Drug of Choice


Art Nouveau decor throughout the main lounge pays homage to an era when architecture and interior design were the perfect marriage of form, function and art. The walls are purples and pinks that blend into more subtle hues with the constant green lighting. Small tables with four tall chairs can be found scattered about the room. Large purple couches can be found nestled between the table sets, and in front of a smaller stage used for poetry readings.
The bar itself is long, taking up the entirety of a wall. Tall chairs are scattered on the patron side, and behind the bar is a beautiful greenish glow. The glow comes from the shelving where the majority of the alcohol is stored. The nearby glass racks reflect the glow splendidly as well.

Architecture schmarchitecture. Wit isn't here for the scenery or anything else. He's here because the bird he came with is currently on stage, decked out in black, complete with beret, black turtle neck, and black skinny jeans, reading a poem she wrote about… well, something or other that he doesn't care about. He sits at a table with a cappucino in front of him, looking as though he dearly wishes it were something stronger. He allows his attention to drift from the buxom brunette on stage down towards his cappucino once more after a moment, then he pulls his cell phone out of the pocket and checks the time. Only 7:30 and he already wishes he were dead. With a resigned sigh he picks up his cappucino and takes a sip.

After the evening about five nights ago, Hailee is feeling fine. More than fine. The shit is weak, but it's keeping her on a nice buzz, and she can handle that. The model (ex!) doesn't bother looking around Absinthe at all. She wanders to the bar, looking to order a drink. "Gimme something with Irish in the title," she tells the bartender, not caring if she winds up with Irish coffee or whiskey. So long as it's 'Irish'. While she waits for the drink, her eyes drift toward the stage, and she snorts. "Fuck. I thought beatniks died with the sixties."

After a few more moments of insufferable poetry from his latest (soon to be?) conquest, Wit gets up and moves over to the bar, slipping in beside Hailee. "I'm going to need something stronger than this if you have it back there. In fact, just add it to this. Pour it in." He can't help but hear Hailee's final comment, starting to laugh. "She's not a beatnik, she's a 'free spirit'. One which I'm hoping will end up being a lot more free by the end of the night." Wit is so bored he doesn't really care how disrespectful he comes off. He lets out a quiet sigh as he looks back to the stage. The girl ends her set, and then makes a hasty retreat to the ladies' room, not bothering to stick around for the meager applause. He watches her with a slight smirk. "I wonder if her own bit made her nauseous."

"The clothes, the crap poetry, sorry to tell you, hon', but she's a beatnik." The poor girl may not have someone at her side beating on a set of bongo drums, but it's the same damned thing. Hailee gives the girl a disdainful look, and begins to snap her fingers rather than clap. It's a bit bitchy of her, but she doesn't seem to care. When her Irish-whatever is delivered, she gives it a look and then drinks from it quickly, downing almost half of it at once. "You're likely going to have to get her drunk, she really doesn't look the type to just fall into bed." Eyes dart toward the bathroom, and she snorts. "Going to cry, more than likely. She'd have gotten more praise on a Friday when the locals are drunk."

The snapping of the fingers makes Wit hold in a laugh. He's not that crass — at least not towards women. Thanks, rich boy upbringing. "That's very blunt of you, but astute too. The poor thing. Perhaps she'll need someone to comfort her." He reaches into his pocket to produce a pack of cloves and a matchbook. "Can we smoke in here?" He asks the bartender, who gives a brief shrug of his shoulders. That's good enough for Wit. He offers the pack to Hailee, attempting to be gentlemanly. "Can I pay for your drink? Are you here alone? You shouldn't be here alone." His pupils are a touch dilated. There's a faint white residue underneath one of his nostrils, but other than that, he looks rather bright eyed and bushy tailed.

"Can if you want, I am, I should be." Hailee peers at him for a moment, then glances around. "I'm going out on a limb here, hon', but I'm guessing you're barely old enough to be here." He doesn't look all that old, and while she does look a bit younger when she's on the V, there's no masking the fact that she's in her mid-twenties. Her voice lowers considerably. "Coke, hmm?" White powder is something she's very familiar with. "There's better shit than that out there these days."

"Of course I'm old enough to be here." Wit says, denying any such allegations without the bat of one of his eyelashes. He reaches up to wipe his nose at Hailee's latter murmuring before shaking his head. "There may be, but this is my 'drug of choice' as they say. It's served it's purpose rather well for the past few years…" He reaches up to wipe at his nose again, giving the faintest of snorts as he does. He's a seasoned user, that much is clear from his mannerism. Despite the age difference, Wit has no problem leaning closer to Hailee and reaching up to try to brush some hair away from her face. "My father always told me to beware a pretty woman with expensive habits. That's how he met my mother. Trifle the thought. What are you into?"

There is no moving away, nor is there any indication that she's into the touch. Hailee just gives him a semi-queer look and downs the rest of her Irish-whatever. Holding two fingers up to flag down the bartender, she says, "Your girl isn't going to like you hitting on someone," she points out matter-of-factly, though she sounds like she doesn't care. "Your father is a wise man, and my habits are far too expensive for your tastes." Chuckling, she doesn't give a solid answer. "Oh, this and that." Even though she really shouldn't be in to anything, thanks to rehab. Curse that Oliver.

The clothes do belittle the stiff English accent. Tonight's attire is a ripped Plasmatics t-shirt, tattered blue jeans, and old Doc Martens. He grins at Hailee. "I might surprise you." His lady friend still isn't back from the restroom yet, and he doesn't seem particularly worried about whatever she might be getting up to. Wit pushes a twenty dollar bill down on the bar, withdrawing the crumpled paper from his pocket. The bartender gives it a strange look but decides to ultimately accept it. Currency is currency. He hands the change back to Wit as the young man finally lights up a clove and takes a long puff. "She's not really my girl. I'm only here as a favor to her. She didn't want to come alone. I think she'd exhausted all of her other options and I can see why. But yes, I was hoping that the evening wouldn't be a /total/ bust."

"You might," Hailee says, eyeing him. "In another few years." By normal teenaged standards, she's old and out to pasture already. A pseudo-cougar. "You came along, so for tonight, she's your girl," the model (ex!) points out. It's a typical female way of thinking. "You'll have better luck if you roofie her, though I don't really condone that type of behavior. Tends to get you in a bit of trouble."

"Roofie?" Wit asks lowly, though incredulously. "God, I'm not like that. That's a special kind of sickness. One I think I'd punch someone in the face for. If someone wants to have a little fun, it should be of their own free will. I'd never get a girl so inebriated that she couldn't think for herself. Grosses me out." He can't help but grin at Hailee's comment about 'another few years'. Wit shakes his head a little bit. "I don't plan for the future too much. I like to live in the here and now. Besides, in 'another few years', I might be a corpse." He picks up his own drink and takes one before taking another puff of his sweet-smelling cigarette.

"Won't we all," says Hailee in response to being a corpse in a few years. "Too bad. Sobriety is overrated." Roofies she doesn't agree with, but a little drunken fun? No harm in that. She's met some pretty cool people like that. "As for the here and now, let's see, I'm too old for you. By a long shot." She may not have ten years on him, but she's sure it's close to at least five or six.

He takes his fake ID from his pocket and shows it to Hailee. "Look, see? Twenty-one. I've just got this adorable baby face that I can't damn well help." He takes another drag from his clove before his attention wanes from it and he stubs it into a nearby ashtray. "Sobriety is overrated. But only to a certain extent. Come to think of it, Cath hasn't come back from the bathroom yet." Wit turns to look toward the corridor, spotting his friend. He waves at her and she merely gives him the finger when she sees him with another girl, storming outside. This causes him to at first look shocked and blink — for a split second — before the laughing begins. "I think I owe you a proper drink sometime for that assessment. You're a regular Cassandra."

The one thing Hailee knows is women's reactions. She's been subjected to a few up-close-and-personal 'reactions' that have led to more than just irritated hissy fits. Thankfully, this one seems to merely be pissed off. "You can always catch up to her," the ex-model points out. "Give her a peace offering." Not that she wants to share that specific peace offering, but as it's her fault for drawing his attention it's the least she can do to make it up to him. "Twenty-one, hmm?" She'd comment on it being a nice fake, but whatever. She's pulled that card trick before in the past. "Still too young."

Wit doesn't seem terribly intent on catching up to the young woman who has run out of the club. He waves a hand dismissively. "Another time." He lets out a quiet yawn before smiling at Hailee and taking a long drink from the spiked cappucino. He puts his ID back in his pocket and gives a non-chalant shrug of his shoulders to Hailee. "I'm sorry that you feel that way. You're not that old though. Unless you only date older men for gifts and whatnot." It seems to be less of an accusation or an insult and more of a curious probing.

The hand that's slipped into the pocket of her jeans to reveal the gift, quickly slides back in. More for her then. That she doesn't have to share seems to bring a smile to her lips, though it's kept very briefly. "I've got at least six years on you if that ID is real, and more than that if it's not," Hailee points out. "I don't date." Dating is for posers. Relationships are for the weak. "I do what I want, when I want."

"Very nice." Wit says simply. "I guess that includes using people?" He asks her simply, before shrugging his shoulders. "We all use each other in some way or another, don't we? You can always tell though. When people are really serious about it. I've gotten a lot nicer than I used to be. Softer, I guess." He lets out a sigh laced with regret before licking his lips and finishing off his cappucino, not saying anymore about the age difference. He has a more much interesting topic now.

"It is, yes." Hailee's fingers snake out to take hold of the new glass, and begins to take a long sip from it. "Human nature means people use one another," the ex-model agrees without bothering to really answer the question. "How wonderful for you. Softness is a weakness. It means you're pliable, easily manipulated, and begging to be used." That he's finally (somewhat?) picked up on the fact that she's not going to hop into bed with him just because he bought her a drink, amuses her.

Regardless of whether or not he really thought she was going to randomly have sex with him, Wit has come to find that she's a tough little cookie to crack. He shrugs his shoulders easily before eyeing Hailee up and down. "You catch more flies with honey instead of vinegar sometimes, you know. But I digress." He puts a few dollar bills into the tip jar and puts a ten down to pay for Hailee's second drink before he gets to his feet and stretches his arms over his head, rolling his neck to and fro. It produces a satisfying popping noise. "My name is Alex, by the way. What's yours? Or should I call you Blondie perhaps?"

That he's too young to even know who she is? That just amuses her more and proves her point. "Rose," she says. Not entirely a lie, it is her name technically. "No one's using vinegar, hon'. Simply telling it like it is." There's a pause, and she dips that hand back into the pocket and pulls out a small red pill. Slipping it gently beneath her tongue with a swift enough movement so as to avoid notice, she closes her eyes. For a long pause she doesn't say a word. "Much as I like Debbie Harry," she says finally, "I don't look a damned thing like her."

"Rose. Huh." That's all Wit says before he withdraws his cigarettes from his pocket again and starts toward the door. "See you later, Blonde Rose. Hopefully. Don't do anything I would." Even if he had said wouldn't, it may have left her wide open in either event. He goes out of the club and to his car, his ill-fated date long forgotten.

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