Open to: All Location: The Whiskey Room in The Bronx Time: Early evening Three perfectly clear spheres of ice clinked around Corrine’s glass as her whiskey was set in front of her. She picked it up, swishing it around so the ice spun like a weird little snow globe, and then pressed the glass to her forehead. It was a momentarily alleviation of the tension headache she’d had nearly every day since she’d arrived back home in NYC. Part of her felt safer here, but another part was screaming at her to get out. She was no longer used to staying in one place for so long.
Steeling herself, Corrine sipped at her drink, and then took every ounce of her self control not to wince at the burn. Blech. That’s what she got for ordering the cheapest crap on the drink menu. But she was nothing if not stubborn. She’d spent what little money she had left on this garbage, and she was going to get her money’s worth if it killed her. Another sip. It might kill her.
Other than Corrine, there were only a few other patrons floating about The Whiskey Room. She was borderline day drinking as evening had really only just begun. A small swirl, like a glimmering golden thread, caught the corner of her eye. It was a brief image, like the edges of a dream that faded as you woke and focused too much on it, but enough of an indicator to tell her that another supernatural person was in the bar.
Corrine turned away, kept her focus on the counter of the bar she was sat at, and hunched her shoulders. That was the problem with coming back to NYC. There was way too much magic in this place. When she went place to place, sometimes blowing right past tiny towns that barely cracked one thousand people, she barely saw them. Right now, Corrine didn’t want to deal with anyone. “God, I hope this isn’t a wolf bar,” she muttered under her breath.
It had been a small white lie when he had cut dinner with his parents short. He cat cited a bad headache and a hard case to work at in the morning. In reality, he just couldn’t stand their talking anymore. If his father talked for another moment about the economy, Desmond was certain he was going to throw himself out a window. Wolf form or no.
He’d taken a taxi to a bar near his house and no where near his parent’s hotel. He made straight for the bar as soon as he entered the front doors, calling the bartender over and ordering a rum and coke. The bartender nodded, starting Desmond’s tab before his ass had even fully found purchase on the seat. For a moment - just a mere second really - he considered that he might come here too often if Henry had started to get into that habit. Or maybe the fact that he knew the bartender’s first name was another indicitaor. But that was nothing to think about now.
He was about to take his first sip when he picked up something particularly interesting. A wolf bar. As if that was a bad thing. Desmond’s eyes searched around the bar, finding the woman eyeing her drink just three seats down. Desmond pushed himself a chair over, scooting closer. “Sorry to interrupt, but it’s piss pouring rain and it’s my birthday. Would you at least do me the favor of keeping me company for a bit?”
