to smooth things over. "He just broke our floor. And could have hurt Mister Russo.. and threw a woman on the ground." His brow skips up. "And he might be a murderer. I think the prudent move was to make sure he couldn't hurt no one else." Smoov brings one hand up to rest on Quinn's shoulder lightly. "I'm sorry if he's a friend of yours. If he's innocent, I'm sure the police will tell us that mu—" And then his security team is getting broken up into itty itty pieces. Oh no. "Big R!" Smoov yells with no small amount of trepidation.
Big R responds in kind. Gigantic hands seizing Josha by the shoulders and jerking him around to face the behemoth. Then there's not much time until those fat knuckles are sent on a powerful collision course with Joshua's temple. A rough yell coming out after the blow is delivered. "Cuff him!"
Two of the security guards are jumping on top of Josha to do just that. They aren't the ones with shattered legs and ribs. But they are the type that are scared of broken legs and ribs and so are doing their best to knock out Joshua if he isn't already. Both of their fists pull back to deliver a few more blows at the party-crasher.
"I think I broke a heel" More murmur than whine as she accepts hand at waist - slight swoon here, it's Smoov and then a blush at the kiss returned. She looks like she might open her mouth, comment about how she's so very sorry about the drama she brought on his club and the disruption, that she's in sure need of a drink.
Only Joshua is beating the crap out of security guards with his ability and screaming about killing someone. Hortense stills, wobbles on her heels, and only now noticing the camera's that circle, intent on catching everything just like his television show does. She's taking the drink, and rabbiting. "I'msosorryi'mmagonnagetmyjacketandleave" To Smoov. She doesn't want to be around for Joshua to snap like a twig or a sapling if Smoov's security can't handle him. The clip clop of her stiletto's on the floor, she's twisting and turning, squeezing past looky-loo's
There's a bit of a glare give to Hortense as she clops off, and now there's a ruckus in front of her, and she's jsut exasperated. "Jesus feckin' Christ," she intones, shaking her head as she takes a step back. "Of //course he broke the floor, if he's evolved and you tased him. Jesus, I'm not sayin' he's right, but this is out of control." What's going on now, though, she's not entirely sure what to make of it. This, to her, is exactly why we do't go around shouting that people are Evolved murderers.
Turns out that Joshua isn't so tough that he can do much against a punch to the head, one so well-executed, even if the density of his skull is one of those things that earn debate. But he's dizzied, turned over and cuffed, the last couple of blows landed his way, taking down the Evolved murderer, soften him up enough for him to get slack, the noise of the scuffle dying with his consciousness.
"It's after curfew love." Smoov gently intones to Hortense as she starts to scramble and leave. His hand gently going to secure around her wrist. He's doing his best not to look at the cameras that are getting all of this. Hand gently seizing her wrist, he pulls her closer to him some. "Let's go upstairs sweetheart, give Big R some room to do his work." Guiding Hortense away, he shoots Quinn an apologetic look before looking back to Hortense. "Let's get you a drink and see if we can get you settled down, then." Smoov offers, looking over his shoulder. He gives a satisfied nod. This is why Big R is under his employ.
The man can handle shit. Big R gives a satisfied nod, one of his men already calling 911. "Don't fuckin' touch em." The huge man bellows to a few of the team who were growing interested in the wounded men. "They're better off than you guys, they're going to get paid a shit load for tonight. Now get everyone to the second floor. We'll take this guy out to the cops, and then get them two the hospital." Big R pulls up Josh with ease. He's not too worried about being gentle, either.
Foiled, but at least it's not pint sized pervert. Hortense looks torn, debating about whether to go or not, looking over to see her friends part of those looki-loo's to see what the commotion is. She looks ready to say something to Quinn as well, but camera's now that they are noticed, and Smoov's hand on her waist, keeping her anchored to him go a great distance to keeping the jersey girl quiet. "Okay" She says. "Okay"
