working lunch
who: @nolanxthatcher where: No Man's Land
People often ask her why she spends so much time in other people's bars and clubs when she has her own. The answer's simple, even if she never gives it; the Portside is less a business endeavor and more of a base of operations for everything it fronts for. Convenient excuses litter the place. But it's dingy, ill-kept, and its patrons are an aging class of tired old hands and a handful of younger people clinging to the dead husk of long-gone nostalgia. Everyone else that goes in and out of the place works for her under other pretenses. And so she's in more modern climes tonight; Logan's place, to be exact, watching somebody get their face raked across chain link and relishes the scent of freshly opened skin across the open room where blood spills on the mat. It makes something that sleeps in the back of her mind wake up, pollutes the taste of her drink with the thought of hot salt and copper. "How much," she starts the question, stopping to watch somebody get their face planted to the matting with a hard thud. "How much do you reckon your overhead is on bleach for cleaning that fucking ring out?" She turns to Logan, the tilt of her head betraying genuine curiosity, her tone betraying that it's only a half serious question born out of air in the conversation.