Frosted Glass

9/25/2008

Coffee was casual, but dinner, for the second date, is much more impressive. Contrary to the scruffy, ill-kempt bachelor image he normally projects, Ryan must be doing well for himself, judging by the place he escorts Emma to tonight. Clean, modern lines and fine but spare decor characterize the space and the attentive service and food speak for themselves. Ryan is cleaned up, himself, in a charcoal gray suit and a blue-on-blue patterned tie, and if he's not quite /relaxed/, then at least he isn't tense as he scoots his food around his plate with his fork and finishes explaining more of his work to Emma. "And of course, the big push right now is for energy efficiency, so we're working on some improvements to the hydraulics systems of the cranes." He pauses, suddenly, and laughs a little. "I'm sorry, I must be boring you." This is also code for he doesn't really want to talk about work anymore.

Emma remains tightly shielded, beyond a few early, expiramental pokes to determine range and reaction. She's not even putting out a distraction field, so the couple have recieved a glance or two. She lifts her wine glass in a lazy salute and smiles. "Not at all. Your work takes up so much of your time. It isn't surprising that you take such pride in it. Has it always been a dream?" This is code for 'tell me about your childhood' then.

"I took out a neighbor's window with a trebuchet when I was eight," Ryan confesses with a chuckle. The tight shielding leaves only the faintest buzz of energy passing from Ryan to Emma, one that goes completely unnoticed by him. "And built very elaborate snow castles and forts each winter." He takes a drink from his wine glass, his expression growing troubled and anxious for a second. "Well, I suppose my brother would tell that they were /his/ forts and his trebuchet," he qualifies. "But I was clearly the brains behind the operation."

"Clearly," she agrees easily, as she was supposed to do, then offers wistfully, "I built a snow fort once." Her dinner, something saladly and colorful, remains half-eaten on her plate. She takes another sip of wine and puts the glass down. Her fingers leave little smudge marks on the glass, the whorls distinct and well-marked from the tension in her grip. The effort of maintaining the thick layers of shielding between him and the hunger that strains toward him has left her pale, but it only serves to make her eyes clearer and more blue.

"Only once?" Ryan asks, lifting his eyebrows, his smile at once amused and sympathetic. "You evidently did not grow up in Pennsylvania, where making snow forts is the number one childhood wintertime activity. So how did you spend your time, if not in construction?" He contemplates lovingly the last few bites of his steak, ordered rare but not mooing, and sets to work on them as he awaits her answer.

Emma watches his attention to his steak with a similiar attention for him, then shakes her head and wrinkles her nose as if perplexed. "Close enough, I suppose. Boston has hills and snow enough. Mama didn't approve," she offers by way of explination.

Ryan is schooled in all the table etiquette. He finishes chewing and takes another drink from his wine class before responding, his energy going out to Emma increasing slowly and incrementally as the energy from the food gets into him, though still in relatively tiny amounts. "She didn't approve?" He sounds disapproving of the idea. "So what sort of things /did/ she approve of? Anything fun, or did you have to sneak away for that sort of thing?"

Emma glances down at her place setting, then slides a peek back up at him through long lashes. "Riding. Dance. Music. The usual." At least for her class. "I was a very good girl." Laughter licks at her words, hinting that perhaps good little girls don't stay so.

"Of course you were," Ryan says, and laughs. "You have that look of utter innocence about you." He pushes his plate, mostly finished now, to the side and slides his hand towards hers to take it. "I'm sure it's very helpful in your business dealings. I know I'd let you take advantage of me... financially speaking."

Emma slips her hand into his with appealing shyness. "I may hold you to that if you aren't careful," she bantars back, a not so sweet slime flashing at him from the corners of her mouth.

"I'll be very careful in all my business dealings with you," Ryan swears, smiling crookedly, his thumb absently stroking the side of her hand. "And I'll be sure to have my lawyers read the fine print of any contract, no matter how confident I am in your good intentions." He tips his head to the side, eyes flickering over her contemplatively, and even on this second date (and third meeting) a measure of clear surprise mixes in with his appreciation.

"Well then, if I plan on ruining you, I will make sure to distract you from the fine print. And your lawyers," she answers flirtatiously, turning her hand in his to capture his thumb with sure possessiveness.

"You're very distracting, it'll be easy," Ryan admits, clearly a bit distracted already. The server, subtle and discreet, drops off the bill and clears away the dishes from around them. With his free hand, he reaches into his inner suit pocket for his credit card and hands it over to the server. "Appallingly easy, actally. So please don't ruin me, at least not anytime soon."

"Then you must continue to humor me. I insist on seeing you again," Emma murmurs, leaking interest and greed through fissuring shields. The server is quick and efficient, returning the card promptly.

"Of course, Emma," Ryan says quickly, his smile warm and ready. "Anything to keep the small print at bay." The twinge of his powers at the fissuring shields leads to just a moment of distraction, quickly set aside as he tucks the card back into his pocket and rises to his feet. "Unfortunately, the only babysitter I could secure for tonight has a very strict curfew, or I'd insist on extending our evening. But I promised I'd be prompt." He leans in for just a quick, brushing kiss on the cheek to end the evening. "I'll call you to set something up."

Emma rises and turns her cheek to accept the kiss. Except she cheats and at the last moment, turns her head so it lands on her lips. They smile under his and she steps back quickly with a daring twinkle in her eye. "Of course. I look forward to it." She gathers her things, and thus ends the evening.

Later that evening...

9/26/2008
Logfile from Emma.

=NYC= Sweet Basil - Greenwich Village - Manhattan
Undoubtedly one of the finest jazz clubs to be found in the southern sectors of Manhattan, and most definitely in Greenwich, Sweet Basil has seen the faces of some of the greatest jazz legends to cross the planet in its time. A relatively down-home charm manner of club, low-key and looking as though it belongs more in New Orleans than New York, many evenings can simply be wasted away being serenaded within the walls of the Sweet Basil, which, in turn, are plastered with black-and-white photographs of the legends that have graced this club's demure little stage and polished wooden floors.

Once more, Radovan Karga's name finds itself on the playbill. His set is gearing towards the end by this point in the evening. The final number, a re-orchestrated version of 'Because the Night', is being played with the bandleader carrying vocal. The man is at the center of the small stage, eyes locked on his audience one by one, individually, especially the women. It's a bit to try and make for an at least assumed personal connection with the man on stage.

Assumed personal connections have never been Emma's thing. Neither are they usually needed. In the audience tonight, and opposite an older gentleman in a suit and tie, she has divided her attention between the music and the topic of conversation, which has apparently included both laughter and earnest seriousness. As the set winds down, so does the low-voiced arguing from the table, with the gentleman growing less and less animated, then finally just up and leaving. Emma remains, a sharp, unpleasant smile on her lips as she watches him leave. Her elbow hangs over the back of the chair, and she is seated sideways, so that only the turn of her head is needed to return her attention to the stage. She's dressed in red that slits high on her thigh, and silver and diamond glitter at throat, ear, shoulders, and wrist.

With the song done. Radovan gives his last farewells to the audience and introduces the next group, a small trio, to the emptying stage. A few moments after leaving the stage himself, the band leader is slipping through the audience to make his own escape. Battered old trumpet case in hand, and a Rubik's Cube barely in the pocket of his vest, he slinks about only to stop slowly when he spies Emma and her attention attention grabbing outfit. He smiles to her and tilts his head, laughing quietly in his own amusement. "Pardon the interlude, and perhaps it is just the confusion brought by the crowd, but isn't it the entertainers that're supposed to draw the eyes and ears rather than the radiance of the audience?" he asks her, never losing his smile.

"Then who is left to draw the entertainer's eye?" Emma quips back archly, tilting her head and letting her hair slide in a silky waterfall across her back and off her shoulder.

"Unfortunately, or the inverse thereof, depending on the perspective of the situation, /that/ entertainer," Radovan says, looking over to the trio on stage, "in particular is less inclined to be drawn to the subject of the matter at hand than the entertainer that stood in his place prior." The musician looks back to Emma and nods once to the now empty chair for a silent permission to sit.

Emma waves a lazy hand toward the chair, granting permission. "Oh?" She glances at the trio on stage and purses her lips into a smug little smile.

On the stage, the trio comprises a bassist, a sax player, and the man at the microphone has a, rarely played by all appearances of the performance, electric guitar. It's not entirely easy to tell what the man is singing, it's more rhythmic talking than actual vocal performance at any rate. The two support players are pulling most of the weight at this gig. Radovan takes the allowed seat and slides his case between his legs. He looks at the group and gives his quick take on the situation. "Handle of the six string strummer is Mike Ogilvy. Straight as Lombard Street to clue your query with a lack of subtlety. Duo holding up the ropes are the Bower twins. Pair of Moses' own with chops I'd like to hear tune up more often."

Emma's eyes gleam and she shifts in her chair to face Radovan, arms folded on the table, the pose framing the heart shaped dip of her neckline with pale, bare arms. "Then the prior entertainer is left without competition for the subject of the matter at hand." More or less. There is more attention to be gathered by her outfit than that upon the stage. The twins tap and blow athletically behind the vocalist. Perhaps more so than is usual, even.

Radovan watches the twins a moment longer, making a note of the performance and gauging their talent compared to the lackluster front. He scratches the back of his neck and looks back to Emma. His eyes dip down to the woman's neckline quickly before finding themselves back on her eyes properly. She was a fitting distraction for the bird's going off in his head. "The entertainer is aware he is left without competition on a regular basis. After all, a league of your own limits such things," he comments, the ego mostly false for the purposes of banter, clear in his head as well as the jocular grin on his face. "Nevertheless, I recall you with entourage in toe last face to face. I admit, the lack of accessories is an addition to your attractiveness."

"Really?" Emma purrs softly as behind her, a mild scene is starting to develop. The twins take the other's notes and dance around them, venturing further from the established set in swirling circles like an audible tango. Their front falters and looks behind him, mouth gaping. "I thought all entertainer's enjoyed a crowd."

"Standards for some are solo sans stage," Radovan explains, leaning to watch the playing going on behind Emma. He makes a quiet hum as he ponders the improvising that's going on. Especially as it's clearly enough to put off the guitarist. "A duet from time to time tends towards the positive scale on the same," he adds, pulling his attention back towards Emma again.

Telepathy uncurls with lethargic grace and sweeps out to slip through the crowd and perfomers, pausing here and there to touch this mind and that. A separate tendril circles Radovan, hovering to siphon thoughts and emotions directly. The rest of the room fades slightly, but they do not disappear. Oh, not at all. "And standards for you...?" she asks, tucking her hand under her chin. A wineglass shatters at the gaping front man's feet.

There is more than just Radovan in the musician's mind, there are birds. Calls, emotional outbursts, and their base thoughts all echo in a cacophony inside of the man's head, along with his own enjoyment at the meeting and swapping words with Emma. "Self explanatory as the case may be. The act is currently a solo style, with the space spared and open for the right rhythm," he tells her. Somewhere amongst the clutter are the musician's thoughts. << Helen plies for a single night gig for the mosts. Deal's hardly harsh. Come. Go. Or stay for mo'. Any way, just keep the flow. >> Seems he thinks in the same manner that he speaks. All of it a part of the way the birds are kept at bay.

Emma's thoughts are less poetical and more primal. She enjoys the banter, and the thrill of new conquests, but the Deep grows bored and restless. It prods the twins to faster, more frantic, more complicated measures, setting their hearts raising, their breath laboring, and their fingers bleeding while around them, the crowd is captured by their music. A waiter steps in to confront the glass thrower, and another customer pulls his date up and onto the dance floor. The frontman, wise enough to realize he's not longer in control of this set, steps back out of the lights. "The right rhythm is hard to find."

Radovan stops giving any attention to the activities going around him. Focused solely on the woman in front of him. << She's hearing the beat and the mind's flowing. Got it going in the department physical. Adornments prop up the billboard that she's not one to stay for the road, but such are the facts you deal. >> the musician ponders around the mental aviary to himself as he nods. "But you keep that ear to the street, keep hearing the flow around you." He starts tapping on the table rhythmically. "Keep patient and soon 'nough, the beat becomes apparent."

"Oh, but darling. When the beat becomes apparent, you need to have more than your ear to the ground." Birds? Meet cat. The dance floor couple look like they may be getting a headstart on her suggestion. Another customer stands and leans over the table to yell and gesture obscenely at his table partner. The glass thrower throws a punch and the waiter goes down. A woman crawls under her table.

"You got to take the beat, and let it take you. Run with the ebb and flow of the mind's direction," Radovan says, his mental words mimicking his spoken ones. He's finally pulled to give attention to the activity around. << Wild. >> is his only unspoken commentary. "Speaking of the rhythm and flow. Peeping the ramble on the rise, I suggest a more ambulatory ambition?" he asks, looking to the door and then back to Emma.

She just inclines her head in agreement and waits for him to offer a hand. A few people, those untouched by music or telepath, look on the growing scene in horror. One or two have already taken Radovan's suggestion and are making for the door. Another couple have their phone out and are snapping pictures of the fracas. The poor twins on stage look like they are about to collapse, yet they play on.

The musician rights himself and takes up his case. The open hand is held out to Emma along with a smile. "If our subject at hand is willing." Mentally, he makes a note about the situation around the two. << The watering hole for the talented after it's all said and done. The fact these festivities don't start more often is the mystery. >>

The fact they don't start more often around Emma is a mystery as well. She slides her hand into his, unfolds her legs, and rises.

Hand taken, Radovan moves towards the exit to put the jazz club behind him. "Ensemble taken into consideration, the tax bracket resided in would not consider the perch of a musician such as myself to be desirable," he explains to Emma. << Considering her game, she's got little to gain, so what's her aim. If it reasons to even reason why. >> He's suspicious, but nevertheless in a calm state of enjoyment at the company, birds or no birds. "So unless you've got a setting more in mind for your style, I've not got much in the manner of places to spend the while."

They step out into the night air that cools in anticipation of the coming fall, and behind them, the sounds of conflict fade with the door's closing. A long, sleek car pulls up to the curve, as if it had been expecting their approach. Emma tugs on Radovan's hand, turning him into her step forward, and wrapping his arm around her waist by simply moving their hands behind her. "In that case," she breathes, watching him through a heavy veil of lashes as her lips moves tantalizingly close to his. "Maybe we should let the beat take us our separate ways."

Radovan looks to the door and then to the car as it pulls up, and then thanks to her actions, the woman herself. << The flow is subtle. >> his mind quips. The musician smiles to her. "I think you and I are listening to the beat, and we know that ain't the flow," he says quietly, looking at her. His lips move to meet the ones tempting his own.

The kiss is heat and electricity and beat, and over far too soon. She smiles knowingly, lips pressed tightly to compress the expression to a curl at the corner of her lips. "Perhaps. But I think we have a while to go before we reach the bridge." She detangles her fingers from his, releasing his hold on her.

Radovan backs away from the kiss and the hold. He doesn't mind showing the smile on his face, an enigmatic one that isn't suggestive of anything other than it's what he usually has on his face. "The musician queries for the name of the tune," he asks, tipping his cap to the woman. His mind belays what his appearance doesn't. << So the siren has style. Sweets. >>

Emma turns her shoulder between them and nods at the car. The driver hops out and scurries around to the back door. "I think the musician would rather write the tune himself." A wider smile creeps across her lips and she moves for the car, tucking her skirt underneath her as she slides in.

"And the beat goes on," Radovan muses, backing up a few steps before turning around and heading down the street on his own. He doesn't get a car, but in a few blocks, perhaps he'll hop a bus to get back to his home for the night.