Indecent Proposal

Bass Clef Club

Bass Clef is a fair sized Jazz club with the lighting dimmed so that the booths and tables along the back and side walls of the cafe area are slightly shadowed and more private. Eight booths line the bricked walls, four on each side of the club. To get up into the booths there is a single step so that they are not on the same level as the rest of the floor. The walls are decorated with posters from past and upcoming events and entertainers. Several cafe-style tables have been set up in the center of the club with two to four chairs surrounding each. Closer to the bar there are taller tables, being close to forty-four inches in height so that someone could stand next to it and rest their elbows upon them as they leaned in against them.
Across from the large wooden door that is the entrance, there is a very short stage comprised of black marble. In the center of the stage is a grand piano, and enough room for the remainder of the jazz-band to set up. The stage is normally lit up with a spotlight, making it the most illuminated area in the entire club.
Settled on the right wall is the bar. The lights around the bar don't seem to be as dim as those in the rest of the club, but the lighting is still very low in order to keep the atmosphere of the rest of the establishment. Behind the bar the wall is done up in aqua-colored tile before the shelving for the various types of beverages; including soda. A door behind the bar presumably leads to the kitchen and storage areas.

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The Bass Clef Club is a good place to hit earlier in the night, before one plunges into sloppy drunk mode. It's actually a pretty nice place. The dim lighting highlights the band all the more, and they're currently playing a nice, uptempo Nina Simone number. The singer's not quite Nina herself, but she's respectable. The club seems popular with couples and small groups, which are taking up most of the monfy-looking booths and many of the other tables. Steve himself is alone, and thus seated at the bar, hunched slightly over a dark-looking drink in a glass tumbler. His cane is standing beside the stool.

Makea enters, all dark and slinky in her bronze blouse, sequins catching just enough light to make her presence known. If she can't be verbally loud, she's going to find a way around it. Since the booth's are taken, she migrates to the bar, black rectangle clutched to her chest as she settles in. It takes a moment for her to balance, before she gives a sweet greeting to the bartender. "Gimme somethin' fruity, Sug. Thanks." She keeps her volume low, but that tone is still sickly in its sincere sweetness. She falls silent for a moment, jaw propped up by a hand as the woman on stage has her attention. Then a nearby cane does, and after placing the rectangle down on the bar, a hand reaches to grab what doesn't belong to her. It looks familiar, is all!

Steve does not look very slinky, but at least he's dressed better than he was at the gym. Nice button-down shirt, worn open at the neck, and a pair of jeans with a straight leg. His clothes seem to fit well, so maybe he had them tailored at some point. A woman asking for a fruity drink is an all too familiar sound, but then the voice is familiar, too. So Steve happens to be looking right at Makea when her hand starts to wander. "Hey, I know you," he comments mildly.

Oops! Dark eyes snap up to the face looking at her, arm and hand still stretched to snag that cane. Makea has the nerve not to look the least bit guilty, smile suddenly brightening her face. She finishes what she's doing, snagging Steve's cane and bringing it up for inspection. "Oh hey. Gymguy." She chuckles, fingers sliding over the cane as she switches from looking it over back to his face. "Or rather, Mr. Tightywighties." There had been no mention of underwear in their last meeting, and by the suddenly wicked grin on her lips and that gleam in her eyes… Steve was in for it. In fact, the smug purr of her voice was a sure sign of it, "How've you been, Sug?"

"Steve…" supplies Mr. Tightywhiteys slowly, looking Makea over, ending at her hand on top of his cane. "Uh…" His gaze travels back to Makea's eyes, and he blinks. "Fine…" he adds in the same slow, wary tone. "…Whatcha doin' there?"

Makea grins all the wider, "Of course, Steve." She follows his gaze back to the cane, before offering it back. "Oh, this? Just bein' nosy." Once her hands are free, she turns back to the bar and folds them, jaw resting on the bridge of fingers. "But enough about me. Let's talk about you." Her attention is snagged only by the bartender placing a glass filled with orange liquid on the bar, garnished with an orange slice. "Tsk. No lil' umbrella?" She teases lightly, before taking a sip. "Mm. It'll do. It'd taste better with a lil' umbrella, though. Everythin' does." She informs Steve, though he's likely plenty wary by now.

Steve draws his brows together a bit worriedly, then shrugs. "You can touch it, just don't take it too far or I'll look like a real asshole hopping out of this place." He then leans forward to get the bartender's attention. "Excuse me," he says, eyebrows going up now, hopeful. "Do you have any…little cocktail umbrellas?" The bartender looks affronted and informs him that they do not. Apparently they would interfere with the cool of a jazz club. Steve sits back again, nodding, then glances at Makea. "Sorry, this place is square. You're gonna have to start bringing your own."

There's something of a choke as her second sip is interrupted by Steve's words. Sure, there's the mental image of him hopping around, but then he also said that she can touch 'it'. And this makes Makea laugh. Because she is a twelve, apparently. Clearing her throat, she brushes her thumb along the corner of her lip and is about to comment just as he asks the bartender for a minibrella. "Awwww," She cooes, "Sug, you didn't have'ta ask for me. I was mostly jokin'." That predatory attitude dissolves as she places a friendly hand on his arm and gives a little squeeze. "I suppose it ain't right, teasin' you like I was. But, I did mention I'd look you up, last time we met."

Steve turns to regard Makea with a tilted smile. "Look, to be fair," he says, "When I started modeling, they didn't have the internet, and they /definitely/ didn't have Google image search. So back then my biggest problem was catalogs and discount circulars." He doesn't look extremely disturbed to hear that she's been doing a little sleuthing, but he's at least a little embarrassed.

Makea lifts her brows, giving an amused little hum behind her glass. Placing it back on the bar, she sits somewhat diagonal so that it's easy to talk as well as drink. "Shame I know how to work Google, hm?" Though it's about the only thing she can do on the Internet. Shh. Sensing his embarrassment, that smile returns, though she at least tries not to scare the poor man off. Rather than verbally sooth him, she tilts her head, "So, done any nude modelin' in those early days?" Alright, perhaps the evil grin is back.

It's the only thing you really /have/ to be able to do on the internet! "Kind of?" he agrees at first, with a little smile. "But most people can work it these days. And at least now you'd believe me if I told you I used to be skinnier, right?" The former six-pack is probably in transition toward becoming a keg. On the subject of nude modeling, he looks aside. "Uhhhh….did…you…find any?" Because if it's not on the internet, it never happened, right?

It's a crime to have her grin so wide. The woman almost seems to have fangs, smile bright, white and sharp- though she's most certainly not one of the undead variety. Almost realizing just how bad she's being, the woman pulls it back a bit, lips closing over to simply smile. "Hmmm. Can't say that I did. Find any, I mean." She sounds amused as well as disappointed. A long claw reaches out, prodding at Steve's middle. Once. Twice. "Aw now, don't act like you're Santa. 'sides, I know you work out." A long sip buys him a little time to recover, before she starts up again. "So, any chance you'd be interested in a little nude modelin' nowadays?" Perfectly innocent question, of course.

Steve scratches his jaw, eyebrows lifting a little, though his eyelids stay slack. "Kind of…creepy to think about who might have pictures of me in their house, and…how old they'd be now," he mentions, then looks from his belly to Makea's face. "Not as much as I used to," he says about working out. "I can't. Running, for example…pretty much the most painful thing ever." He smiles. "I don't think I'd have any call to model."

Makea lifted a finger, "I know one girl who has a paintin' of you. Well, your face." Likely the project she mentioned the first time they ran into each other. "She's a twenty somethin'." There, that might make his ego feel a bit better. If it doesn't, ah well. She tried. His difficulties in running have her lower lip sticking out in a sympathetic pout, though it's not really pity. "Aw, Sug. At least you've got the cane. Makes ya look… refined?" Even she isn't sure what it's doing for him. "Oh, I dunno." Her voice becomes lofty, playful, "I could always use you."

"From when?" Steve wonders, but he doesn't seem really interested in the answer. He picks up his glass and downs some of the liquor. "Refined?" He laughs, genuinely amused by that. "Last thing anybody'd ever call me." Then he looks puzzled. "Use me for what?" he asks. "You're…? Oh, no. Painting?"

"Oh, sure. If you wanna be good about it- there is art." Makea's laughing under her breath, so it's likely that she's simply trying to unnerve him. "But honestly, I'm always lookin' for new models. You seem to have experience, and it's not volunteer work." She turns to face the bar finally, resting an arm on it, remembering to enjoy her own drink. "It'd be for class. So on the one side, there's money for layin' still in a chair. On the other side, there's a class full of guys n' gals sketchin' you." A quick wink, "N' I'll be there, of course." Dun dun dun.

Steve looks up at the ceiling. "Oh, man, painters," he says. "The biggest creeps I ever—" He catches himself and looks down at Makea. "I'm not calling you a creep, I'm just saying, with painters, it's all, 'Oh, Stephan, come to ma studio…'" Steve wiggles his head and puts on a French accent. Why painters are French in Steve's mind? Mystery. "And then it's all /cold/ and you have to hold still for /hours/…" He takes a breath, then a gulp of drink. "How much does it pay?" he asks. "And what weight do I have to get to?"

Makea simply quirks a brow, face blank for the first time that night. Her little ruse doesn't work long, and it's that accent that has her laughing once more. Hand on her chest, she takes a moment to catch her breath. "Oh darlin', darlin'…" A little shake of her head, "Lucky for you, I ain't a painter. This'd be for a life drawin' class." No paint. Her hand is quick to reach out, long nail poking his nose, "We have a small heater for th'models, it's only a 3 hour class, y'get breaks, and it pays 150 an hour." Each argument of hers is punctuated with a poke to his nose, and as the hand drops she gives Steve a saucy little once-over. "And you ain't gotta lose a pound, Sug. Models of all shapes n' sizes are welcome."

Steve opens his eyes a little wider. "Holy shit, 150? Really?" Then he remembers to pretend like that doesn't impress him. Way too late. It sucks not having an agent around, sometime. Steve glances at her hand. What was that doing in his face? Delayed reaction, anyone? Then he chews his lower lip a little. "Okay," he says. "I…guess I could do it. If everyone can be cool. If I see any cameras or camcorders…I'm out."

Another little hum, pleased by his reaction. "Mmhm. And I'll even have you do sittin' poses so it doesn't strain your leg." Isn't she thoughtful? Her brows lower a bit, "Oh, honey. You don't gotta worry about cameras. First of all, I'm not tellin' my students who's comin' in." Which means none of them will realize they get a chance to see Captain Sunshine's bare butt. "Second, I run a real tight ship." Which may be hard to believe, but there it is. Sliding a hand into the leather book, she fiddles and hands him a card with her name, the name of the University, and her number. "Can't wait to get you on paper…" That almost sounds ominous.

Steve takes the card and puts it in his pocket, lifting an eyebrow. "I, uh… Sorry, but I have to ask… You're hiring me strictly for a modeling job, right? I just sit, and then people draw and then I get money and go home, right?" He seems anxious to confirm this detail, although he does break eye contact to polish off the remainder of his drink.

"That's the plan." Makea confirms, before her eyes light up with the possibility to toy with Steve just a bit more. Leaning in closer, she grabs his chin with a thumb and finger, giving his head a little shake. Her voice drops, tone suddenly matching the smooth, sultry surroundings. "Shame, I know. But I don't mix business with pleasure, Sug." Something about the man just begged to be played with. She does give Steve his personal space back, but only after getting one last shot in. "If you happen to pick up a student's number on your way out, however…" She'll look the other way?

Steve reaches up to brush her hand off with the back of his own, but it's done very gently. After all, the last thing he'd need would be an assault charge. "Hey, give me a break," he says quietly, frowning. "And I'm not sure I want the number of somebody who just spent an hour drawing my junk."

Makea lets him brush her hand away without too many hurt feelings, though she does give a surprised little note in her throat. "Don't get grumpy on me, now." She's practically scolding him, "I just helped you nab a job." However temporary. It depends on whether or not he wants to make it a regular thing. Apparently the woman's feathers are ruffled, and she takes her time in finishing off her fruity drink in silence.

"Yeah, I know," Steve says, looking at the bar. Hm. Bar. Bartender. He looks up and points to his glass, and the bartender starts mixing him another. Seems to be a Crown and Coke. "Look, I'm sorry," he says at last. "I just don't really like… I mean, I have a bubble…" Personal space, he's talking about here.

Makea glances at him from the corner of her eye, giving a 'hmph' and a sway of her head. "Then consider your bubble popped." She lobs back at him, easily enough. Women, amirite? Still, she can't stay negative for too long, and that easy smile returns. "Well, just give a call when you feel the need to work, Steve." Not Sug. Reaching into her blouse, she keeps clear of her cleavage and instead pulls a bill from under the shoulder strap. Flicking it to the bar, she's all purrs for the bartender. "Thanks, Sug. Keep the change." A wink, before she pulls the leather bound book closer, looking ready to pack it up.

"Hey, wait," Steve says, turning to look at Makea. "Really, thanks. I mean that, seriously. This'll be a big help to me, you know. You seem like a really cool person, you know?" He probably feels bad about putting her off for grabbing his chin. "I didn't mean to be rude."

Manners are the key in this situation, and once again she's unruffled and smiling wide. "You're welcome." All of that, just to get him to remember his please and thank yous? Perhaps. "It's fine, really." She seems genuine enough, though her hands remain on her hips. One holds that book propped up against her side, and she gives a little shrug. "Just figured I'd bothered you enough. I really should get home, got some guests to feed, projects to grade…" Her hand gives a little wave at the unfinished list.

"Okay," Steve says, still looking a bit regretful at his reaction. But he bobs his head, accepting. "Listen, I'll give you a call," he says. "Take care of yourself, and be safe out there at night. You know what's roaming around out there."

Makea laughs, the little chip of ice on her shoulder finally melting as she gives the man a wink. "Really, you don't gotta worry about me." She nods when he mentions giving her a call, meaning what she had said. It was a job offer all right. He had the past experience, Google had supplied her with proof of that. "I'm a big girl." And to cancel that statement, she playfully sticks her tongue out. "Take care, Steve. Don't drown." Likely a comment on his drinking, as she turns to leave, all sequined and glittery.

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