location: smokehouse
time: mid-afternoon
availability: open to all
On the polished oak bartop that smelt of spilt beer and disinfectant, her crimson nails had been carelessly cutting into the brittle material. Splinters could not pierce her flesh, and there was little resistance beneath her fierce touch - it was pitiful just how breakable things were. ❛ Do you mind? ❜ the bartender barked at her, noticing the mess that she’d made on the countertop. When she flashed her pearly white teeth at him, her fangs were nowhere in sight. He was a quintessential town-boy, someone who had grown up in Deadwood and who would never leave. There was probably a point in his teenage years when he longed to travel, maybe he had big city dreams - but money was tight, or a relative died and so too did that dream. ❛ I’m sure I can make it up to you later. Care to pour me another drink? ❜
Anytime that Céline gave a man the best night of his life, she’d collect his head in the morning. She was like that dark poem she’d once read, Salome.
In the mirror, I saw my eyes glitter.
I flung back the sticky red sheets,
and there, like I said – and ain’t life a bitch –
was his head on a platter.
She offered the bartender a wink when another glass of red was pushed in front of her, while a dozen messages from needy clients buzzed on her phone. She switched it to silent. It was a Sunday and they could fuck off. ❛ I’ll be back, ❜ she promised the bartender, and then slipped from the high-stool with old-elegance. She was still a Duchess, after all.
Her stormy irises flitted over the patrons, some in sets of families, while others dined alone. Céline spotted a vacant space in a corner booth, only one seat taken up by a solitary figure. ❛ Mind if I sit here? You looked like you were in need of some company. ❜