The Ballad of the Self Loading Pistol... A DEFINITION NOT
FOUND IN THE DICTIONARY
Not leaving: an act of trust and love, often deciphered by children.
Damien Luciano.
37. Jersey boy. Italian-bred. Bachelor. Williamsburg, Brooklyn.
Executive Chef at Soliel.
Introducing DAMIEN LUCIANO, who is a 37 YEAR OLD MALE currently living in WILLIAMSBURG, BROOKLYN. Word on the street is that he is a EXECUTIVE CHEF at SOLEIL, having been around for FIFTEEN YEARS. Though he is CHAOTIC, NIHILISTIC, and OSTENTATIOUS, he’s also known to be COMPETITIVE, DARING, and FEARLESS.
&. BASICS
full name: Damien Anthony Luciano
nicknames: Dami, Danny ( mostly by his siblings ), Chef ( at work ).
education: GED, though he has a forged certificate of his “said” Master’s Degree in Culinary Arts
relationship status: Single
children: None
languages: English, Italian, Spanish, some French
transportation: mostly trains, but when he’s going to visit family he has a Black 2022 Infiniti QX80 SUV.
tattoos: A splattering of 12 tattoos across both arms, including one on his chest with his brother’s name written in cursive.
scars: One on his temple from a slash wound, others splattered around from fighting when he was very young.
&. PERSONALITY
zodiac sign: Taurus
mbti: ENTJ
likes: Cooking, sports, playing games, 80s movies, alternative rock, fitness, action films, noir films, inspiring speeches, reading articles just to learn new things, any sort of spontaneous adventure, traveling, beaches, swimming.
dislikes: Cheese ( except on pizza ), uncleanliness of any kind, insects.
bad habits: Chewing pen caps, biting fingernails, smoking a pack a day when he’s stressed.
secret talent: Can run a mile in a little under for minutes ( endurance ), knows how to play the ukulele and drums.
“Actually―” Damien took that pausing moment just like he always did to assess. He wasn’t one to talk about any sort of explicit relationship he had, let alone pit any women against each other. Not that the question asked as much, yet, he still found that it was in bad taste. Momma might’ve raised a noncommittal asshole ( without meaning to ), but he was definitely a chivalrous one. “that’s a loaded question. I’m not trying to get in trouble. I’ll just say that I’m lucky to know more than a handful of gorgeous women who―for whatever reason―let me stay around.”
Damien paused briefly at the question, dwelling over a feigned beat of thought before nodding decisively, “What kind of questions is this?” He laughed lightly, shaking his head at the inquiry. Still he was quick to add, “But, hell yeah, if the money’s good.” As meaningless and nonsensical as the prolonged topic probably was, it was good for one thing. Much like any decently inebriating libation—it served as a distraction. Yet even he realized how he sounded when he finally answered and he smiled sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his head. “I know a few women who do it and its their only source of income, so if the price is right—let’s fuckin’ go. I’ll get regular pedicures, the whole nine. Just as long as it’s pictures of the feet and nothin’ else, we’re good.”
→ SPECIAL DELIVERY FOR @karasantiago.
CURRENTLY AT KARA’S APARTMENT.
TIME IS 2:47 A.M.
“You’re just saying that because you’ve seen me without pants on.” Damien flings back to Kara. “Though we do make a pretty good team—actually more of a chaotic one.” The postured lour leveling over his brows is playful yet put upon, twisting down to the bundle of his full, violently full mouth that twitches at one corner. He’s exhausted, struggling with sleep, work expectations, and the like. Its mostly the stresses of life ( or a shitload of coffee ) that keeps him active, the need to do something, to get past whatever this chapter in his life is fucking called, before he collapses in an adrenal-fatigued state at the end of the day.
( If it were any other moment studded directly in time, he’d have said nothing at all; not wanting to give anyone the wrong impression but Kara seems to understand. Damien plans his reasons for being emotionally unavailable, to keeping someone at the length of his arm away. But right now, he’s with a friend and, as such, he can be just a little more himself; though not completely. He’s dealing with shit in his own way, always has. )
He reaches for his pants thrown on the ground, “—you’re taking me to dinner after this next time,” Damien teases, not actually needing as such. Always the compulsive flirt, even when it didn’t mean anything. Maybe, he reasons to himself as he fastens his belt, that’s why he gets in trouble so much. “Since this is becoming a regular thing for now.”
→ SPECIAL DELIVERY FOR @luzseleniacruz.
CURRENTLY AT SOLEIL.
TIME IS 8:30 P.M.
The kitchen is a living thing. It has a temper that can rage hot and unruly, a tantrum unshackled that leads to ruin, wreckage, becomes contagious until it infects the patrons and the line cooks and even the guy wringing the grey sweat out of the mop over its bucket.
( The kitchen is a living thing. It can be beautiful, majestic, an unparalleled magic when tended to. Art. )
This new recipe is a beast.
Damien doesn’t have the energy left to tame its fury tonight with sizzling grease spattering the mending out of the tousle of hair half-raked back off his scalp. He’s been teaching the team how to prepare the beef for the better half of the day, but considering which day it is means that he’s constantly having to show them in real time with no real practice for them to retain it on their part. He knows better but corporate seems to thinks it’s manageable despite the strain it puts on the back of house. Saturday nights crowd is always constant, filled to the brim with weekend dates and too many Wall Street suits at the bar poking and prodding at various singles waiting to be seen or chosen. He takes ten, placing the Sous back at the head of the line once more before he sneaks out. The brick catches the way his shoulders back up to it, pricking the red asper into the pilling white cotton stretched across his torso. A rake of his fingers, washed raw and pink and rich with calluses, peels his temple before plucking a cigarette to bobble at his lips.
He barely has time for the exhale, to fish for the lighter worried into his pocket next to the pack when he sees a familiar face. Damien’s knuckle curls around the smoke, lip a quirk on its way up. “Shit.” a whip of his thumb against the wheel hits twice before the spark swells into the alley, his blue eyes glowing with his trademark playfulness. He sips a deep breath, squinting against the haze. “—figured you’d lost my number.”
