the bass is heavy. hypnotic. a throng of bodies writhes in the center of the room, surrounded on all four sides by bar tops and booths. the club-goers are in a world of their own, heightened by the music, beer, booze, and god only knows what else. serena had a sneaking suspicion, but kept her mouth pointedly sewn shut.
the thing with vampires — especially those in the event venue business — is that there's always a game afoot. a cunning contest of wits and esteem, of power and prowess. every word that left the mouth of anyone on the premises, every identifying feature of vampire or otherwise, would be noted and analyzed. scrutinized for even the thinnest hairline fracture or weakness, and then fully exploited. who really knew who watched the cameras, and who really knew who they locked eyes with across the club? not a soul. and that would be dangerous if serena went and ran her mouth, now, wouldn't it?
the last thing either of them needed was for her to be pegged as a hunter, out in the open. not when she's without a weapon or a leg to stand on.
it's a pissing contest, sure, but a deadly one. if anyone were to catch themselves in the middle of it, they'd be up shit's creek without a paddle. exsanguinated and dead as fuck, to boot. and every human bumping and grinding with enough mdma in their systems to turn their psyches inside out didn't have a damn clue.
why they wound up here, of all places, she didn't know. there were plenty of other clubs open downtown. plenty of other clubs that weren't owned by a copse of vampiric venture capitlaists. and yet.
the booth that missy managed to scope out, at least, is comfortable enough to sit in. even if the leather wrap-around seat, recently polished, smells distinctly of strong cleaning solution. serena doesn't want to consider what had happened in the booth the night before that might require a dousing of straight bleach. this was supposed to be a normal night out. here she is, working anyway.
missy's voice cuts, barely, over the bass, and snaps serena back into herself, shifting, peeling the skin of the backs of her thighs off the leather as she adjusts.
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ @muutos said, as missy, via a dialogue prompt, " cardi b once said ' broke bitches don't deserve no pussy ' & i live by that. "
❛ truer words have never been spoken, ❜ serena finally chirps, and lifts her condensation-laden glass into the strobe lights in toast. the ice has mostly melted in her seven-up, but what little remains clinks with emphasis, anyway. ❛ and i will, in fact, drink to them. unless you are calling me the broke bitch, in which case, you're right. ouch. but i resent that. ❜
