//C L O S E D: @capo-gio-romero
The lounge was quiet this evening, and Josh reasoned he could guess why. The kidnapping of Nadya Volkova was still fresh in the minds of the public and press alike, and though no blood had been been spilled at the moment of her taking, Noche seemed stained with it. Each breath felt laced with iron, dripping red and viscous. Joshua had inhaled fresher air in a morgue.
But, he thought, Bijou was worth it. She was worth the discomfort, the itch between his shoulder-blades, all for the possibility he would see her there and grab some small bite of her time. He’d not sent a message ahead - far too dangerous, what with his wife sometimes answering his phone - but instead sat at the bar, peering this way and that through the sparse crowd for a glimpse of her.
Lost for a moment in his search, he groped blindly for his drink on the bartop, hit his fingers against the stem of a wine glass, and sent it clattering. A pool of pale fizz spilled over the bar. “Shit,” he cursed, coming to his senses and leaping from his chair. The wine was spreading quick, dripping off the edges in small streams. He followed it with his eyes as it ran and gathered, and finally soaked into the sleeve of the man closest to him. “Shit,” he repeated, “I’m so sorry, I...”