cas ââ
â
Itâs so like her to dilute his reaction with humor. And the cheeky kind, too, the kind that makes him want to tear his hair out on occasion, but is so distinctly Mitch that he would have appreciated it better if she hadnât just made a full-body apparition on account of him starting to think sheâd been dead all this time.
âHey Cas?â he repeats with a mocking lilt. He lifts his arms off the counter to fold them across his chest, leaving her under his scrutinizing gaze. âIs that all you have to say- fucking Hey Cas?â He knows, eventually, heâll get over it, because he always does, because she always makes him, until she runs off again. Rinse. Repeat.
âYouâre fucking unbelievable, you know that? Just⊠real fucking unbelievableâŠâ
â
âoh, jesus fuckinâ christ âââ see, this is the part she expected. the part where she tries to crawl back into the spaces she left vacant but it doesnât fit anymore: and itâs grinding, screeching pain, and he wonât let her in, and she deserves this, she knows, but it still fucking hurts â not that she can say it. she needs a smoke: when things get tough, watching something burning seems to calm her down. reminds her of her nature, perhaps. but thereâs a big âno smokingâ sign hanging in the corner, and the blinking red light of a fire alarm staring back at her. she glares, huffs, crosses her arms â sheâs a child throwing a tantrum, a child who thought this time, maybe, she would get away with it.
thereâs no getting away with murder, is there?
her sigh is the kind of dramatic, i-am-so-done-with-you cue pamela novak invented, and she hates it the second it leaves her mouth â the predictable result is just more nervousness, skittering around her words like a bomb is hidden somewhere between their dialogue and sheâs not sure whether she wants to keep it from detonating. another huffing noise, and then sheâs stepping closer: sharp gestures to signal she means business.
âcan we like, chill it with the dramatics? alright, i was a dick. i get that. but iâm back now. so, yeah. hey cas â how the fuck have you been?â
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maite â
..
Normally, sheâd elbow Mitch for that, but tonight the other woman gets a roll of Maiteâs brown eyes. stepping forward, she couldnât help shaking her head even though sheâd seen the business end of someone elseâs fist more times than she could count. âShame, that. The only fix I know is tequila but something tells me thatâll just cause problems.â Her lips pressed into a thin line as Mitchâs state made itself a little more clear. âIâd only like to see them if i have a baseball bat in one hand and a machete in the other,â Maite clarified. Without asking, the brunette moved to Mitchâs..less injured side, ready to offer support. Whoever Mitch tangled with wasnât fucking around, that much was clear. âThe fuckâd you do to piss them off and do i even know who they are?âÂ
Lips shifted to the side as she considered the different options available. There were a few old neighbors that could help, it was just a matter of who might be up (or easily bribed). Her fingers tapped absently against her thigh.âI know an old granny lady that can get you fixed up and will probably have something that tastes terrible but will help you sleep. Iâll just need to swing by home and get a few things for her first. If you need to lay low, Lucero will be off in a few hours and sheâd always fix you up. What is best?âÂ
â
is this how her youth goes? leaning over the younger generation for support âcause her own body canât take a hit as well as it used to? ah, god â depression is a sad, dull aftertaste at the back of her mouth, but barely tasted among the rest of things flooding her tastebuds tonight: among all of them, the scorching pleasure of lingering smoke on her tongue might just be a heavenly sort of relief. ânow, what kinda question is that ââ, head tilted, a sort of scolding look on her face as she frowns her eyebrows at maite: then a wince, grimacing in pain with a dull motherfuckerââ under her breath. âjust the usual, babydoll. talk too much, ask too much, got kicked in the ass âcause thatâs what iâm into, these daysâ. hand moving in wide, theatrical gestures: it just makes it sound so much more fashion than it really is.
the truth of things is, sheâs barely giving half a fuck about the state sheâs in, these days. she likes to claim there is a call for truth pulling her forwards on her steps, a string some might call fate and she calls professional integrity â when she thinks about it, however, when she really thinks about it, she doesnât really care how many words she gets to put on a page at the end of the day. she cares about how many bones are broken: seems that number is directly proportional to her own worth. âwhatever. surprise meâ. with a sigh, mitch lets her weight rest gently over maiteâs side, then turns with a quirky, inquisitive look: her instincts might not be as energized as before, but she still wants to know. âyou got a whole ass database of medics around town, uh?â half a smirk following, leaning closer just enough to push a little harder. âone might just start to wonder how many times youâve been in my same predicament, maiteâ.
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cas â
STARTER FOR: @mtchstickâ
LOCATION: EASY RECORDS.
TIME: NEAR CLOSING TIME.Â
Theyâve always been more ghosts than they were people. Always haunted, always haunting. He just never expected apparitions, not the way heâs been catching glimpses of Mitch in the street the past few months. He chalks it up to fatigue or maybe the heat. Sheâs not dead or he wouldâve received the news somehow. She always just seems like she is.
But she doesnât return his calls and she doesnât text back and he starts to think that maybe she is a ghost. Or sheâs just being a dick. He canât tell which one is more likely to be true.
And, lo and beholdâ Mitch Novak, Mitch Novak, Mitch Novak. Utter the name thrice and the vengeful spirit shall appear.Â
She mustâve been standing there for a minuteâhe hadnât heard the chimes at the door ringâor she mustâve phased through the glass windows.
Nevertheless, the sight of her, spontaneous and pale, almost sends a chill down his spine. A soft, tearful ballad plays from the overhead speakers, strangely akin to a spirit howling.
âWhat the fuck, Mitch?â
hey, look at that, strike two! her personal bingo of less-than-enthusiastic welcomes is heading towards a spectacular victory â keep it up, she might just win a fluffy teddybear. not that the look on his face isnât deserved. not that it doesnât answer the unspoken question she doesnât dare utter, the one that takes a different shape each time she thinks about it but in the end just sounds like just how much should your damages affect others, mitch?
âwell, shit, i wasnât expecting a red carpet, but âââ, arms crossed, mitch shields herself behind a cover of sarcasm. thatâs easier. far easier than admitting sheâs spotted him at least a couple times on the street, but pretended to be someone else (not that she can explain this to him, but really, it was all for his sake). easier even than admitting the final straw, the reason she finaly caved in and showed up in here today, was not remorse or need, but the fact that sheâs dreamed tommy last night: she hasnât dreamed of him in so long she barely even remembered what that felt like.
it feels like shit. it feels like all the connections that had been keeping her together after his death are now loose threads, tangled all around her. the contours of her being are blurred, she is, by all means, nothing but a scribble: and casey was good, once, at giving her a shape. a home, a container for all this rage she never knew how to mold. itâs odd, how sheâs spent so little time in this store but it feels like home, always: somewhere among the dusty records and unplayed tunes is a song she forgot but a part of her remembers, about the joining of failures and how internal voids can fit into one another to make someone, if not whole, at least not dissolving.
with a sigh, mitch takes her sunglasses off: looks at him for a split second, then flashes the usual, shit-eating grin that nobody, literally nobody has ever really trusted. â â hey casâ.
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jer â
Starter for: @mtchstickâ
The shift at the Phoenix was ending and Jericho was more than happy for it to be over. He moved to the back to change into his street clothes and clocked out. A check on his phone and he didnât have any messages which meant he was free for the night. At least if nothing else came up for him to do. That called for a drink or several, something he genuinely needed after all the shit going on in Red Ridge. That and the rumors that someone who looked a lot like the sister he hadnât seen in nearly two decades. He figured it was just a coincidence and if it wasnât he was better off not knowing. Red Ridge was big enough for them to avoid each other.
Jericho could have gone to one of the bars in the Phoenix but they werenât really his style. Besides, if he went to Lewisâ he was already on the South side and close to home. That meant he could drink as much as he wanted and he wouldnât have to pay for a ride home then back to his car the next day. When he arrived there and walked up to the bar to take a seat he would regret not going to St. Peterâs. No sooner than the whiskey hit his lips did she come into his peripheral. It had been a long time but he still recognized the brown locks and the blue eyes. His motherâs eyes, same as his. He turned his head to get a better look at her and a swarm of memories crawled played in his head like a cockroach infested apartment in the dark. The urge to scream at her built in his chest but the sound never left his throat. Instead he stared for a moment, his mouth slightly agape. Heâd always imagined sheâd come back and take him and Liz far away from home and Red Ridge. Mitch would come home and sheâd hold them tight in her arms and they could go somewhere safe, sheâd always brought them somewhere safe. But she never came and now here she was a little over sixteen years later. He wasnât the scared little boy he was back then and he certainly didnât need her protection anymore.Â
âFuckinâ Michelle Novak.â A bitter laugh escaped him as he said her name and he downed the remainder of his whiskey glass tapping the counter for another. Jer sighed and shook his head before turning to look at her again. âNice to see youâre fuckinâ alive and breathinâ after all.â The words came out of his mouth like poison and left a burn on his tongue. Or maybe that was the two shots of whiskey heâd just consumed. The bartender dropped another half full glass of the liquid in front of him and he finished it off just as quick. âYeah just leave the bottle man, put it on my card.â He said, exhaling the burn in his throat and filling the glass again.
well, what were you expecting?
barely anything, to be honest. sheâd avoided thinking that she was back in red ridge from the very second sheâd seen the bullet-holed welcome sign on the town border. sheâd been surgical-like in her precision â avoiding any thought that might make her wonder what had come of her siblings, if liz had turned into yet one more white trash trophy or grown into a woman different enough from pamela that sheâd have an actual fucking chance at life. if jer was still counting the years by the number of bruises on his skin, or if heâd found someone to get his head out of the gutter, finally â if heâd found something close to happiness, as close as one could in a place like this.
no, sheâd avoided any such thoughts: or else sheâd have to admit why she cared, still. sheâd have to face the guilt in the pit of her stomach, over the way she ran, tail between her legs, a goddamn stray running out of a crime scene. didnât mean it wouldnât catch up with her, eventually. didnât mean that stepping back into the crime scene wouldnât get her bloodstained, again â far more than sheâd gotten herself, already. so there he was, her dear old brother â something close to a ghost at the counter of lewisâ. when sheâd come here, her purpose had to do less with drinks and more like weaseling her way into the bed of someone who might offer some good, decent insight in the chaos that was raining over red ridge. a family reunion hadnât been in the plans. anything to do with the novaks had never been in the plans.
âhey jerryâ. arms crossed, approaching far too cautiously for anyone to imagine sheâd once held him and their sister all through the night while henryk went and did his thing. she imagined his resentment like a scolding kind of aura: get too close, you might just not leave without your skin on. so she kept her distance instead, a step to his side, leaning over the counter. maybe she should hug him. maybe she should fill that gap between them and pretend things are back to normal â maybe. instead she toys with the leftover umbrella from someoneâs drink and loses all the proverbial bite to her words, the theatricality of her lines: no act to play. just a fucking coward owning up to her bullshit. âi was gonna drop by, one of these daysâ. a half mutter, flicking drops of whiskey to the other side of the counter with the umbrella. âsee how yâall are doinâ... you, liz...â and thatâs it.
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maite â
..
red ridge was a great many things. quiet never seemed to be one of them, depending on how you lived your life there. for maite, the town was always awake, always moving. nighttime was her bread and butter - the cover of darkness lent itself to work and her special pet project. a reputation that would attract valencia wouldnât build itself, that was for sure. small side deals - nothing big enough to get on their shitlist, but hopefully enough to get their attention in a good way. if nothing else, no one had beat the shit out of her yet.
and even that might present a unique opportunity. if they did send some of their soldiers after her, maite wouldnât go down without a fight. if she were fierce enough, fought smart enough, maybe that could be a way to prove herself, too. her personal business attended to for the evening, she found herself wandering the streets. though she had no contact with her blood relatives, the people sheâd met through them still spoke with her. those relationships were tended to, her cuervitos. for them, she always had time. as much as she could, she gave whatever else she could spare. she wasnât seeking out any in particular when she caught sight of a bright orange spot. frowning, she walked closer without hesitation.Â
the familiar voice gave her pause, and maite shook her head at the request. âjesus fuck, mitch. what happened?â she demanded, concern obvious. âyou need a doc or patching up? lucero is working the er tonight so if you need good bedside manner, doc might be the way to go,â she rattled off, one hand moving to rest on her hip. âwhere are you hurt the most?â
  âheeeey matey ââ the words coming out far too cartoonish, a line meticulously fabricated to downplay the jolts of electrifying pain shooting through her nerves. cue the smile, that looked more like the strained line one might see on a wounded animal â well, she was looking particularly roadkill-y tonight. but there was genuine appreciation of the company presenting itself before her (at least âcause it couldâve been anyone from valencia coming back for round two â or worse, a blue-suited man of the law escorting her to yet another night with her ass on a cold hard bench). in an attempt to prove herself less pathetic than she feels, mitch peeled herself off the wall and half stumbled forward, smiling.
   âoh, my pride, babygirl â itâs been ripped to shredsâ. another drag, another puff of smoke thrown to her side, and a muffled groan slipping out her lips as the motion of her hand caused her to squirm. âshouldâve seen the other guyâ. hardly touched by the fight at all. eyebrows furrowed, a sudden look of curiosity about her, mitch grabbed what was left of her smoke and threw it out, too far: for a second she considered the civic usefulness of stomping on it, snuff it out, avoid it getting in touch with any of the pieces of trash littering the sidekick. just a second, then mitch shrugged â for all she cared, red ridge couldâve burned down ten years ago. âyou got any guys for a quick, off-the-book job?â she inquired, nodding towards her wounded shoulder. âkinda donât wanna deal with all the hassle of an e.r. you know? all those questions... all that... bullshit....â
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mila â
â€â„â
                St. Peterâs wasnât the kind of bar that drowned with clients each night. People didnât necessarily stand still, waiting in line to get served. It was the kind of bar that attracted those who had a lot of stories to tell â many of which involved the Rogues Club at the other side of the street. In some ways it felt like a family bar â despite the fact its subjects were the furthest thing from family-friendly. Every Friday night, however, every stool was occupied and every table was filled. Mila liked to think she had a little something to do with that. Itâd been the first place to offer her the opportunity for a gig, its stage the first one where she performed with her clothes on. Perhaps traces of her old lifestyle were still there nonetheless, leading her to choose mixes that had a sensual, ominous atmosphere to them â one she felt complemented herself, the bar, even the whole damn town.
After finishing her set with Show Me by Alina Baraz, Mila thanked the audience, wished them a great rest of their night and headed for the counter. It was then that she was greeted by a woman she couldnât possibly ignore for a couple of reasons. It wasnât just that she exuded the kind of certainty and confidence that she found appealing ( her striking blue eyes could have something to do with that, too ), but her offer drew a small, amuzed grin on her lips. âThatâs very nice of you.. Thanks.â Liquid chocolate orbs fleeted to the bartender and offered them a wink that in their language meant my usual before landing back on her company. âOkay, I have a little secret to share.â The tall womanâs elbow was propped on the counter, her body facing the stranger before she leaned in a little. âThey donât ever charge me for my drinks. Think of it as a bonus policy along with my paycheck.â An apologetic smile pulled the corners of her mouth â as if it was her fault that the other couldnât ( or rather, had no reason to ) buy her a drink that she got for free. âIâve never seen you around before so I thought you should know,â her shoulders rose in a small shrug, her tone teasing âIn case you plan on buyinâ drinks for every singer that performs in this city and all.â
â
mitchâs laughter was only partially fabricated â one might consider it an animal instinct, akin to the sounds of animals in the wild. something programmed into her, the cool, friendly persona that got her close to people and closer to the truth. sure there was a part of her still genuine somewhere, genuinely appreciative of the music and the conversation, genuinely having fun â in her personal statistics, however, it covered about twenty-five percent of who she was. the rest was hunger. the rest was a need to know, regardless of what would have to be sacrificed on the way. taking a sip from her drink, mitch let it go and clicked her lips in amusement at the otherâs words. âoh, come on. humor me, will you? i just got back in town, let me celebrateâ.
hardly anything to celebrate, really. the second sheâd stepped back in town sheâd felt her skin crawl with a particular brand of rash she liked to call the mark of a novak. she barely belonged to this town anymore, and yet somehow it felt strangely fitting: a broken town, its toxicity seeping through every corner. wasnât close to who she was, too? surely priscilla wouldâve agreed. sighing, mitch shifted over her stool, let the effect of the warm, silk-like whiskey chase away the sudden blues coming over her. âgotta say, iâm not hating how this place turned outâ, she mused, an appreciative smirk as she let her gaze wander around the tables and patrons of the bar. each busy in their own preferred brand of numbing â be it alcohol, be it a juke box, be it the stupid fucking pick up lines theyâd dish out on the poor, exhausted waiting staff. âi mean, itâs still a shithole â just upgraded. i like itâ. but she hadnât come here to muse over the amenities of st. peterâs, nor to make friends â well, that last part, maybe, but it had a purpose. small talk wasnât part of it. turning her focus back on the singer, mitchâs eyebrows raised in inquisitive interest. âyou been singinâ here a lot?â
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cas â
âWell, Iâll just⊠take the compliment, thank you.â While he was still holding on to whatever semblance of self-preservation he could find, he knew that this town would tear him to shreds if they could. He didnât have the protection of Valencia, and he wasnât exactly in the good graces of all of the townâs police force, so he was mostly just trying to survive the day-to-day structure heâd gotten used to in the past five years. If Mitchâs word would get out about him, then who knows what would happen to him? Heâd prefer to not have to find out. âWeâve got wine, but I could make you some bullshit cocktail with a cherry, if you want.â He gave a little half-smile, shrugging. The cocktails with the cherries were far more popular, but they did have a few bottles of red, white, rosĂ©, and champagne stored away. âWhatâs your preference again? I know, I know, I should know this by now, but spare the lecture, Iâll remember for next time, promise.â
her eyes were wary in following him â an investigatorâs knack for picking up clues, finding hints that would give away what he couldnât verbalize. she was figuring out that something about her, or maybe what heâd asked of him, was making him nervous: as much as that could sadden the part of her that genuinely cared about him and appreciated his company, it also worried the more cynical, practical side of her: it meant he might get spooked. he might leave her in the cold. by response, she had to make herself warmer, somehow â just a hint, letting herself relax, an amused smile blooming over her lips. âgod, you make me out to be such a bitch âââ, head tilted, she teased, wanting to clear the tense fog that had wrapped around him just before. mitch tapped a finger over her lower lip, pensive, until a hand moved in a vague gesture, as in wanting to wave her concerns away. âah, fuck it. make it a bullshit drink with cherries and one of those stupid umbrellas. i need to widen my horizons, anywayâ.
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cas â
âOkay, I listen to them and then talk to you - but not much more than that.â He knew that getting involved with her was dangerous - he knew that, in this city, between Mitch and Valencia and the murderer and everything else going on, it was really best to just keep his nose out of things. But his nose was the problem; it kept getting him into trouble, and it would keep doing so until he decided that it was time to kick the little habit (if he even could, at this point). And he needed the companionship. He would never admit how lonely he was out loud (admitting loneliness was to admit that his family won when they irreparably damaged him during his youth. When he could be nothing but a shadow to a siblingâs light). So heâd just take what little others were willing to give him, savor it for as long as he can, like a chocolate melting in someoneâs mouth, and then turn back to the powder when he could no longer feel that warmth. âOh - yeah, definitely. Sounds like a plan. Do you just want to⊠wait here âtil I close, orâŠ? Should I get you something to drink?â
   it had to do with self-preservation. that was the only explanation she could thin of, as to why he was so reluctant to admitting his role. in some way, she could understand it â though she severly lacked the same instinct for protection, she could guess that the morbid, treacherous nature of this world they were navigating could make someone, if not scared, at least cautious. she was wary, too: but that never really held her back from treading one step closer to the flame. mitch shrugged, a vague gesture of her hand waving his concerns away. âalright. nevermind, it doesnât change the fact that you might be the only useful citizen in this shitholeâ. then, as silence fell, she gave herself the time to analyze him the way she would the subject of an article. she could spot hints of a desire in him â something that said perhaps he found some pleasure in their escapades (and she couldnât guess it came from her charming company, so it had to be something else). it made her at least somewhat understanding: less callous than sheâd be with anyone else wishing for her attention. âyes pleaseâ, straightening her back, she turned her attention to the bottles behind him. âdo you serve wine here, or is that not fancy enough? should i order some bullshit cocktail with a cherry or â?â
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cas â.
He allowed her to take the notebook from his hands; it was probably for the best that he didnât look at it any longer. âWhat face?â he asked once he was free of the burden of whatever that notebook had hidden within its pages. It was much easier to carry the burden when it was inside his jumbled mind as opposed to being laid out in front of him. He didnât feel guilty for sharing the information, per se - after all, it wasnât as if he was eavesdropping in someoneâs home. Everything heâd told Mitch had been spoken in front of him, in a public setting, even if the patrons of Violet believed that Casâ hearing was worse than it really was. Could it still get him into trouble? Almost definitely - he knew that Valenciaâs power was far more than his own. Pushing a hand through his hair, he forced himself to take a deep breath. This would be fine. It would turn out fine. âWhat to say? I donât - you know I donât talk to these people, right? I just hear them and serve them drinks, for the most part. Itâs not like theyâre talking to me aboutâŠâ he gestured vaguely with one hand. Trying to force himself not to panic, he glanced around the bar, making sure that no one was listening in. She drew his attention back with her last sentence, though. His eyes lit up again, no longer caring about what the other patrons of Violet had to say or what they may or may not be hearing. âOhâŠ?â While part of him knew that, if not for the information he was providing, she wouldnât be doting on him like this, another part didnât care. He missed physical touch, he missed affirmations and gifts. But now was not the time to linger on his own familial issues that led to a fucked-up adult. She had his full attention again.
in the space between a manâs doubt and their resolution, thatâs where mitch novak thrived best â not anywhere close to the hero sheâd dreamed sheâd be as a child, sheâd instead become skilled in the art of deceit and, to various different degrees, manipulation. though her appreciation for caspian was genuine and went beyond the benefits he could provide (whether strictly professional or purely physical), adapting herself to his needs was an old, overused technique for exploitation, and yet â ah, it only seldom failed her. mitch tilted her head right, a vaguely sugary look on her features, childish pout as she spoke. âaw, come on, cas â donât sell yourself short. you know you do much more than thatâ. heâd been the thread connecting the frayed spots of her intuition far too many times: perhaps he was not aware of just how vital he could be. she could count on her instincts and her knack for observation, for dissecting the truth in simple blocks of logic she could pull apart and rearrange like lego bricks â still they wouldnât make sense without the bridges connecting each different block. he had the key, even though he believed his job amounted to hearing. that made him, at the moment, one of her most precious assets. surely with time sheâd find a way to shed him off like unwanted baggage (theyâd always get discarded, the ones who gravitated around her: not once sticking around, not even those bound to her by blood) â for now, she had to keep him close. mitch smirked. âletâs just say i got lucky with a friend of a friend, and i got a present in return. allegedly good stuff. what do you say, your place, after your shift...?â
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cas â
He could tell when things got serious; the atmosphere that surrounded the conversation changed. While he enjoyed the playful aspect of their relationship much more, he knew what he needed to do to keep her in his life - to keep getting a fix, in more ways than one. So Caspian would play along, he would keep giving her what she needed - as long as she kept giving him the same. Plus, how was he supposed to wait until the end of his shift to find out more? He knew he couldnât last that long with the anticipation - it would be like an itch he just couldnât scratch. Picking up the leather notebook, he looked down at the open page, his brow furrowing. âFuckâŠâ he muttered under his breath as his eyes scanned the map. While he knew exactly what was being illustrated, heâd never seen these connections that heâd made physically mapped out before. Now that he was looking at it, it seemed clearer than it was in his head. Biting his lip, he continued to look, resisting the urge to trace over some of the lines with his fingers, knowing that that could possibly ruin the map. Nodding slowly as Mitch spoke, Cas slowly pushed the notebook back to her. âOkay â okay, yeah. Um⊠it seems like youâve got a lot figured out - what help am I gonna beâŠ?â Concern was almost evident in his eyes - he didnât want to lose what they had going, despite the fact that the map was definitely less jumbled than anything heâd told her in the past. It was like sheâd taken the information heâd given and clarified it, understood what he was saying when he didnât even understand. That was probably why she was the journalist and he was just a bartender, though.
mitch saw it â the sudden, unspoken shift in the mood. his gaze clouded just slightly, doubt, perhaps, crossing his eyes. it brought her leaning over a little closer, unconsciously needing to bridge the distance between her suspicions and his doubts. it meant, also, that she had to step up her game some â perhaps he had his reasons to be cautious, wouldnât be the first time sheâd found herself on the other side of a large, endless pit of something dangerous: wanting nothing more than to dive into it, knowing other people â the more or less functional ones â would be the ones running away from it instead. her allies in this quest were few, and precious: caspian brought far more to the table than the few bridges she was rebuilding in red ridge. perhaps it wasnât just business that made her wish for his company â the sharing of a loneliness perhaps halving it, somehow. âcâmon, donât make that faceâ, mitch smirked, reaching back for her notebook and quickly, furtively sliding it back in its pocket. âi just need you to confirm it, see if it makes any sense â maybe give me some pointers, you know. who to talk to, what to say...â she leaned closer then, chin propped up against her fist, her gaze shifting from focused to suggestive, her tone huskier now than it had been while discussing plans. âfigured we could talk about it over drinks, later. you know, i got a present for youâ.
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ama â
â§ïœ„ïŸ: *â§ïœ„ïŸ:* ăă *:ïŸâ§*:ïŸâ§
a chunk of chestnut locks   nestle against the crook of her neck ,    soft and silky ,   and probably heavier than amara as a whole .   she leans a warm cheek against the bump of her own ,  freckled shoulder ,   chewing on that thought .    â   why do you like pissing people off so much?   â   thereâs no  emotion   behind her lacy tongue aside from sweet ,   mild curiosity ;  that growing urge to   know  ,   to unravel things ,   to burrow yourself within others ,   so they may become a part of you ,  too .   â   i donât like other millennial, i like you.  â   her admissions are simplistic ,  flat  &  to the point ,    lacking the elaboration for proper adulation ,   though surely she was capable of it with enough incentive .   what did she expect of her ?   they met ,   and shortly after , entwined their lives like vines in abandoned ruins .   â   besides ,   shouldnât you be out there in the streets?  you wonât find a body before the cops staring at that thing âŠÂ     bet iâll beat you to it.    â  Â
 if sheâd stuck around, perhaps, life with her younger sibligs wouldâve looked a lot like this. too blunt, sharp edged, overall about as pleasant as a wet sock â yet welcome, somehow. for the privilege of shared annoyance, or the raw honesty she could expect from amara. with a loud, theatrical groan, mitch slammed her laptop shut and turned, head resting against the back of the couch, to stare at amara. a grin on her face: bright and sugary and not one bit honest. âiâd be typing if someone wasnât so desperate for attention, you know?â. be it as it may, this is vital to her. not the physical accomodation â sheâd been just fine with her asphalt-like motel mattress. but the sense of home, in a way: the distinct shape, occasionally uncomfortable, of gravitating around anotherâs space. exhausting, yes, but in an odd, unexplicable way, nourishing. âwhy do you like being a pain in the ass so much?â, question retorted right back amaraâs way, mitch lets out a huff and crawls to the corner of the couch, sprawled, reaching to the nearby coffee table for her smokes. words half-muttered then come as she slips one between her lips and lights it up: âama, i would like you so much more if you were off doing your job or whatever it is you doâ.
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cas â
You know what they say - same shit, different day. Heâd gotten used to Violetâs workings in his past few years there. Thatâs why he was so unassuming; heâd learned to practically blend in with the bar itself, simply there to refill drinks, return small talk, and be of assistance when people asked for it. When they didnât, though, it was almost as if he wasnât there. They spoke like he didnât listen, as if he couldnât hear what secrets were being traded within the establishment. And, while he had memory issues on occasion (thanks to the little habit heâd picked up in college), it was easier to remember facts about strangers than it was to remember what heâd ordered at the coffee shop that morning. After all, almost everyoneâs life had to be more interesting than his. When he saw Mitch take a seat at one of the barstools, he made his way over to her, a dishrag tucked into his pocket. âWho, me?â he replied in a teasing voice, pointing at himself. Leaning against the counter towards her, his eyes were locked to hers (aside from the moment that they drifted down to her lips, but that was beside the point). âFree for you? Always. You gonna give me any hints, or am I just going to have to wait and see?â
the hint of a playful smirk crosses her lips â thereâs a bit of fun to be found in these covert affairs, the same kind of fun that one might get from grazing the sharp edge of a blade with their fingertip. a sharp smacking sound of her lips met his comment, head tilted in flirtatious mischief. âaw, so sweet. keep it up any longer and i might just leave a tipâ. then her gaze turned serious, scanning her immediate surroundings. this was a conversation better suited for after his shift, yes, but as pleasant as the conversation could be, she would constantly itch for a thread to connect the buzzing thoughts in her head. once sheâd make sure there would be no eavesdropping in their proximity, mitch reached into her worn leather bag and dug a pocket-size notebook out. fingers quickly retrieving the bookmark, once she slid it across the bar top it was open and carrying the intricate arrows of a makeshift map. âi got artsy todayâ. there were names (either code names or abbreviations, people theyâd mentioned more than once in their private talks) â arrows connecting their various affairs, providing a roadmap for her investigations. mitch let her elbow rest over the counter, leaning closer, prying look as she observed him and tried to guess his reaction. âiâm not sure about some of them. but i think thereâs enough to start asking... more poignant questions, letâs sayâ. because, clearly, she didnât trust the police was asking the right ones â maybe she trusted someone like caspian more, in figuring out what was behind the apparently innocent victims of this killer.
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where: st. peterâs, 11:50 pm.
to: @milacdurelâ
the ice in her glass had been tingling against it for a while, now â her hand mindlessly twirling her drink, while her gaze lost itself around the dimly lit corners of st. peterâs. there were thoughts swirling in her head, observations she wanted to note down: she couldnât. if there was one thing sheâd learned in the decade sheâd worked in this field, it was that nothing put people on edge as much as a notebook, and someone taking notes over them. she let herself get swallowed by the music instead (how posh st. peterâs had turned, over her absence: now they even got a singer to cover the sound of the drunks retching in the back), her gaze occasionally drifting over the singerâs silhouette. not just appreciative of her looks or talent (would be hard not to notice either of them), but remembering rumors of her ties to valencia â if anything, a connection worth pursuing. by the time the set was over, and she could spot the singer reaching the counter, mitch made sure to signal the bartender before she could order: then, flashing her best big-shot kinda smile, she turned, her back to the counter, elbows resting on its top. head tilted, turned towards the singer. âmy treat. that was a good set you played, felt like i owed yaâ.Â
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where: violet, 11:32 pm.Â
to: @caspianhayesâ
that old song lingered in her ears as she made her way through the maze of half-hazy patrons at violet. there ainât no rest for the wicked â unclear if the subject, here, was the buzzing, restless youth of red ridge or herself, the wildcard, the anti-hero looking for a redemption song among the treacherous valleys of the city. and there she went to look for it, where whispers gathered around the ears of one certain caspian hayes, unassuming star witness to the trails of secrets tying each respectable member of the town to one another. sheâd made his acquaintance over the past few weeks, found that, if not mere fun, he could provided much needed help when she was most desperate for a lead â and his services, at least, came rather cheap. (sure some morality had to come into play, sheâd have to ask herself, at some point, if exchanging a fix for a rumor could be justified by her devotion to the job: or, and that was a much more poignant observation to make, whether her own fixation wasnât just as addictive and destructive as cocaine). half an hour to midnight, and the city wouldnât hint at being tired â mitch would find herself emulating it instead, taking her place at on a stool, a rather lively, perhaps too friendly look on her features. âjust the guy i was looking forâ, she started, leaning over the counter with conspiratory look. âyou free later? thereâs something i need your take onâ.
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where: red ridge pd precinct, 6:32 pm.
to: @triallsâ
   sheâd seen him at robertoâs first. standing out of a paperâs front page, the same old vaguely pouty, pissed-at-the-universe, cat-died-this-morning kind of look. unmistakable â even if it had taken her more than a double take for her to process the news. two months sheâd been in red ridge already, and her acquaintances with the police department had limited themselves to her fleeing whatever crime scene with hurried steps and implausible sunglasses. this surely was out of character: her marching into the precinct not for want of a lead, or a clue, or any sort of push in the right direction, but a need to see that could envy st. thomasâ. the receptionist, of course, was reluctant to let her in to the captainâs office: not that she could blame her (she wouldnât even let herself in, all things considered), but then again little miss sugarplum here could not understand the bond that tied her to red ridgeâs very own captain of police â something alike the one binding roadrunners to coyotes, and all that.Â
   âcome on, shirley â iâm sure you must be tired of all this testosterone âround here. how âbout a little gal solidarity, uh? how âbout you let me in?â. such a splendid way of filling an empty wednesday: harassing the poor old woman whose name most likely was not shirley, stealing candy that most likely shouldâve been reserved for children â and then, the second marr himself was spotted sliding out of a hallway â beaming up like sunrise itself had blessed the halls of the police precinct. âbarney!â the loud, enthusiastic call came: nevermind the name she should not have been using, this was a reunion worthy of an exception, was it not? in a much too theatrical fashion, mitch slapped the palm of her hand against the receptionâs counter, pulling back just enough to better take in the scene. ââ i cannot fucking believe my eyesâ.
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