Ravello Condominium
Sparse and elegant, the over-sized sunken lobby at the Ravello is designed to make visitors feel both welcome by the comforts, and in awe at that minutest of details. Beige marble is polished in such a way that even in the dimmest of lights, it shines. The walls are paneled with the richest of walnuts, each bearing a crystal sconce on either end with a large, gilded mirror in the center.
Across from the doors is a large, tall doorman's desk, made of the same walnut as the walls so as not to be overly intrusive. Fresh flowers always adorn the marble top, and the man behind the desk continually casts a wary eye upon those seeking to gain entry. Off to the side of this are handsomely incised bronze elevator doors, waiting to take visitors and those that live here to whatever floor they wish to go to.
In one corner, a luxurious seating area has been provided for guests to wait in, the couch and both chairs covered with a soft cream colored satin, the arms gilded with gold. In the opposite corner, the doorway to the pool.
~This will be good~ he muses to himself as he slips a cigarette into his mouth and reaches into the back pocket of his jeans for his Zippo lighter. ~Change of pace, sure a slower pace, but that's okay~ After all, nothing can really compare to the pace of New York City. Still, there are doubts in his mind, uncertainty curling in his gut. Eleven years. He hasn't seen his sister in eleven years and now he's just supposed to pretend like none of that happened. There is the soft rasp of the lighter, the flame flickering for a few moments as he lights the tip, and then the bright *ching* as he snaps it shut and repockets it. He watches as the UPS men bring in box after box of his belongings. It's not the sort of thing that requires him to stay out of the apartment, but Jethro had one condition to Hugo's trade. No smoking in the apartment. Ordinarily, not a big deal. But the urge for a clove rose up, much like the smoke rising from it now does. So here he is, casually leaning against the opposite wall, shirt untucked and feet bare while he lets them unload in peace and enjoys his cigarette.
The elevator doors open again, but this time emitting no UPS employee carrying things of his. Not. At. All. She's the blonde on black vision on impossible heels that is Susan Baker. Correct that, a rather annoyed version of Sue, the icy blue eyes narrowed, far from amused and her mouth set to a thin line. Even so he might recognize the face as the cupcakes baking vampire from AVL adds. Seems she by now has also inherited all too human chagrin. She's digging up her keys from her purse and glances in Hugo's direction once they tingle between her perfectly manicured fingers. "Could you /please/ not smoke in the hallway. Really." Her voice is light and melodic and still manages to send out vibes of massive irritation.
He's too new to the area to recognize her instantly, and with all the advertising, posters, actors, and artists bombarding every inch of New York with their images, the best that Hugo can manage his the vague impression that he's seen her face somewhere before. He squints at her for a moment, unimpressed by her irritation and he blows out one last puff. Glancing about, there are no ashtrays to be found. Ocean-blue eyes drop to the floor, but the rich patterned carpeting beneath his feet is likewise verboten. With a soft sigh, Hugo crushes out the tip of his clove cigarette against his already faded and worn jeans before pocketing the rest. "Sorry," he returns in a somewhat perfunctory way, like he's not really sorry, just willing to make the gesture.
"You should be," she informs him with a nod, a disappointed tilt to her lips now. She closes the little purse with a snap and tugs it back under her arm. "How long will these…" A deep red fingernail points at a passing UPS man, "continue to hog the elevator. I had to wait ages for one to be free. It's just rude."
"It's life, precious, get used to it," Hugo returns, his voice even cooler. He's never been impressed with hoi polloi and Lord knows you deal with a lot of them in NY and the art world. He's smart enough to know when to keep his mouth shut, rather than speak his mind, be he kisses no one's ass. Well, not figuratively at least. "They'll be done when they're done. And now that you've made it to the top, they won't be in your way any more, now will they?" Jesus, he's surprised that Jethro didn't mention the Queen of Snoot living on his floor … but then again Jethro didn't have eyes for anything that wore a skirt unless it was a drag queen. The very image causes Hugo to smirk in amusement, his eyes studying Susan as if stripping her and placing that dress on someone more to Jethro's liking - a funny image indeed.
There's a little tilt of her head and the clink of keys as she swirls them once, then catches them in the palm of her hand and closes her fingers around them. "Ah," she drawls, "A funny man." Click. Click. Hers is a lazy pace of walking, though not intentionally stretched. Icy blue eyes don't linger over his frame, take in his gaze only. "So… This is your life, then."
This is his life?? One brow arches in bemusement as he watches her, part of him mind engaged on the woman before him and part of his studying her as an artist, wondering what her story is to create such a cold and bitter pill of a woman. Spoiled rich bitch, or something else entirely? "Fraid that's a bit vague for me to concur or disagree with, exactly," he drawls as he meets her gaze steadily with his warm blue eyes. He turns, leaning against the wall on his left arm as she draws closer. "Care to elaborate?"
"Well," she muses, amused lines forming by her eyes, "I usually prefer knowing what I'm having to get used to. And since we're so happily sharing a floor, I'm having an interest in your life." She halts before him, just within his personal space. From there she studies his face. Or appreciates maybe is more like it.
"Funny, you don't seem the type to be particularly 'happy' about sharing anything," Hugo returns lightly and though the words could be considered a nasty dig, they're offered in a mild and inoffensive tone. Just the facts, ma'aam. His head tilts to one side as he inquires, "Any ground rules I should know about?" Not to say that he'll obey them necessarily, but forewarned is forearmed.
Susan chuckles lightly, the irritation slowly blurring into dawning delight. "Correct." And no offense taken. "Mmm…" she answers, "You can start by inviting me in and offering me a drink. That would seem the polite thing to do, doesn't it."
One brow lifts again as Hugo studies Susan more closely. Quite the change to her tune, but perhaps she just had a bad day, his rough edges merely one more irritation against her already chafed day till she took the time to see the truth? Suuuuuuuu-uuuuuure. Hugo probably should be paying more attention to that little niggling impression that there is something dangerous about the woman before him, but the artist is distracted and tired from the move and as a result, he smiles and shrugs, turning for the door and offering, "Sure, come on in … what's your poison?" He steps to one side as the UPS man passes by him, pausing only to offer, "That's the last set Mr. Bosch. If you could just sign here?" Nodding, Hugo takes the pad and signs his name with a flourish, a small smile quirking his lips at some private joke before he nods and offers, "Thanks for all your hard work…" The door is left open, for the UPS man to walk out of and Susan to walk in through.
She does. Daintily, almost. And she's still the curious neighbor interested in seeing another's apartment as she closes the door after the delivery boy has left. "Oh, way too many windows…" Her very first comment. Lovely. But the room is soon left to take care of itself, Susan now sauntering over to him, laying her purse on a box she passes. "And as for my poison…" She smiles.
"That's the whole reason I'm here. Well, not the /whole/ reason, but I prefer natural light to artificial when I'm painting…" he rumbles, moving with a smooth grace to the kitchen which has several boxes stacked up upon the counters. His grey-blue eyes flicker over the surfaces, quickly reading and studying them till he finds the one marked 'liquor', shifting it to open it, the bottles within clinking softly. "I have a lovely Barolo, unless you prefer something harder than wine…" He turns as Susan draws closer, smiling back. Hugo didn't miss the way she was looking at him earlier and despite her frosty first impression, this woman is certainly not hard on the eyes. Not at all.
Tongue in cheek, Susan moves to stand right beside him, only to look in the box, of course. "Where's your bottle opener. Unless you intend to let me stare at just a bottle?" She glances sideways and /up/, an impish little grin having formed on her lips. Maybe she was just having a bad day. "I'm Susan by the way. But the cute neighbors can call me Sue."
Not at /all/ hard on the eyes, though Hugo is starting to suspect she could inspire hardness in other places if she keeps up with those coy little looks. "That's a /very/ good question. Shall we see if we can't find one?" He turns, stepping into her personal space as his arm reaches around Susan… to open a drawer. Leaning into her to look into it, his head turns, lips practically brushing her cheek as he notes pragmatically, "Not this one…" He shifts to the other side of her and again, if she doesn't move, reaches around her to open another drawer, the heat of his body against her cool frame. Well, she did just come in from the outside, right? It's a bit chilly. Besides Hugo isn't exactly thinking with his big head at the moment as he opens up another drawer and peers inside. "Not this one…"
"Lets," Susan agrees, with an amusedly quirked brow following his antics, not moving an inch herself while he goes around her, chuckling under her breath even when he makes such a show of /just/ brushing past. "Mmm… Whichever one shall it be, Mr. Bosch," she grins sotto voce in a mock impersonation of Delivery Boy. Just as slowly she turns, now leaning her back against the counter, watching him move about.
He flashes her a look, eyes mischievous and playful now as she seems to be getting into the spirit of things. "Why is it I get the feeling you like having people cater to your whims? Not going to help me look, hmm? Fair enough I suppose, you being the guest and all…" Hugo starts searching the drawers with more determination now that Susan has moved out of teasing distance. "Hugo," he corrects lightly, opening drawer after drawer before finally letting out a soft, "Ah-ha!" Rising up, he waggles his eyebrows and the bottle opener. Closing in once more, Hugo stands to her left as he pulls out the Barolo and prepares to uncork it. "Susan. I think I'll call you Susan. It's more stylish and elegant than 'Sue'. You're definitely not a Sue."
Before he can put screw to bottle, a small hand is asking for it, palm up. "Alright, let me, then." She's smirking upward now, taking the few small steps needed to stand right beside him again, for the blonde hair to lightly brush his shoulder. "And I'll have you calling me Sue before the hour's done. Promise."
Chuckling softly, Hugo hands over the corkscrew asking, "You prefer Sue then? Hmmmm." He shifts, leaning his right arm on the counter as he faces Susan, echoing, "Within the hour? My, my, what shall we do to pass the time?"
"Alright, within five minutes, that suit your fancy a little better?" Cool fingers trace over his arm, until he can feel them circle around his wrist. She exerts a little pressure to lift it from the counter, towards her. Her other hand meanwhile is fiddling with the corkscrew. "I can tell you one way though how I'd like to spend it?"
Hugo pouts and shakes his head. "Five minutes? No, an hour sounds much better. Can't do much that's worthwhile in five minutes," he replies, his voice dropping to soft, seductive purr. His hand raises up willingly as she pulls it closer, reaching out for her as he eyes her struggling with the corkscrew single handed. "That's really not going to work," he points out, noting the obvious before his gaze sidles back to her. Hugo knows how he'd like to spend the next hour … or even the next five minutes if she's really only interested in a quickie on the counter. "Sure," he murmurs, eyes heated, "How would you like to spend your time here?"
It's then that the corkscrew suddenly digs into his wrist. Just a small round hole, but since the screw isn't exactly the sharpest thing in the world, it's sure to hurt. "Oh, I like to drink," Susan is meanwhile smiling her seductive charm at him. Deep into his eyes as he's staring into hers, working a glamour dream for him alone. "And drink. And drink." Pop goes the weasel. Or the teeth, in this case. She allows him to be aware. Very. "Stand still now. And hush."
Well, that definitely is a cold bucket on Hugo's arousal. "FUCK!" he yells, his arm jerking backward hard, though likely her grip is too strong for him to break. "You're un…." he starts to yell, the word 'invited' on his lips before it dies away as she worms her way into his mind, stilling his body and stealing his words. He obeys her commands, not because he wants to, but because he can't not. But he definitely does /not/ like it. His body trembles fractionally, a hint of fear beneath him but more over there is anger. Anger at himself for thinking just because this is Dallas and not NY he could let his guard down. Anger at her for taking what he rarely gives without paying or even asking. He glares at her, furious, his jaw clenching and unclenching, but he doesn't flinch in the face of what she is, nor at what she's about to do. It wouldn't be the first time.
"Cute," Sue remarks dryly seeing the array in his eyes. She brings the screw to her lips and licks of the little blood lingering there first. "Oh please," she scolds next, "You didn't think it all went down a little too smooth?" Swallow. Her head tilted just so, analyzing the taste of him. Pursed lips and a small shrug state it's not that bad. She brings his bleeding wrist to her lips and smiles before she softly sucks on the little wound. "Go on, revel in it. And tell me how it makes you feel. All the dirty little details. Not that you want to send me away, of course." Si-i-ip.
"Guess I'm not your 'type'," he notes sarcastically. "Blood type, that is. O positive … sorry to disappoint. So common, I'm sure is what you're thinking." Oh, his assessment of her was spot on and yes, he was a fool to think she was other than what she first appeared to be. The fear has faded, but the anger is still strong. "My mistake," he concurs. "Just thought you were offering a little 'southern' hospitality." There is no reveling here, his lips forming a grim line as he retorts, "I don't think so. And I'll be sending you a bill for services rendered."
"Mmm…" the woman snorts around his wrist with a roll of her eyes. A moment longer she samples, then, with just the tip of her tongue, she swirls the little puncture wound, encouraging the flesh to start healing a little faster than it would normally. "You would, wouldn't you," she chuckles as a child would mock scorn a disobedient pet. "At least you know how to turn a girl on. Yes. I'm going to have so much fun with you. Make it hurt in places you didn't even know exist. And that's an honest to god promise," she girl-scouts. A last lick over the wound, then she lowers the wrist and carefully places the screw in his other hand. A casual flick of fingers sends the expensive bottle of wine to the floor where it scatters. "But first…" Her smile grows wider as she contemplates how to finish the glamour.
"Fuck!" Hugo exclaims again, the loss of the wine nearly as important it would seem as the loss of his blood. And now there's shards of glass all over the floor around them … and him in bare feet. Awkward at best. "Yeah, you fucking bet I will, and sorry, but this is the first and last time you get a taste of me." He's not interested in turning Susan on, and she certainly no longer is attractive to him. His gaze goes steely grey, unafraid of her threats. He's not the soft pretty boy one might assume from his appearance and living style. He knows what pain is.
Susan lets her eyes rove over his face in something close to delight, "But first…" The smile gentles down when she increases the glamour, her voice now sultry and soothing, inviting and compelling. "Relax hot stuff. Easy, you're calming down." Beat. "You feel all relaxed and sensual, antsy in all the right places…" She takes a moment to study the effect like an artist studying an unfinished painting, then continues. "You will remember nothing of our fight, nothing of me being vampire. Instead you'll remember teasing jokes and wicked bantering, and…" She spins him the sweetest tale of two neighbors meeting and taking an interest in one another. "And all went super smooth until you tried to open the bottle and the screw slipped, wounding yourself. And then the bottle fell. Oh dear, what a mess…" And there, she releases her hold on him.
He shudders, as if his body were trying to throw off the effects she is having on his mind, trying to shake his thoughts out of the stupor she is putting them in. Like an unbroken colt he struggles against her will in vain, his body slowly calming down, becoming pliant and mildly aroused as her words command him. His eyes have gone hazy and unfocused until she releases him. He almost steps back, cursing again, but this time in alarm and embarrassment as he snaps forward. "Shit, shit I'm sorry, are you alright? Did I get you?" He crouches down carefully picking up shards of glass and pocketing them in his 'wounded' hand. "Shit, sorry, sorry, I'm not usually that clumsy."
"Oh no!" Duly stricken, Susan steps back, glass crunching underneath her wine spattered shoes. "Oh, it'll cost a /fortune/ to replace those…" A soft groan escapes her lips as she inspects the suede, any excitement she felt towards him obviously fading, brushed aside by monetary problems. "Maybe it's a sign," she murmurs. "I came on too strong. I'm so sorry…" And she turns for the door, by all intends and appearances, embarrassed.
"No, I, it's my fault," Hugo protests. But the glass about his feet prevents him from being able to pursue her and, really, any chance of this recovering from this mess is unlikely. Best to let her go and try again another time. "Sorry about your shoes … send me a bill," he offers as she opens the door to leave. With a soft sigh of annoyance, he gingerly reaches over to snatch a tea towel from the counter, crouching nimbly down again to sop up the wasted wine and gather the glass into a pile so he can perhaps extricate himself without cutting his feet in the process. But there is a moment when he pauses, staring down at his wrist in bemusement.
No chance to salvage the moment, no sir. In a swirl of black Susan opens the door and rushes through, not once glancing back. At least she closes the door. That's something, right?
Rising up to his feet, Hugo's mind is a blur and slowly he tries to reconstruct what just happened. She had been holding the corkscrew, hadn't she? Trying to open the bottle one handed? But then he what, took it from her? The screw slipped… He stares at his wrist, at the small puncture wound there. But it's not a fresh wound. It isn't bleeding, the edges look like they're already starting to heal over, like a cut that was a few hours to a day old, not just made. Blinking, his head lifts first to the clock and then circles to the door, and for the third time tonight he mutters, "/Fuck/!" his eyes narrowing in growing awareness and anger.
