certain dismal dull affairs (Open)

[Edie]

“...Yes, Miss Valentine—who, one can presume, bears little or no actual relation to the noted saint or his holiday—exemplifies what can only be called, for lack of a more commercial term, the ‘Modern Woman’. How she thinks this will set her apart from the countless other ‘Modern Women’ springing up and insisting that they, too, are destined to be stars, is yet to be determined by her nonexistent modest body of current work. Yet there is something vaguely admirable in how quick Miss Valentine is to stretch her long legs or pout her full lips in order to distract from her lack of courtesan talents...”

[/font][/size]
Hurm. Now that wasn’t right at all. This latest ingenue may have been lacking in several areas (intelligence, acting ability, volume), but that of whoring was not one of them. Evidently she had been trying to focus on two, equally scathing points at once, which had merely led to an inevitable muddle of a slur. Still, that was easily fixed. She picked up her pen, scratched out the inaccurate phrase, and neatly printed 'artistic talents' in its place. There. And who was to say she couldn't use the word courtesan anyway, later on in the piece? Well, her editor might put up a fight, but she'd sweet talked and shimmied her way into printing more colourful phrases before. All in the name of creative liberty, of course.

Theo shifted in her seat, yawning delicately behind one hand. Christ, was she tired. At her age, she should be sipping warm milk and settling down for bed at this time of night, not sitting in questionable establishments that continued to serve breakfast at all hours, typewritten papers scattered about her and a cigarette burning steadily in the ashtray. Not that she smoked. Mother, bless her soul, would most likely suffer another fatal heart attack if she knew her baby girl were to practice such a sinful act as all of that. Besides, her supervisor often smelled of tobacco, meaning she had—unpleasant associations with the substance. It was simply to make herself appear older. After all, if she was old enough to buy a pack of the bloody coffin nails, logic dictated she was old enough to attend a grown ups' party, no? And such soirees were where she had gotten some of her better stories. Regardless.

If she could have rubbed her eyes and not ruin her makeup, she would have; that, however, seemed rather impossible, given the darkness and severity of the eyeshadow. So the girl contented herself with smoothing down what little hair she had left, the majority of it having been chopped off only days before. True, most 'modern women' these days sported bobs and waves, but her own masculine cut seemed entirely without imitator in this style-mad city. Not that it really mattered: despite any evidence to the contrary, Theo had never been the type of dame to blend in.

She drummed her fingers on the table, seemingly composed but secretly indignant she had not been approached by a waitress yet. For such a ridiculously monikered place as this, which prided itself on its hospitality, one would have expected to have one's order requested sooner than—here she checked her decidedly unfeminine pocket watch—six minutes, forty eight seconds after one had been placed at a booth and encouraged to make oneself comfortable. A most impossible feat, too, given the unexpected hardness of the seat. Well, it was Pancake Love's loss, anyway; she'd simply have to tear them apart for inefficiency as well in her review of the bloody place.

Maybe if she worked for a reputable newspaper, the girl could pick and choose her assignments. Perhaps one with a staff of more than five persons? Or, god forbid, one where she wasn’t the twentieth century’s equivalent of an indentured servant? Ah, well. There were oh so few options for sixteen year old female orphans that didn’t involve factories or street corners. So she little to do besides critique any novel, stage production, moving picture, or what have you that caught her supervisor’s constantly wandering eye.

“Hello, and welcome to Pancake Love, I—”

“Yes, yes,” the girl interrupted, not bothering to look up from her editing and at the perky voiced server. “You’ll be my waitress this evening, you hope I enjoy my meal, and might you recommend the pancake platter? Seeing as, of course, they’re virtually the sole reason this place exists.”

She smiled humourlessly at the waitress, whose eyes were widened in shock at her words, and handed her the menu, before continuing, “I’ll have the scrambled egg supper, dry, with a side of toast, dry, and a cup of coffee, as strong as you brew it. Thank you oh so much for making it over here—I understand that chatting up your lover boy over yonder takes precedent over doing your job. I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience.”

Then she turned back to her review of this afternoon’s matinee, not truly caring whether the silly wretch stood there gaping like a fish or scurried off to the kitchen to place her order. Always the same reaction: one would see her before oneself, and then one would presume her to be as soft and accommodating as any other flapper these days. The beautiful fools. She could certainly play a fragile female far better than Miss Valentine, but such deception only implied her hardened center. And her supervisor wondered why readers of The New Orleans Community Publication thought the writer Theo Zaccone to be a man. Who’d expect such indelicate phrasings from such a slim hipped girlchild?

OOC: 20s!Theo's haircut, if you're curious : D

[Mimi]

Rian stepped off the curb and into the hustle and bustle that was New Orleans from the moneybags and gold diggers in their high-classed Fords and the flyboys in their breezers sputtering down the way to the intermittent jazz expounding over the public air and pedestrian heads. Now this, this was his domain, not New York, and it was good to be back even though the train ride over had been less than enjoyable. Rian tsked under his breath as he touched upon the thought, waving at a passing Chrysler as he jaywalked across the intersection. There'd been some...complications with the overland Canadian shipment. It seemed the bootleg would be arriving later than expected; God forbid it didn't arrive at all, but with the recent crackdown, who knew?

Rian shoved his hands into his pockets, taking another whiff of the intoxicating evening air - mmm, almost as satisfying as liquor itself, almost. His hand smoothed down the front of his single-breasted jacket, open to reveal the dull gray and pin-stripped waistcoat underneath. A trilby sat on his mat of hair, slicked back to give him a sharp, almost intimidating edge.

"Rian, good to see you're back in town again."

A hand reached out and amiably clapped him on the shoulder at which Rian started, having been absorbed in his own thoughts. A smirk of recognition flashed across his face as he shrugged off the rum runner's hand.

"Yeah, well. Let's say New York's just not as keen to me as N'Orleans. You stopping by the joint anytime soon?"

The dark-haired male let out a breath contemplatively as he removed his fedora, tracing the brim of it. "Honestly? Not sure. Been some recent scuffle with the higher-ups in the other states. And, oh -" he interjected, looking up.

Glancing around and for the first time noticing the congestion, he took a step closer and added in a low whisper, "Careful, I heard they've been conducting a lotta raids lately. Few places got busted in the Quarter."

Rian blinked, quirking an eyebrow up in mild disbelief. "Says you! Then on that note, I better scram. Hey, don't take any wooden nickels, y'hear?"

The man scoffed, peremptorily re-setting his hat and tipping the brim lower over his eye. "Yeah, yeah. Just worry about yourself."

With that, Rian took off around the corner, his pace having quickened and taken on a more urgent tone. He'd been gone a month now, and of course the people in whose hands he'd left the speakeasy were all, if not entirely trustworthy, at the very least competent. But this new bit of information, coupled with the fact that Luca had recently left their employment, was starting to seem like a cause for trouble.

Tipping his hat at a flapper who'd winked suggestively at him (ugh, disgusting), Rian leaned against the door to the Pancake Love, letting in said flapper, and smirked satisfactorily at the familiar ding! of the bell over the door.

The waitress at the counter glanced in his direction, and her face immediately lit up in a heady blush. "Mr. Felcotti -!"

In her haste, she'd knocked over the nearby salt and pepper shakers which only served to worsen the blush and, to Rian's amusement, add a stutter to her already less-than-articulate speech. "W-W-We were n-not expecting you b-back for an-another, mo-month!"

She bustled about, fetching a towel there and skidding back to the counter to dab unsuccessfully at the spilled spices, so preoccupied was she on Rian's entrance. Rian chuckled under his breath, passing the table of what appeared to be a writer or journalist in the throes of literary creativity, but the youthfulness of her appearance caused the briefest hitch in his gait. Huh, she looked more suited for factory work, and he raised a dubious eyebrow as he caught sight of the lit ciggy dangling on the edge of the ashtray.

But, in the next moment, she'd been all but forgotten as he leaned into the edge of the counter and cradled the waitress's face in his right hand, bringing it dangerously close to his own. "What can I say? Call me goofy."

The girl's blush seemed to worsen further (if that was even possible), and she shied away from his touch. Rian frowned.

"What's eatin' ya, dollface?"

"O-Oh, no-nothing. Ju-Just," she paused here, glancing furtively in the direction of the lone writer, and lowered her tone, "difficult customers."

Rian glanced back over his shoulder and scoffed, smirking as he muttered, "She giving you trouble, sweetheart? I could take her for a ride, if you want."

"Oh, Sir, you're terrible!" and she batted playfully at his arm. Rian refrained from grimacing at the high-pitched tenor her voice had taken and the frivolous, markedly female way she was acting. Not attractive, but he had an image to keep, so...

He laughed again, humoring her, before his face took on a more serious expression, and he leaned closer, gesturing for the girl's ear. "Hey, uh, show me the back room?"

Picking up on the hidden meaning of the question, she smiled obligingly. "Of course, Mr. Felcotti, but first..."

She swept over to the opposite ledge where the cook had set a plate of scrambled eggs and toast and, balancing that in her left hand, used her right to lift an empty mug into which she poured the dredges of a pot of black coffee.

"Miss," she called, walking cautiously to the young Jane's table and upon finding nowhere amid the exodus of papers to set the plate, ended up plopping it down directly in front of her. Perhaps in revenge for the way she'd been treated? Rian stifled a snicker. Women could be such bitches to each other.

"Your meal."

Offering Theo a sarcastic smile, she promptly turned on her heel, wiped her hands briskly on her apron, and tugged Rian towards the "back room" with a flirtatious giggle.

ooc; OHMYGOODNESS. i finally replied /sobstearsofjoy ;n; i hope it does your ahamazing writing at least some justicceee <3 and btw, is theo still going to have a liking for rian? :3

[/size]

[Edie]

Bugger all. She had been doing splendidly in picking apart every minute detail regarding Miss Valentine’s debut in The Bachelor and the Bride, but upon coming to the part of the review where she should focus on the male lead’s performance, Theo was drawing a blank. So distracted by the glamourous horror show this ingenue was putting on, she appeared to have neglected taking any notes on his shortcomings, let alone bother to record his name. Now, wasn’t this a predicament?

Most actors would consider it a disservice not to be mentioned in a critical analysis of their play, but most actors weren’t reviewed by Theo Zaccone for The New Orleans Community Publication. This was both due to a lack of funding and the fact that the paper tended to focus on third-tiered talent, since her bloody supervisor had such utterly unbearable cultural tastes. So, if she neglected to direct at least one unsparing quip at a subpar artiste, said artiste would develop the opinion he was really something, an opinion the public was only too willing to accept. The last time she had overlooked an actor’s weak performance...well, the latest letter she’d received from him declared he was most successful on Broadway.

The girl let out a low sigh, and rubbed her temples in irritation. There was nothing for it: she would simply have to go watch The Bachelor and the Bride a second time, lest risk being held responsible for putting another untalented Tom, Dick, or Harry on the Great White Way. Not to mention she’d have to do it on her own dime this time around, and she had so few of those to begin with, to waste one on such sentimental claptrap was cause enough for a bad mood. She frowned, almost involuntarily and certainly prettily, before catching sight of her disagreeable expression in the window.

No. She couldn’t become enraged. She wrote so terribly when there was bloody passion involved, t’was a literal necessity for her to only let words flow when she felt a wry detachment from the piece in question. If she got angry about what shite she was required to give an opinion on, then it was goodbye to any skills she possessed. And she’d never reviewed anything she’d genuinely enjoyed, so it was hard to say whether that would make her creatively tongue tied s’well. So, again, no, it was in her best interest to maintain a cool, ironic demeanor towards her whole situation.

Theo set aside the review with some reluctance, and shifted through the many piles of paper before finding the one she wanted. Might as well take advantage of this literary turbulence to work on her critique of Mister Draycott’s latest work, Ash-Heaps and Millionaires. She held some small affection for the boorish writer: she’d publish a devastatingly honest analysis of his new novel, he’d send her an expletive-riddled letter threatening to have her fired. They’d been going back and forth for nearly two years now; he’d promised to name a character after her one of these days. The girl chuckled, and began to continue her writing.

“...The issue with Draycott’s prior effort at a novel, readers may recall, was that an overly developed plot attempted to make up for a lack of well rounded characters. It is possible that Ash-Heaps and Millionaires shows an improvement in the author’s skills; however, that depends on whether one considers having overly developed characters to try to conceal a distinct lack of any attempt at a plot an improvement in any sense of the word...”

[/center][/font]
ding!

The tolling of shop bells weren’t usually the sort of things that piqued the young writer’s interest, so she continued to scribble away, elbows propped up on the table in a rather unladylike fashion. The nervous—yet still most annoyingly perky—stammering of her waitress, however, was intriguing enough to make Theo raise her head ever so slightly. It so happened, therefore, that she caught a glimpse of one Mister Rian Felcotti from beneath her faux-demurely lowered lashes.

Oh, yes, she’d heard of the Felcottis—Mother had made sure of that, even before they rose to the overwhelming prominence they possessed now. Surely, it was impossible for them to have become oh so powerful, and so seemingly overnight, by playing by anyone’s definition of the rules. But Miss Zaccone had more feminine things to worry about than exactly how gentlemen made their money, as her supervisor had told her many a time. So she kept her nose clean, on the whole, and avoided the Felcottis, as per Mother’s wishes. Not that the girl would have any inclination to seek them out even if she hadn't: they had always seemed a deceptive sort of family, oozing false charm to conceal their less pleasant personality quirks.

Still. This particular Mister Felcotti had quite the reputation for being a womanizer, yet she was certain she heard him chuckle at the ramblings of the server as he passed by her seat. Admittedly, her mannerisms at the moment were rather humourous, but the laugh did not seem to be entirely unmarred by—disgust? Ennui? Contempt? Theo's extensive vocabulary seemed to fail her, in the task of determining exactly what she heard in the laugh. It did not mean, however, that she found it any less compelling. So, her latest swipe at Mister Draycott forgotten for the time being, she subtly tracked the man's movements with a cold gaze.

Goodness, Rian Felcotti’s speech was chockfull of slang, now wasn’t it? The girl knew that as a part of the new generation, she too was inclined in indulge in the jargon from time to time, but the writer portion of her personality could not help but internally wince at every colloquialism he used. Though his demeanor was as perfectly flirtatious as all the scandalous rumours had indicated, she couldn’t help but fancy it to be an act. Certainly, she knew all about those. She often employed one herself, since stage managers and doormen are far more likely to respond favourably to a baby doll persona that hints at sin then to her natural deadpan snark. Theo had never desired any of the men she had had; she wondered if he’d desired any of his women.

This surprising musing was interrupted when he looked back at her, his regard directed by the whining waitress. Her eyes flickered back to her writing, and she began sorting the many pages by what piece they focused on. The Bachelor and the Bride...Ash-Heaps and Millionaires...On Flappers...

...the plate of eggs and toast and the coffee mug now resting on her piles of paper...

Well, now wasn’t her attention caught by the rather poor service. Theo looked up with her standard blank look—the one she used when someone seemed to be attempting to humiliate her. Like this woman was now, if her smirk and sarcastic tone was any indication. “Ta ever so,” she replied in her sweetest tone, not indicating any sort of displeasure. Oh, she was too proud for that, thanks to Mother. It was only after the server’d flounced off that the young writer lifted the dishes and moved her papers. Yes, the condensation had certainly left its mark, causing her ink to run most horribly. She would have to rewrite her edits from memory before shlepping off to bed (if she ever got to bed) tonight, if she had any hope of meeting her deadline.

Though she pinched the bridge of her nose—to hell with her makeup—the girl allowed herself a dark grin. Oh, she certainly doubted the boss’s son would be so willing to schtup the bitch when tomorrow’s edition of the Publication detailed her conduct that was not befitting any employee of the ever hospital Pancake Love. The rag she wrote for may not be winning awards any time soon, true, but one would be lying one said this town did not take the words of Theo Zaccone et all to heart. What a pity: establishments such as this one seemed to need any good publicity they could get. With her free hand, she absentmindedly reached out for her pen as she chuckled.

Her chuckles turned to a pained hiss as she missed the pen quite entirely, instead wrapping her hand around her still burning cigarette. Oh, hell. It all came of trying too hard, she supposed; but was there any other way to try? Regardless, the fact remained this was quite clearly painful, as she drew her injured appendage to her chest, still hissing. How loud her noise was, she could not tell.

OOC: Mimi, this was fabulous. Honestly I believe you incapable of doing a bad post. And as for Theo/Rian? The short answer—yes. The long answer is long, since I put too much thought into these things, and I'll PM you with it.

[Mimi]

Perhaps he was necking her a bit too ferociously, a bit too enthusiastically, judging by the little sighs and moans she was letting off every few seconds. He loathed giving the impression that he was anymore remotely interested in her than he really was - or more appropriately, wasn't - but as the situation stood, with her father being such a generous donor to the speakeasy (and friend of the family) and her being such a klutz as to make working elsewhere quite the impossibility, Rian was stuck between a rock and a hard place. "Make her feel welcome," he said, ha! It was just another way of his father telling him to whore himself out to another girl for her daddy's contributions. Not that Rian would ever disobey, of course, but it sure put a crick in his neck and further elevated his already infamous reputation. Though it wasn't necessarily a bad thing, one sure as hell could've bet that Rian Felcotti never dreamt of growing up a womanizer.

"Euhuh ---!"

Rian ignored the quiet gasp and pressed her further up against the wall, eliciting another surprised exclamation from the petite thing under him. Only upon closer inspection in the dimly lit and rickety staircase leading to Pancake Love's basement (and adjoining speakeasy) did Rian notice how fiercely she was blushing which tickled Rian's amusement and, in his mind, deserved a condescending laugh in return. Her head snapped up, and a peevish pout immediately lit onto her face.

"What -- what in g-g-goodness s-sake c-c-could be so funny?" she stuttered, shyly dipping her chin into the hollow of her neck as she fiddled nervously with the hem of her standard-issue apron splayed with the emblematic pancakes and hearts of Pancake Love. Rian stared down the length of the uniform to her hands, paused a moment, and leaned in with a trademark sneer.

"What? So timid? I do mean, well, it is not as if I haven't taken you to bed yet, hm, now is it?"

She tilted her head back up sharply, about to object, when something - a modicum of decorum, perhaps, if such existed in her - prompted her to lower her head again and persist in her stuttering, modest speech.

"It's just that, w-w-well -- ! Y-Y-You're being aw-awfully e-eager. Today."

Following a short pause of lip-biting and feet-shifting, she glanced up again at Rian from the corner of her eyes with what he could only assume was an attempt at smugness, and the implications of said smugness made Rian all the more peeved, for if he was correct (and he always was), she was assuming that he enjoyed her mawkish company and, in private, excessive wantonness. The very idea! It was appalling, almost shocking -- but no, not so, for it wasn't as if he hadn't considered the possibility before, only that he denied it so quickly he didn't consider it any consideration at all. But the sheer audacity for her to suggest it curdled whatever niceties he had for the dumb Dora.

Rian smirked, leaning back and boxing her in on either side firmly with his hands. There was a glint in his eyes; indeed, he'd been wanting to tell her off for some time, and as they said, there was no time like the present, yes? She stared doe-eyed back, most likely expecting some proclamation of love or something other just as inane, but oh the surprise she was going to get ---

"What's that?" she suddenly chirruped and craned her head aways, looking a bit confusedly back the way they'd come.

"Pardon?" Rian asked, the irritation obvious in his tone as he kept his eyes locked on the maudlin quarry before him.

"That," she repeated and paused a length as she listened intently for what appeared to Rian to be only an imagined sound.

Rian refrained from rolling his eyes and snarling out a sarcastic quip; instead, he asked with feigned politeness, "And what might that be, sweet--"

A low, hissing sound finally filtered down into the stillness of the basement, answering Rian's question before he finished voicing it and suddenly breaking the intimacy between waitress and, in all practicality, manager. Sighing irritably, Rian retreated from the close confines of the narrow stairway, taking a few halting steps up.

"I'll take care of it," he remarked casually, more interested in the hissing than he was in Evelyn though the missed opportunity to dump the girl did seem such a pity.

"Oh, no, please, I should! I-I-I mean, after all --"

"I said," Rian reemphasized, angling back with a hand on the banister for support, "I'll take care of it. Why don't you - ah - go down there and get yourself a cocktail, put on your glad rags, 'n maybe I'll take you out on the town tonight, sound nifty?"

Not giving her a chance to reply, Rian quickly closed the distance between them with a bawdy kiss and hurried up the stairs, out of the corridor, and - thankfully - out of her reach. The month or so in New York had made him forget exactly how vexing the girl was. He could still taste the smoke on her tongue from her morning cigarette and the vestiges of rum, brandy, and citrus left over from some gaudy drink or other - between the sheets, perhaps - mixed in with the faint gustatory aroma of sweetmeats and whatnots of breakfast - syrup, bacon, etcetera. The very thought made Rian want to wash out his mouth with soap, but seeing as to the undesirability of the suggestion, he did the next best thing.

Upon reaching the upper landing, he promptly avoided the source of the up until then mysterious hissing, whom he readily discerned with some aversion to be the snubbed, female author of sorts, and slid into the kitchen. With a cursory glance around and after noting that they'd changed the layout of the kitchen, Rian picked up the nearest empty glass, filled it halfway with ice-cold water from a pitcher, and downed said water with the intent of washing out the filthy ten minutes or so worth of spit he'd swapped with his - eh hem - "lover". He wondered amusedly if she ever noticed the consistency of his showers following each and every of their midnight trysts.

His mind wound around the subject for a few more seconds before growing weary and going onto the next topic of interest - the aforementioned woman - no, girl - and her injured state. He contemplated whether he should approach her with unctuous suavity or blunt forthrightness, and obviously he favored the latter though the former had proven its usefulness quite a number of times.

The corners of his mouth upturned in the faintest of smirks as he set the once again empty glass down and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

"Hmph, women," he muttered disapprovingly and, before he could delay any longer, pushed out of the kitchen and into the area behind the dining bar where he had a complete view of most of the small eatery from the intimate booths in the back to the stools cozied up to the counter.

There were few customers in so late at night; indeed, this was probably around the time when the diner closed its doors to patrons of Pancake Love and reopened them to patrons of the speakeasy. With a casual glance in both directions and noticing only two others aside from the snubbed author, Rian stepped off the threshold and ambled easily over to the dark-haired girl.

He set his hands gently on the edges of her table, fingers brushing slightly up against her multitude of papers, and in as sweet a tone as he could manage, asked, "And how, love, may I prostrate myself to assist you this evening seeing as my female companion had been so uncharacteristically rude?"

He glanced briefly to her smarted appendage and added, in spite of himself, "Shall I kiss it to make it better?"

Rian mentally winced. Probably shouldn't have voiced that last thought.

[/size]

[Edie]

Marvelous. The fact she’d persisted in her hissing meant she had resisted the urge to let out an undignified—and, more importantly, vulnerable—yelp expressing the bloody state she was in, having burnt a small round hole into the palm of her left hand. Her writing hand, as a matter of fact, and what use is a writer who is physically incapable of writing? Veddy little, as one would say, and one does generally tend to be correct in regards to such matters. So. How thankful the girl was, that if she had to face a carelessly self-inflicted flesh wound and another hinderance to her ability of making any sort of living, she had at least avoided bawling like some trod upon ingenue. Her poise was quite necessary for her sanity, and it wouldn’t do to give any of that up in front of anyone; even if, as in this instance, ‘anyone’ referred to ‘one flapper covertly sneaking Pancake Love’s silverware into her handbag and her own waitress’s forsaken good time Charlie, currently occupied with adding an excessive amount of sugar to his coffee’.

Soon, however—or perhaps not: the pain had captured her attentions so thoroughly t’wasn’t a moment she could have spared on her pocket watch—soon, the initial shock of being so bloody dense as to scorch herself with her prop of a cigarette wore away, ‘til she was able to comfort herself with a shaky breath or two. Blinking calmly, Theo chanced a glance at the injury. Though the skin was inflamed and blistered rather terribly, her cool eyes betrayed no concern or dismay. Still—ouch. A blemish such as this implied she would not be able to handle a pen comfortably for a few days at the very least, ‘less she shelled out for medicinal treatments she was in no financial state to afford. Or, if she decided to save her nickels, then there was little to no chance of her earning any more this week, seeing as the stories she relied upon to survive were only possible if she took notes, and taking notes was only possible if the sinister young miss retained adequate use of her hand. It was a terribly common decision for struggling artistes: lose money or lose money?

With an exasperated huff, Theo firmly extinguished her struggling, smoldering cancer stick. She stared at the ashtray a moment, hands cautiously placed on the table, before smirking slightly. Yes, Mother, the point’s well taken: no more smoking. Your girlchild will simply deal in less toxic ways of deceiving others ‘bout her age, no need to worry. Least she’d save on cigarettes this week, eh?

Her mood improved (since one considers even a sardonic mindset preferable to one of anguish), she turned her attentions to the plate of assumedly edible stuff that had been placed before her such an unknown duration of time ago. Unskillfully taking a fork in her right hand, the girl speared a small portion of her scrambled egg supper, and began chewing with a shrug. The total lack of regard she held towards her meal remained unchanged as she swallowed, her mouth set into an unimpressed line. Clearly she had stumbled across the reason Pancake Love hid behind its incredibly, vapidly cheerful moniker—t’was because the bloody chefs were incapable of doing justice to any other dish. Oh, certainly, the eggs were dry, but they were also bland, and therefore unexceptional. What a boon to Theo Zaccone’s review of the wretched place; or, rather, what a boon it would have been, were she able to write her assigned piece. Whoops.

She set the utensil down—perhaps a tad more violently than was strictly necessary—and one handedly reshuffled through her half-finished, partially damp, and utterly useless pages. The girl would have been perfectly content to assemble her belongings and, after parting with the price of her meal and downing the assumedly foul coffee, leave the establishment. Whether to admit defeat and curl up under the covers or find some obliging literate lover boy, she hadn’t decided yet. Now, however, there was no need to, seeing as the irrepressible Mister Felcotti seemed to have disregarded his bonnie lass for her own, erm, sweet company.

Theo paused in her sorting and gazed blankly up at the pale haired gentleman as he so affably—and unreasonably—attempted to get in her good graces. To which, had she not overheard his...indescribable laughter earlier, she would have been inclined to giggle and bluntly inquire What for? He had money aplenty already, so he couldn’t be looking to swindle her out of any; besides, she had none to be swindled. Nor could he be interested in her, for that matter. Oh, certainly, she wore the boyish fashions well, what with her own slim, boyish frame. Her theatrical makeup and strikingly short tresses only further enhanced her attempts at the genderless beauty she so admired in the art these days. But t’was on paper and canvas androgynes such as herself seemed to be most appreciated, seeing as the ‘modern man’ still longed for the curves and long hair frowned upon by the present style. So it was well within her right to demand her acquaintance’s motives.

Yet. She had heard his chuckling, and it had inspired in her a feeling of curiosity to this womanizing dandy. And had she not observed the slightest twinge of glassiness to his eyes, as the man had so articulately offered his assistance, however he meant such an offer? It was a concealed look of cool disinterest, indeed; and were the young journalist not adept at reading others’ expressions, or had not used such a look so often herself, perhaps it might have gone unnoticed. Thus. Deception, eloquence, and the possibility of intelligent ennui? But of course Theo would play along.

She flashed a charming grin devoid of substance (as most charming things tend to be), and replied “Why sweetness, what assistance could I possibly require? Judging by the mere fact you’re not wearing one of those adorable aprons, which would make you match your ‘female companion’, I have no reason to assume you’d assist me with any culinary requests, were I to have any. Still, the offer is appreciated, pussycat.”

Recalling the second question, the girl too glanced down at her left hand, resting palm up on the table. The burn hadn’t improved any in the last few minutes, so far as appearances go; this, along with her growing suspicion Rian Felcotti was not the slightest bit interested in this whole affair, made her quite certain both of them would be disgusted were he to attempt to kiss her injury. If he truly wanted such a thing, than Theo supposed she’d be willing to indulge him, but as it were, she doubted that all too much. Not to mention that—given she read books, expressed her opinions, and brushed her teeth daily—she doubted she was his usual type of dame he pretended to find attractive.

So she bat her eyelashes coquettishly at the man instead as she shook her head sweetly. “Ta ever so, daddy, but I’ll take a rain check on that one, if it’s not too much of a bother. You’re welcome to join me if you choose,” she added impulsively, gesturing with her right hand at the slightly less cluttered table.

...Just because she wasn’t going to let him kiss her didn’t have to mean she wasn’t interested in talking to him, did it?

[Mimi]

ooc; whooooo, found another list of 20s slang |3 i think the best ones offa this list are "futz" and "bushwa" xD SO USING THAT LATER.

Up close now, Rian took the opportunity to really observe this specimen of lady -- little lady for she looked no older than, what, fourteen? Couldn't even be called a tomato, and yet, he had a feeling that didn't stop her from goin' out and havin' a grand ol' time. But something else told him they shared more in common than was readily apparent, and that out of everything she had going for her (or not, judging by that nasty burn) intrigued him. In all honesty, though, he'd been expecting to be rebuffed -- you know, given the icy mitt -- and in spite of all his interest, he would have been more than delighted to leave her to her merry self; personalities like hers clashed with his, what with the thinly laid sarcasm and sickeningly sweet smiles and such 'n such. Thus, Rian found himself at an impasse: give in or give out?

“-- Still, the offer is appreciated, pussycat.”

"Adorable aprons", eh? She would like that, wouldn't she? Rian challenged her fallaciously charming smile with one of his own and chanced another glance down at her mess of papers. It seemed she'd created her own tablecloth out of 'em seeing as the writing was nearly illegible, and as a result, his quick superficial perusal had unfortunately yielded no discernible name. He quirked his eye back on the dame in question and wondered in the back of his mind, "who is she?" ... but more importantly, why did he want to know? Surprisingly, he was agitating himself more than the girl was what with his uncalled-for concern and whatnot. He couldn't help it; dear nonexistent god, he hoped this wasn't what the regulars called "attraction". If it was, it was terrible, and he was a pedophile because she was obviously underage. At the mention of attraction, he looked over his shoulder as if expecting that devil woman of a vamp to suddenly appear and scare the living daylights out of him. Well, maybe not scare per se (because the idea of Rian Felcotti being scared by women was ridiculous) but... mildly startle.

Despite the money and "power" and infamous "glamor" of running a ring of underground, occult speakeasies, he often found himself receiving the short end of the stick. Not that he complained, but obliged as he was to humor the fancies of an idiotic girl, he often felt more the pack mule or hunted dog rather than the exec or hunter.

He watched as her eyelashes fluttered suggestively at his question which he'd meant to be more patronizing and offensive than concerned or however she interpreted it. Another woman (sober) might have been inclined to call him out on it, but this one seemed to be warming up to him which could either be a good thing or a bad thing depending on exactly how curious he was.

“Ta ever so, daddy, but I’ll take a rain check on that one, if it’s not too much of a bother. You’re welcome to join me if you choose."

Rian glanced casually to the seat to which she was gesturing and gave the slightest shrug in response as he considered his options which weren't very many. He could, he supposed, go downstairs and take a look at how business had been in his absence, or he could wait about like a sod for his "female companion" as she prettied up, but of course, he didn't really intend to take her out on the town. He'd said that simply to get her off his back (literally). Now that the weight was lifted, maybe he would grace this dark-haired flapper of a girl with his presence for a short while, if only to learn why he felt a strange kinship to her.

Lowering himself into the opposite seat, he regarded her with a cool eye and took up one of the many gossamer sheets of paper, somewhat waxy to the touch and reminding him more of the baking parchment used in the kitchen than of actual paper, that was littering her eating-area-turned-work-area. His gaze lingered on her for another half-moment, the same as it would if he were trying to identify a long-lost face, before flicking to the chicken scratchings on the page and effortlessly moving down the column of writing. Something or other about a play, it seemed, and it immediately lost his interest. As one could have guessed, Rian Felcotti wasn't a man much for plays, but he didn't lift his eyes from the paper in his hand as he offhandedly asked, "So, what's yer name, doll? Or are ya gonna leave me here in suspense?"

After another pause, he added, releasing the page and letting it drift back down, "Seems yer a reviewer, eh? How old are ya, anyways? Fourteen? Fifteen? ...No, thirteen?"

He raised an eyebrow, leaning in slightly as he was most obviously teasing her now. Something like a smirk crossed his face as he continued. "I'd say I'd pay for you to put in a good word for the Pancake Love 'ere, but I dunno if it's worth it now if the rag yer writing fer is one of them many Negro rags circulatin' around town nowadays. I mean, I'm guessing only them would hire a thirteen-year-old white girl, eh?"

"Oh, and ah," his eyes moved quickly to the blistering wound on her hand and back to her face, "Serves you right you smoking."

It was only after he mentioned smoking that he became acutely aware of its distasteful scent and batted lackadaisically at the air before him to dispel the lingering trail of white fumes. He regarded its source - the ashtray - a moment before casually pushing it farther to the side. One might have thought Rian a smoker what with the less-than-reputable looks, but on the contrary, Rian had been somewhat of an asthmatic child, and smoking still bothered him to no end.

That taken care of, he draped an arm over his seat and leaned back into it, staring at the girl across him. Hm, it would either be a very interesting or a very disappointing night. He supposed that was up to her.

[/size]