One hand rested idly against the rail of the bar, the wood being grazed casually upon digits. It was early, just past eight in the evening and Benjamin hadn't bothered departing from his station for nearly forty minutes. Occupants of his bar were moving in and out, ordering drinks in what seemed to be an enjoyable fashion. But none of them mattered, instead, his gaze was locked on another, a male who had harbored himself into a corner--but not even the dim lit shadows could shield him from an Irish man who had his sights set.
It was at eight-fifteen that he finally rose, crossing the bar in one fluid movement as his cigarette was transferred from his loose locked fingers to his lips where it hung, the ash building by the second. "Andrew,” He begins, catching the other’s attention as eyes go wide, and his own expression hardly falters. “--heard you were late on a payment.” Without much of a warning, he was removing the cancer stick from his lips, pressing the heated tip against flesh. It sizzled, and the smell wafted forward towards senses as he kept it held steadily into Andrew’s arm. “I ain’t a fan of anything fookin’ late.” People were listening now, however, Benjamin didn't twist his gaze from the man. “You’ll have it tomorrow, seven am to my brother?” Once the man nodded, the Irish man returned the gesture before releasing the cigarette to the floor, the toe of his boot stomping it out. “Fookin’ waste.” He muttered, turning around as he headed back to his seat, only then noticing someone staring without remorse. “Hm?”
