Bass Clef Club

The night has fallen with a solid thump, the outside air clear of the taint of rain, cloud or other annoying weather. The Bass Clef is relatively quiet, the band obviously a group not yet big enough for the later night sets. Still, it's good music, a lilting jazz that tugs at the tendons, if the tapping fingers of the crowd are anything to go by.

There is a table towards the edge that lacks a significant object. A girl. There is a young man there, a glass of clear and still something (water!) in front of him. He's relaxed and leaning back, an ankle resting on a knee, with a thumb beating a tattoo counterpoint to the band. Gabriel Rosco, who has ditched his date for unknown reasons, abandoning her to come here for a nice night of detox. Gotta stay on top to stay addict-free, after all.

The Bass Clef club is never Isobel's favored location to spend an evening. That she is to meet with another vampire here later on means that she needs to be here early to prepare herself. While the music beats out for the crowd, she swings the door open at the exact moment the song begins to crescendo. It turns a few heads, but she seems to not be ashamed at the distraction. Her outfit, carefully designed, is an asymmetric dress of cherry red, designed to leave her shoulders bare. Long sleeves which are not attached to the dress match it to a T. Stunning heels are on her feet, wrapped up to just below the knee. A swift glance allows her to see everyone who is in the club, and scout for an empty table in a secluded corner.

Gabriel's head turns to survey the surroundings, eyes touching on Isobel for the briefest of moment, before he cannot stop himself. "Oh, fuck," says he, easily loud enough for vampire ears. It's the woman he can't get out of his- the /vampire/ he can't get out of his head. Still, he's not able for a good few seconds to drag his eyes away from her.

Two words. Two little words which draw her attention over to the young man. It should be rather fun to toy with him a little before her meeting. She's careful not to move at her usual alarming speed, taking her time to sashay a little was she makes her way to the table where the young man sits by himself. Stopping before it, she eyes the glass of water and then the man. Not a word is spoken, she simply seats herself at the empty chair.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuck," Gabriel whispers, as she comes his way. Finally, he does manage to drag his eyes off Isobel, turning in his seat to sink lower, the vain hope that she won't spot him. Too little, too late, and his heart starts to race, his breathing shallower, and a slightly glossy sheen to his eyes that easily give away his fear. He rallies as she arrives, the lies and acting easily to his features, despite the continuing and involuntary biological reaction. "Evening, ma'am," he says, pleasantly. "Lovely to see you again."

"From high priced whore to ma'am?" Isobel quirks up a solitary slender eyebrow and gives him a look. Then she eyes the musicians. "You are aware of course, that this is one of the world's best vampire bands?" She bothers not with looking back at him. "Also, language. I could hear your cursing from across the room. That is something you will have to learn to curb."

"I think I might've been a bit tipsy when we first met," says Gabriel, that consumate actor drawing forth a light shrug. "Bad first impressions and all that." He shoots a glance towards the band, wincing for the last. "Uh, yeah, sorry. Wasn't really- wait, what? Learn?" Like she's planning to talk to him again? There's genuine surprise on his face, lips twisting into apprehension.

"A bit? I should think you were more than a /bit/ drunk." Isobel smirks, her eyes remaining on the band. "Indeed. You will need to learn to curb that cursing. It really does not suit a lady's presence. Which I presume is why you are completely and utterly without a companion."

Gabriel looks at Isobel with some confusion, the gentle ticking of his mind behind drawing him to a truly terrifying conclusion. "I was pretty smashed, yeah," he admits, "but to be fair, I was having a bad day." His hands move, and start to gesture, shaking only a little. His voice haughty. "I actually ditched my date for bad breath." He does pause, his body twisting in place, a nervous habit. "The way you're speaking, it's uh, as though you were planning to spend some time with me?"

"Yours or hers?" Isobel side-glances at the man, then returns her attention to the band. A waiter appears with a bottle of TruBlood, which she accepts and even pretends to nurse, though not a drop of it touches her lips. "I rarely make plans to spend time with humans, little Kegan." The name which will irk him the most. "However since you were so intent on undressing me with your eyes upon my entering this fine establishment, I thought it only prudent to allow you to do so up close so that the waiter did not get the wrong impression."

"Hers, and it's Gabriel," he says, a spark of righteous irritation firing up in his eyes, though it fades as he remembers who he's speaking to. It's hard to remember the cute girl is an ancient monster, okay? He looks askance, trying to ensure he no longer sees her, but inevitably, that fearful stare comes back. When he starts to talk, the words come out as a rush, almost a babble, as nerves take over. "You're hot, okay? Like, crazy incredibly uberhot. The sort of hot that comes along once every fu-" Erk, guilty fear now. "-every lifetime. I can't get you out of my head, and then you walk in looking like that, and then I remember that you could just- yeah." Speech stumbles, and he shoots a glance up to her eyes, posture submissive and meek. "I'm sorry?"

Isobel smirks at the irritation, then glances over at him. Painstakingly slowly. "I prefer to call you little Kegan." Dry humor courses over her expression and then she looks back to the band as he babbles. "Do you always talk this much, or do you only do so in the presence of a woman you cannot control?" There is a hint of girlishness in her look though if he looks, the moment he does it will be displaced by neutrality.

The racing heart beats stronger, as a spark of defiance is rapidly quelled by Gabriel's good sense. "Okay," says he, meekly. "You can call me that." He reaches forwards, fingers resting on his glass for a moment, before he pulls it back in to himself, a futile shield against the vampire. "Really, I don't try to control women? It's like," He does glance her way, though eyes drop rapidly back to the floor. "Like a nerves thing."

"It is hardly fun if you allow it." Now she'll have to find another way to unnerve him. Isobel grimaces, pretending to sip from the bottle of synthetic again. "As though I could not tell by the way your heart is racing. It is enough to make one quite famished." A flash of tooth is given to him, then the Sheriff is back to watching the band. "They should really get a swing band in here some night. It would liven the place up a little."

A tiny victory, though Gabriel wasn't really looking for it. He glances back up, only to see the tooth. There is now a faint sheen on his forehead, the sweat of fight or flight. "I, uh, don't think I'd taste good," he says, quietly. But then there is swing! Talk about swing. Gabriel steels himself, forcing a total neutrality, followed by an easy smile, determination to not act up any more shown in the set of his jaw. "Swing is good, but needs the right mood. I'd like to see a few people dancing the night away though, you're right."

"Taste is a matter of opinion." Isobel never said that she would eat him, merely that the racing beat of his heart was causing her to be hungry. "You are nervous. I can smell it as well." Her nose wrinkles distastefully and she turns back to the band. "Then nineteen-twenties were a fabulous time. There was much dancing then. These days, with the tripe that your generation deems to be music, one can hardly actually dance. You all just… hop."

"In all honesty," says Gabriel, resigned now, "I can't say it's bad news to me that you don't think I'd taste good. No offence." His eyes widen as he realises he's almost done it again, and the returning smile, the charm, the pure lie of him comes slightly more easily. "There is some good dancing, but you're right. Old school, bit of ballroom, salsa, whatever, much better and fun to watch." Also, nice dresses.

"In all honesty, I have yet to say that you would taste bad." All that was said was that it was a matter of opinion. Isobel runs her tongue over her teeth, then shoots him an icy look. "You would do well to actually listen to what is being said, rather than jump to conclusions based upon what you wish to hear." A well manicured nail taps against the bottle of synthetic. "I would hardly call hopping like a wounded meerkat dancing."

Ice. Ice is bad. Gabriel swallows, almost managing to hide it with a sip of the cocktail. He waits for her to look away. "If you weren't so distracting," he mutters to himself, not designed for other's ear. Mortal ones, anyway. "I mean the more modern dances, not just what people do in clubs. Not that I mind that either, I love clubs, but y'know. Breakdancing and stuff."

"Breakdancing? That is /hardly/ a real dance." Isobel would show the entire establishment what a real dance is, but jazz is not really great for dancing. "I am hardly distracting. Distractions are something that are entirely in your imagination." There is a nod toward their table, and a man who looks old enough to be Isobel's father appears. Dressed to the nines in a suit and tie. His arm is extended to her, and she glances back at Gabriel. "Pity. My engagement for the evening has arrived. Until we chance upon one another again, little pet."

"It's not traditional, sure," says Gabriel, "but y'know. Isn't just hopping." Horror flashes across his countenance as he realises she heard, and responded. He's held in place as he seeks something to say in return, but then saved by the bell, by the visitor. "Yeah, yeah," he manages, slowly, wincing for 'little pet'. "Chance. See you later."

As the vampire leaves, Gabriel looks pleadingly up towards a passing waitress. A finger rises, rapidly joined by one more, then another. "Three. Large. Vodkas. Thanks."

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