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Post by The Exodus on Aug 18, 2011 20:12:29 GMT -6
When you step into Le Baiser Salé, you are automatically transported to a different time, when jazz music reigned king. You won't find the hippest DJs here, but you will find some of Paris' best live blues and jazz performers singing and playing the night away. Order a drink or take your beloved for a spin on the dance floor. Le Baiser Salé is a must visit for any stay in the city of lights! |
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Post by The Exodus on Aug 30, 2011 21:58:37 GMT -6
Santiago Ortiz
If you were to ask any of his ex-girlfriends, they would tell you that Santiago Ortiz was the only Spaniard with two left feet. It wasn’t true. Santiago could dance. He could even dance well. He seldom found cause to, though, as most of his former flames had been insipid things, not interesting people. There were exceptions. Gisele Evrard would have laughed outright if someone said Santiago couldn’t dance. She would have pouted teasingly and say, “You must think I am a poor teacher, no?” and then bite back a wicked grin. Rachel Day would have protested that Santiago could dance—particularly tangos—and that he loved it. And then there was Reese, who wasn’t a “girlfriend”, but a “girl friend” who knew Santiago well, perhaps uncannily so. She was the one person still alive and in Paris who could see past his tough guy exterior enough to chat with intimately. She looked at him with gentle eyes and a quirky little grin that made his Grinch heart go soft in ways his other friends couldn’t. Not Myron and certainly not MaCarthy, anyways. But then again, Santiago wouldn’t be caught dead with either man dancing in his arms at Le Baiser Sale.
The band played an old classic—probably Sinatra—and a raspy-throated singer crooned into the microphone. With his ever-present gun stowed discreetly on his hip, Santiago felt foolishly like he ought to be wearing a zoot suit and using words that only Myron still used. But he had too much dignity to say that he planned to dance the night away with Paris’ “sweetest dame” or to call out “Play it again, Sam!” to the pianist for the hell of it. Instead, he slipped a hand around Reese’s too-thin ballerina waist and held her to him.
“Ay, Dios,” he murmured to her, a half-smirk tickling his lips. “I haven’t done something like this since my twenties.”
It was his way of telling her thank you for the idea and for the night and for being on his arm when, surely, Reese had suitors lined up from here to Munich; suitors who weren’t gangsters who sat perpetually on the sidelines of commitment for “noble” reasons they only knew. Reasons like French gangsters and Spanish gangsters and New York gangsters that hid out in every nook and cranny of the City of Lights. Reasons like a dead first love and a heartbreaking last. Santiago Ortiz had the prettiest girl in Paris with him tonight—one of his best friends—and was strangely serene about being her friend and nothing more. He cared about her too much to love her; needed her too much to want her. Reese was someone in his life he couldn’t afford to lose. There was something in her bubbly energy that fed Santiago’s malnourished soul. It made his smile a little less crooked and his shoulders a little less tense. She reminded him why he came to Paris in the first place. It wasn’t the City of Love he sought, but a second chance to be normal. Reese made him happily average. She held him to the same standard of good behavior as she did everyone else. She didn’t eye him with disdain or suspicion and, in coming out to the jazz club with him, she had done Santiago a favor he couldn’t easily explain or repay. He squeezed Reeses’ thin hip gently.
“Drinks or dancing first?” he asked. “Lady’s choice.”
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Post by blueeyeddevil on Aug 30, 2011 23:04:53 GMT -6
Reese Cordova
Reese wanted nothing more than for this odd dizzy feeling to just go away! That and the way her heart kept thudding at odd intervals in her chest was really starting to annoy her. It was bad enough when she looked in the mirror while getting ready earlier that she looked like she was about to burst the seams of the dress she was wearing. How could she eat nothing and still look so horribly fat?! But she absolutely refused to let all of that ruin the evening. She had been looking forward to this night out with Santiago for far to long to let a thing like a dizzy spell keep her from it.
The jazz club was absolutely amazing with a very classy feel. Reese was beaming as she looked around and listened to the bluesy singer at the microphone. This was just what she needed to feel better! A night out with Santiago would be good for her! Certainly it was just the stuffy Opera House that was making her feel this way. In fact she was certain she was feeling better already!
She grinned up at Santiago as he wrapped an arm around her waist, feeling incredibly glad he had agreed to come. She had missed him the last couple of weeks. Both of their schedules had been rather busy so they hadn't gotten the chance to hang out the way they use to. Reese had a number of good friends but Santiago had become almost like a brother to her. Family had always been incredibly important to Reese and that made Santiago an incredibly important person in her life. He had become a constant in her rather hectic life and someone that she needed to have around. He kept her grounded and could make her make her laugh in a way no one else could (which was saying something!).
“Ay, Dios!. I haven’t done something like this since my twenties.” he said with a tiny smirk.
Reese laughed and shook her head, making the dizziness slightly worse. "Oh come on! You say that like it was 20 years ago," she teased, playfully swatting his arm.
“Drinks or dancing first?” he asked. “Lady’s choice.”
She thought for a moment, still not feeling all that well. She didn't want to worry Santiago though, so she tried to cover it best she could. "Dancing, definately," she said with a bright smile. She grabbed his hand to pul him out to dance floor, her legs momentarily giving out under her and making her stumble. She grabbed his arm in time to steady herself. "That is why I should not wear high heels," she said with a laugh, trying to play it off. "Come on!" This time she actually managed to make it to the dance floor.
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Post by The Exodus on Sept 4, 2011 17:33:05 GMT -6
Santiago Ortiz
Reese didn’t understand how far away Santiago’s twenties seemed to be. He hadn’t been carefree then, but he’d been careless. He wouldn’t ask her to understand that he spent some nights dancing and drinking in swank bars to forget about murders and getaway cars and collecting gambling and drug debts. Tonight, he was dancing to forget about set lists and stage cues and budget cuts. The last few years seemed like they belonged to a different lifetime than Santiago’s twenties.
"Dancing, definitely," Reese decided with a bright smile. Santiago wouldn’t have expected anything less. He let her tug at his hand, but after only a step or two towards the dance floor, Reese stumbled; a surprisingly graceless move for a ballerina. “That is why I should not wear high heels," she said with a laugh, trying to play it off. "Come on!"
Santiago shook his head with a small smile and he and Reese meandered to the dance floor. There was about a dozen pairs of dancers, ranging widely in age and ability. Santiago and Reese, with their height disparities and other mismatched features, looked oddly in-place here. And for the first time in a long while, Santiago wasn’t absorbed by his surroundings, but rather his companion. She was waif-thin and delicately constructed, the way so many of the ballerinas Santiago knew were. But for as long as Santiago had known her, Reese set herself apart with her spiky, black hair and striking blue eyes; with her boundless energy and ready smiles. Tonight, though, something was off. Her clear eyes lacked any real focus. Perhaps that was his fault, bringing her out to a nightclub and whatnot. Santiago was skilled at nothing, if not at sending mixed messages. He wondered if he had confused her, or if their venue did. Or if, maybe, it had just been an exceptionally hard week at the Opera.
“Tell me you aren’t one of those girls who expects me to make small talk while we dance,” he teased. “I hate small talk.”
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Post by blueeyeddevil on Sept 4, 2011 17:58:04 GMT -6
Reese Cordova
She was grateful that Santiago seemed to buy her excuse about high heels. She didn't want to worry him. She was sure she would be fine in a few minutes...just as soon as her heart stopped skipping random beats in her chest. Tonight was suppose to be about the two of them having a good time and just forgetting about work for a while. And Reese couldn't think of a better way to do that than dancing! Once she had regained her blance, she pulled him out to the dance floor.
They made a rather interesting pair, but by far they were not the most unusual one out there. Santiago seemed to be in good spirits which made Reese smile. Santiago's good moods seemed to be coming more easily, but they were still a rather rare thing. She was just glad to be with him tonight even if she wasn't feeling in the best shape. Still, she tried to keep her normal energy, twirling and ducking under his arm and spinning around. Of course that only made the dizzy feeling worse. She eventually just settled with swaying side to side...
“Tell me you aren’t one of those girls who expects me to make small talk while we dance,” Santiago teased. “I hate small talk.”
Reese laughed and rolled her eyes. "Of course not. I am a firm believer in dance speaking for itself," she said in a slightly joking and over-the-top way, giving a little wink and grin. They continued to dance for a while in a comfortable sort of silence, the kind that could exist only between close friends.
Her heart suddenly skipped again, this time several beats. She could help gasping, hand flying to her chest. Her heart was now thrumming rapidly. A slightly pained look crossed her face and she looked up at Santiago. "I'm fine. No big deal..." she tried to assure him.
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Post by The Exodus on Sept 5, 2011 11:58:36 GMT -6
Santiago Ortiz
Reese’s eye-roll was as warm and familiar as Santiago’s old leather jacket. He welcomed it in all its youthful rebellion and friendly disregard.
"Of course not. I am a firm believer in dance speaking for itself," she insisted with a wink.
If anyone else said that and winked at Santiago, he’d either be holding her at arms-length or pulling her in for a much closer sort of dance. But Reese wasn’t flirting; she wasn’t diseased or inviting intimacy. She was his friend, making him smile and try to suppress a laugh or two. She was the only woman he could slide into comfortable silence with. And for a few moments, Santiago enjoyed the easy, quiet camaraderie and Ella Fitzgerald wannabe crooning onstage.
And then, with no warning, Reese gasped. Her blue eyes bulged and she groped for her own chest, as if to steady her heart or lungs. Santiago’s eyes widened and before he could even ask, Reese spoke.
"I'm fine. No big deal..." she said, sounding as unconvinced as Santiago felt.
“Let’s sit this one out,” he suggested. “Maybe get you some fresh air…”
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Post by blueeyeddevil on Sept 5, 2011 13:21:56 GMT -6
Reese Cordova
She didn't want to ruin their night out together but even as she tried to assure Santiago that hs ewas fine, she wasn't quite sure herself. Things were getting worse and worse. The room was spinning faster now and she clung to Santiago to keep from toppling over. She couldn't seem to catch her breath and she was starting to feel very weak and faint.
“Let’s sit this one out,” Santiago suggested. “Maybe get you some fresh air…”
Reese nodded lightly in agreement. Maybe if she could just sit down for a little while she would feel better. She let go of Santiago, attempting to walk towards one of the tables. She had only gone a few feet when she suddnely stoppped, unable to make her feet move any further. The world went completely black and her small body slumped to the floor like a rag doll.
OOC: Sorry its so short...wasn't too much to add.
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Post by Deleted on Sept 25, 2011 9:58:19 GMT -6
OOC: Valter and Natalie, this should be interesting! BIC:
Valter Gottfrid
Valter needed a break like a man in the desert needed water. No really, it had been one of the most insane weeks of his entire life. He'd gotten a call from a former crazy stalker, cut open his hand, found out he had a daughter, had to tell all his friends (minus Lucian, thus far) that he had a daughter. It was a madhouse to be living his life right now. Things had settled down for the weekend though and Valter wanted to get out, to be free. He hired a babysitter to watch Edie and decided that he was going out on the town to have a good time, to stop being "daddy" for just a few minutes. Though, he wasn't really "daddy" yet, Edie was still calling him "Valt-uh" and he would be glad for the day that he earned his title.
Where better to come on a free night than to the jazz club? Valter was quite a jazz fan and was looking extra suave in a black v-neck t-shirt and jeans. Men could show a little chest too, right? Maybe he'd find someone tonight, have some drinks, follow the night wherever it might lead and then he'd be back to his life and all the better prepared for it. Sounded like a plan to him.
Valter made his way straight to the bar and ordered a drink, something a little strong but that wouldn't knock him down too quickly. The vibrations of jazz instruments hit his body in a way that made him want to dance, but who with? That was the hard part about coming out alone. He sat on a bar stool, drink in his hand, eyeing every woman that came into his line of sight and waiting for one to respond. That shouldn't take long right? He had never been the shark that attacked it's prey openly, no, he was a fisherman, baiting them in one by one. If they came to him it was because they wanted him and that made the game all the more fun. There should have been posters on the walls or an announcer of the microphone saying, "Look out everyone, Valter Gottfrid is on the hunt."
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Post by The Exodus on Sept 25, 2011 13:07:46 GMT -6
Natalie BlackwoodNatalie couldn’t help but wonder how she’d passed by Le Baiser Salé every time she ventured to Paris. Maybe it was because the only times she’d come to France, it had been on someone else’s agenda. Maybe it was because married women didn’t explore Pigalle’s clubbing district alone, or, really, at all. Or maybe it was because after her first trip to Paris that consisted of meeting in-laws, food poisoning, and a language barrier ten feet thick, she’d decided there was nothing redeemable about the City of Lights. But now, with the swinging sway of the music overpowering her every sense, Natalie was changing her mind. Perhaps she’d missed something of Paris’ appeal twenty-some-odd years ago. Perhaps the city had changed. Or maybe she had. No longer married, Natalie was mother to a grown son. She didn’t have to coordinate with a busy and important husband or kiss away her child’s tears every time mummy needed a night out. She didn’t have to hide in a corner booth with her also-married lover. Going out wasn’t an imposition any more. She was a free woman and suddenly, she couldn’t understand why she’d spent the last few months half-pining for the life she’d thrown away. She’d never have gotten away with this curve-hugging dress while Damien was growing up. Neither Lucian nor Anthony would have looked at her half as hungrily as a stranger would. Granted, even if Natalie was approached, she’d probably have to decline, if for the sole fact that she didn’t speak enough French to do the flirting thing. In truth, she’d take what she could get, but mostly, she was here to drink and people watch and listen to music. She needed the relaxing night Le Baiser Salé promised. The train ride from London to Paris, plus the strange new bed she slept in, left her sore and stiff and her mounting worries about Damien and his new boyfriend and new job and new apartment left her knotted up. And the anxiety she felt about the day she ran into Lucian Michaud again even had her nails peeling and chipping away. Tonight would be the first night that wasn’t about any of that. Tonight, she was just another tourist, enjoying the city for what it was worth. She slid into a barstool and ordered a White Russian. As she waited, Natalie scanned the dance floor for anyone interesting; she also felt her spine tighten a little as she made sure no familiar faces were in tonight’s crowd. She wasn’t sure what she’d do if she came across Damien here, how she would explain herself. Once satisfied that she knew no one there tonight, she took to looking at the bar. And, much to her surprise, there was an attractive man right next to her. He was younger than her, perhaps in his thirties, and he had a shock of white-blonde hair and the kind of blue eyes that made Natalie squirm in her seat. He was beautiful, but with her luck, he just spoke French or was otherwise uninterested in older women. She wasn’t looking for too much tonight, but suddenly, she felt a pang of pure wanting. Anthony left her two days before her divorce was final; he’d been her last. Six months felt like an eternity sometimes. The clink of her drink against the bar was enough to draw Natalie’s eyes away for a minute. She looked at it, and then at her fingers resting on the rim, and then back over. What would it hurt to try something? “Pardonnez-moi,” she said, her British accent evident behind the French. “I don’t know how you say ‘eyes’ in French but yours are… tres belle.” It wasn’t flirting yet; it was a fact. If the man didn’t speak English, he’d understand the compliment, smile, and probably say “Merci” before ignoring her for the rest of the night. But if, by some freak chance, the stranger also spoke French, Natalie might be in luck after all. Six months was far too long for anyone to be alone…
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Post by Deleted on Sept 30, 2011 20:57:23 GMT -6
Valter Gottfrid
It wasn't long before Valter noticed a woman at the bar next to him, she was looking at him quite intently--getting her drink, looking back at him. She was probably older, Valter guessed, attractive though and most definitely interested. The woman exuded sexual energy and he couldn't resist. He wanted to say something to her, to make the first move but, it was better to wait, better to have her come to him. With the way she was looking at him it wouldn't take long.
He sipped his drink, glancing sideways off to the dance floor with a slight turn of his body, making sure to expand his chest to show himself as being strong, masculine. Valter wasn't really positive whether these sort of displays of masculinity really worked or not but it was worth a try.
“Pardonnez-moi,” she said, her British accent evident behind the French. “I don’t know how you say ‘eyes’ in French but yours are… tres belle.”
Bingo. Valter could at the very least decipher the bit of French that she was speaking, it was basics. She liked his eyes, a relatively commonly liked attribute of Valter's, and she wasn't from around here, that much he could deduce. Her accent was definitely not French? Maybe a bit British? It had tones very similar to Lucian's. Maybe she knew Lucian? Probably not, Paris was a big place and tourist city, the odds of one knowing the other were extremely slim. In all reality it didn't matter, pretty much, at all.
"Thank you," Valter purred, "I would buy you a drink but I see that you already have one." He nodded towards her drink, leaning closer to her.
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Post by The Exodus on Oct 2, 2011 11:53:45 GMT -6
Natalie Blackwood
Instantly, Natalie felt foolish. Her French was beyond rusty; her flirting tentative. That wasn’t her voice sounding that timid, was it? She’d been so determined to bounce back from this divorce; she still was. But Natalie knew that telling a young man that he had nice eyes wasn’t going to cut it. She had once been aggressive. How long ago was that? She’d once been confident and she thought she still was. When had that changed? She raked her nails down the cold glass silently.
Consider this practice, she told herself. You’ll never see this man again, anyways. It’s a big city, Paris…
"Thank you," the stranger said silkily. His accent, like Natalie’s, was not French. And his English was flawless. He leaned forward just a tad and her stomach clenched up. Maybe she wasn’t that timid, that broken, after all. "I would buy you a drink but I see that you already have one."
“I appreciate the gesture,” Natalie said, smiling until her cheeks hurt. “How about you just tell me your name instead?”
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Post by The Exodus on Feb 6, 2012 21:17:11 GMT -6
OOC: Mad/Simone BIC: Madeleine de ChandonAnother night, another bar. It sounded like part of a line to some melancholy melody about the loneliness of a huntress in some concrete jungle somewhere. If Madeleine was musically inclined, she might attempt to put her life into lyrics. She wasn’t. She was a dancer and to her, “another night, another bar” was just a truism. At thirty-something, Madeleine supposed the jazz bar ought to be more her “scene” than some trendy little night club, but anyone who knew Madeleine knew she was at Le Baiser Sale for one reason only. Hot, older men looking for a good time flocked to the place. Well. Supposedly. Ashton said so. But then again, Ashton’s idea of “hot, older men” was just a side step of the grave. Okay. That wasn’t true. Someday in the vaguely near-ish future (if the smoking and booze didn’t do her in), Madeleine would be forty. And someday after that, she’d be forty-seven. She’d have jowls and grey hairs and all those things Ashton thought were “endearing… mature” and Madeleine thought were “disgusting… unkempt”. And she’d better pray there was some guy with mommy issues who liked that sort of thing. In the meantime, a fit forty-something might do the trick. By “the trick”, Madeleine meant she hadn’t slept well in ages and she needed someone to make that a reality. She preferred natural—Biblical, even—solutions to sleeping pills, yoga, or breathing exercises. She’d spent much of the afternoon plotting for this. She’d selected a red dress—one of her “lucky” outfits—and made sure to clean up the apartment in case she brought someone back. Seeing Myron had done her head in and she wanted to clear it. It had also gotten her insides thrumming with want. Not necessarily want for him, but definitely a want for someone. Something. Definitely something stronger than this glass of wine. Even if it made her look urbane and sophisticated. Madeleine yawned and sighed. Urbane. Rhymed with mundane. What was so wrong with ordering a margarita at a jazz bar anyways? She tossed back the wine then and did just that. Screw rules.
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Mar 17, 2012 22:11:26 GMT -6
Ashton Greene
If jazz had a smell, it would be leather and booze. It wasn’t an overpowering smell, weak enough to be forgotten, but strong enough to be missed. Ashton took it in, smiling. Working here had been fun, and she had enjoyed every moment of it. But her break was needed, and was for a good, perfect reason. Taking off for the birth and health of Gregory had been one of the best moves she had made, but now it was time to go back.
Ashton wadded through the kind comments of co-workers, picking through the ‘welcome back’s and the ‘you look great’s. She thanked everyone kindly, occasionally accepting a hug or showing a picture of her infant son.
She approached the piano, wrapping her arms around Patrique Bamtabois. “Hey, stranger! Am I too late for rehearsal?”
Patrique smiled, welcoming her back, but pushed her away gently. “No, you aren’t late for rehearsal.”
“Great! The let’s start! I warmed up in the car, so—“ but Patrique cut her off.
“No, Ashton. We aren’t rehearsing.”
“Why? What happened? Why didn’t anyone call and tell me rehearsal was cancelled?”
“Because rehearsal wasn’t cancelled. You’re just not… called.”
Ashton pursed her lips. Dryly, she added. “Elaborate, please.”
“Ashton, dear, you’ve been replaced.”
“I beg your pardon?” Ashton asked. “That’s unacceptable. I had a baby. It’s not like I died.”
“It wasn’t my choice, Ashton. You’ll have to take it up with the boss.”
Ashton crossed her arms. “Oh, believe me,” she said darkly, “I will.”
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Post by The Exodus on Mar 23, 2012 0:52:16 GMT -6
Irina Kozlovaya-Martin
Irina stared in the bathroom mirror. Her cheeks dripped with cold tap-water; little drops clung to stray strands of hair by her ears. She mopped herself off and took a deep breath. She’d spent too long last night, lying awake and listening to her neighbors yell at each other in a language she couldn’t understand and wishing she knew the words for “Shut up” in French. She’d seen the sun rise just as their shouting match came to a hoarse end. And for a stupid, fleeting minute, she’d thought to sleep.
And then the landlady’s baby started to cry.
The building was ill-suited for the sticky-hot spring that had rolled in. Already, Irina could imagine the sweltering summer without air conditioning. Edgar had spoiled her, back in Yorkshire. Seeing to it that the house was cool in the summer, warm in the winter. She’d almost forgotten how impossible it was to sleep in noise or heat or cold. In any case, last night bled into today and Irina could feel the room swaying just a little. It wasn’t a rhythmic rocking. Suddenly, every so often, the ground would lurch. Days without sleep it had been. She ran on adrenaline, watery black tea, and leftover cabbage soup. This job was a godsend. Regular hours. Steady pay. Maybe even benefits.
Six and a half months in Paris, and finally, Irina was getting somewhere. She smiled at her reflection. The first thing she’d buy with her first paycheck would be a new dress to perform in. Make herself prettier, get a bigger audience, maybe even tips.
As it was, she looked a bit like a madwoman. Sleeplessness encircled her wide, blue eyes. Her hair, despite being brushed and washed, seemed ill-cut for her face. Her cardigan—electric blue and oversized—clashed with her animal print (some spotted cat) skirt, but matched her blue stockings. Nothing went together perfectly.
“How I like it,” she told Edgar once. “Nothing matches. That is life. Random.”
Life was random. Were it not, Irina wouldn’t have this plum job. The last singer would be back, post-partum and ready to sing. Thanks to life’s randomness, Irina had a chance at performing. The other singer wasn’t coming back.
But randomness wasn’t good for clothes. It was sloppy. Edgar had made her change clothes dozens of times when meeting important people (friends of his, no family. Sad, he was alone until her.). Now that he wasn’t here to march her back upstairs to rifle through his late mother’s old things, Irina was left with her own clothes, which had seemed so much more fashionable (“French style”) in Russia... No one she’d known until now had any idea about “French style”. Those who said they did, were clueless.
A new dress would be her first investment. A new, “French style” dress. Chic. Pretty. Attract audiences; earn tips. For now, she was awake. She was going back out there to rehearse again. She checked her bag one last time, running a slightly damp finger over her sheet music. A small smile pulled at her lips. Awake. Ready.
Irina stepped from the ladies’ room and walked towards the stage. The wooden floor scarcely creaked under her weight. She could see Gospodin Bamtabois talking to a blonde woman.
“I beg your pardon?” the blonde said. “That’s unacceptable. I had a baby. It’s not like I died.”
“It wasn’t my choice, Ashton. You’ll have to take it up with the boss.” said Monsieur Bamtabois.
The blond folded her arms across her chest.
“Oh, believe me,” she said darkly, “I will.”
Irina walked up the steps and this time, the wood groaned and made her obvious. She smiled.
“Monsieur Bamtabois,” she said, trying to wrap her mouth around the French title and name. “When you are ready, we will start again?”
She looked at the blond and tried to keep her smile in place. She had a bad feeling, as though the reason the woman was so angry had something to do with her, but the stranger had a similar accent to Edgar’s. Its familiarity made her feel a little less uneasy.
“We took a break from rehearsing,” she told the blond. “The boss is not here today. You have to come back another time.”
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Mar 24, 2012 23:18:44 GMT -6
Ashton Greene
Ashton could feel the hot, sour bile burning in her stomach, threatening to make a way into her mouth as she chewed on the words she was hearing. Replaced? Her? Her with her degree in music, two decades of training, a family to support, and an established, spotless (if small) reputation forming amongst the Parisian entertainment venues?
“Ashton, there’s no need—“ But Bamtabois’s sentence was cut short by a loud, abrasive creak from the floorboards. Ashton shot her eyes up to see a lovely young girl making quick strides in their direction.
“Monsieur Bamtabois, when you are ready, we will start again?” she said, her voice heavily accented with something Slavic and harshly beautiful, striking against Ashton’s oddly commonplace British.
She looked from the girl to Patrique, and he smiled sheepishly, a smile that went away immediately at Ashton’s less-than-amused eye contact.
“We took a break from rehearsing. The boss is not here today. You have to come back another time.”
“No.” Ashton said abruptly. “I am not leaving here without my job today. The boss had no right, no right to replace me while on maternity leave. In fact, it’s illegal and I will be taking it up with my attorney if I’m not reinstated. I mean who are you, even? I’ve never seen you perform. I have no idea what you can do. I mean if they’re going to illegally give my position away,” she looked at Patrique, “I want to at least know my replacement will be decent.”
Ashton would probably hate herself for her words later, as she told Lucian what was going on, or as she attempted to cool down on the drive back home. But for now, as her rage climbed on higher and higher in her face, she seem to care, or notice how her harsh and bitter words exacerbated the situation.
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