Rouge Bar

[blueeyeddevil]

Maksim Volkov

Maksim was enjoying his work this evening. He had just finished reviewing a lot of paperwork about expenses and such that the Moulin Rouge needed to cover and by the end, he had been sorely in need of a drink. He'd headed to the bar, smiling as he noticed that the shows had started. He ordered his usual vodka martini, taking a seat at the bar as he sat back to enjoy the show. To be clear, it was the martini and the hsow that Maksim enjoyed about his work...not the paperwork.

He couldn't help but notice a man a little ways up that seemed distinctly out of place here. Sure, he fit in with all of the men there tonight, but he didn't seem quite as comfortable as the others. There was a certain stiffness to his posture and he busied his hands with playing with a napkin.

Maksim saw it as his businessman duty to ensure all of the customers were comfortable, so he casually approached the man, offering a friendly smile. "Excuse me sir...is everything all right," he asked politely. "Could I offer you a drink? Maybe it would put you a little more at ease..." he suggested. Maksim knew that a good drink always did wonders to ease the discomfort in any situation he found himself in.

[The Exodus]

Lucian Michaud

Lucian was not trained in origami, but the way he figured it, Damien had to have inherited his artistic talent from somewhere. Already, the napkin Lucian had been toying with looked vaguely crane shaped. If, of course, you had no real conception of what a crane ought to look like. He felt stupid, being so shocked at Damien’s new line of work. It had only been a few months ago, and Ashton, too, had called the Moulin Rouge her place of employment. Only months ago, she’d been writhing around on that stage, wearing a glittery or feathered creation. And yet, realizing that your son was the one behind creating costumes that your girlfriend found too sexualized was not something that put a man to ease. It wasn’t as though Lucian would complain to Damien, but he couldn’t help but feel that, like Ashton, Damien would languish in the Moulin Rouge and watch his talent be cheapened to bawdy entertainment. He wondered if the thought had ever crossed Damien’s mind, or if designing costumes made out of leather was a dream-come-true for the young man. Lucian wouldn’t have thought so a year ago, but as he’d learned only weeks ago, he knew less of Damien’s inner-workings than he once assumed. Since Damien had come out, Lucian kept wracking his brain for missed signs or other things about his son that escaped notice. He felt obligated to make up for any blindness past, which was what brought him to the Moulin Rouge tonight.

As a single, straight man last winter, Lucian had seen the appeal of the Moulin Rouge. It was a cabaret show, filled to the brim with dancing girls, music, and alcohol. Even now, dating Ashton, Lucian was aware of the draw the Moulin Rouge would have over a certain demographic. But why did Damien—his gay, proper, and romantically-attached son—find this place so alluring? It lacked the refinement of the artists Damien so idolized. The scantily clad women on stage weren’t likely to hold Damien’s interest. He was here to work; not to drink. The Damien Lucian knew wouldn’t switch from a place like the Paris Opera to the Moulin Rouge just because his boyfriend worked at the latter.

Right?

The Damien Lucian knew wanted to build houses or restore great works of art. He wanted to be the next Van Gogh or Monet. He would want his own fashion line or to be hailed for his provocative photoshoots.

Didn’t he?

What was there about the red lights and loud music that drew Damien in? Why was he so insanely proud of the costumes on stage tonight? If Lucian wasn’t so scared of upsetting Damien, he’d ask. But he couldn’t. Not with their relationship this fragile; not until they were cleared from counseling. Not until after the baby was born and Damien realized he wasn’t being replaced. Not until Lucian had more of a spine; enough to risk such a bold question.

Absorbed in his thoughts and paper-crane-making, Lucian scarcely noticed someone join him.

"Excuse me sir...is everything all right?" he asked. His English was tinted with something exotic that brought to mind some of the foreign dignitaries Alphonse Michaud once entertained in the family’s Wiltshire home. It got Lucian’s attention, familiar in its unfamiliarity, and he looked at the speaker. The boy, or, more accurately, young man, was likely around Damien’s age. A little older, perhaps, than Lucian’s son, but just as impeccably groomed; his well-pressed clothes oozed wealth in ways that transcended language. "Could I offer you a drink? Maybe it would put you a little more at ease..."

“Ah,” Lucian said, smiling out of embarrassment. He looked at the paper-crane-that-wasn’t-a-crane, realizing for the first time how that must look to passersby. He looked back at the young man. “You may join me for a drink, young man, but I don’t believe in asking strangers to buy drinks for me. You’ll understand, I’m sure.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Maksim Volkov

There was something familiar in the way the mandressed and held himself and acted. It reminded him of many of the businessmen that his father had worked with over the years. Though this man in particular had never done business with Boris Volkov...Maksim didn't regonize him, at least. The man's behavior seemed to indicate that this place wasn't his usual hideaway and Maskim felt it his duty to see if he could offer the man a drink to make him feel more at ease.

“Ah,” he said with an embarassed sort of smile. “You may join me for a drink, young man, but I don’t believe in asking strangers to buy drinks for me. You’ll understand, I’m sure.”

Maksim smiled, taking this as invitation. He took a seat at the table, setting his own drink down. "Of course. I can respect that," he said. With a quick wave, he ushered the waitress over to allow the man to order whatever he'd like. Maksim sipped on his own drink for a moment, eyes turned towards the show going on on stage.

After a moment, he offered his hand to the man to shake. "My name is Maksim Volkov, by the way...its a pleasure to meet you sir." A small smile flickered to his lips. "I apologize if I interrupted you at all. Its just that you seemed to be rather...lost in thought," he said, quirking an eyebrow. "Most men come around a place like this so that they can avoid thinking about something."

[Deleted]

OOC: Continuing "The Twist" with Myron and Chianna BIC:

Chianna Mimieux

To the devil with what “normal” was. Normal was boring. It was useful being normal once in a while, just to keep people off her back, but it was so much more fun being… herself. There was nothing like letting go. It was wild and free and crazy. Absolutely crazy. Insane. Mental. There were so many names for it, but only one mattered: Chianna. She was Chianna. Even when her head felt unscrewed and her body was alien, she knew who she was. Chianna. Right now, Chianna was being Chianna, being herself, being true, letting go. And having fun. That was the best part. She was having so much fun.

Chianna curled her finger at Monsieur Bolitar, wiggling it at him to join her on the bar. She’d always wanted to jump up on the bar and just run or walk or sleep or – or dance. Finally, she got to do it… and with permission from the manager! It was unreal. But what was real, really? Nothing was real. It was whatever she wanted it to be and right now, “real” was dancing on a bar with her boss.

Her boss threw his jacket away and began unbuttoning his shirt and sleeves. Chianna smiled and continued to twist her feet and hips, keeping her hands above her head. Her hair swept around her face as she shook her head from side to side. The light smell of cigarettes and alcohol and the rest of her night shift was still in her hair and she loved it.

"Good form, fantastic hip action, but you are missing something." Quoi? Missing something? Was she doing something wrong? She kept dancing, a little confused about his meaning. Her English wasn’t the greatest. Maybe she misunderstood?

Monsieur Bolitar then took off his socks and shoes and then pulled himself onto the bar right next to her. She shifted to face him as she danced, still not sure what he had meant.

"A dance partner."

Chianna laughed again and danced even more vigorously, letting her blouse swing loosely over her chest and sliding her feet against the smooth bar surface, which had warmed up from all her dancing. Monsieur Bolitar was now dancing like her, like crazy. It was exciting, it was marvelous, it was lovely. Fun! Best of all, it was fun! When was the last time she did something like this with a sane person? Well, she thought Monsieur Bolitar was sane. Maybe he wasn’t. He was much different from any of her previous bosses. It was nice. Fun!

“Thiz is how it’s done.” She twisted on one leg and then switched legs, smiling all the way through. Then she twisted her way to toward Monsieur Bolitar so that they were very close. She smiled widely, chin down, eyes looking up brightly and dangerously at him. Dancing was a partner sport. It meant closeness. Monsieur Bolitar was right. You need a partner to dance. Every time she twisted her hips, her legs almost bumped his. Chianna was comfortable around her partner and was making sure she got cozy.

[The Exodus]

Lucian Michaud

The young man joined him, placed his drink on the tabletop and took a seat. Lucian was glad for the company; maybe the stranger would provide a more objective perspective on Damien’s handiwork than Lucian could ever hope to give. A smile fell onto Lucian’s lips. Since moving to Paris, he’d had some of the best fortune.

"Of course. I can respect that," the young stranger said. He waved a waitress over to take Lucian’s order, which he discreetly gave (Buchanan’s on the rocks). Then, the young man offered Lucian a handshake. "My name is Maksim Volkov, by the way...it’s a pleasure to meet you sir." A small smile flickered to his lips. "I apologize if I interrupted you at all. It’s just that you seemed to be rather...lost in thought," he said, quirking an eyebrow. "Most men come around a place like this so that they can avoid thinking about something."

Lucian chuckled and accepted Maksim’s hand.

“Lucian Michaud,” he introduced. “A pleasure, Mr. Volkov. I’m sorry if I seemed a bit preoccupied. I’m not here of my own accord tonight. It’s fortunate you approached me. I don’t know how else I would have passed the time.”

He smiled and the waitress returned with his drink.

“Enough about me, though. How are you enjoying the show?”

[The Exodus]

OOC: Maksim and Madeleine! ... Er... Mateo Moretti... BIC:


Madeleine de Chandon

With Myron out of rehab, the Moulin Rouge was strictly off-limits. While Toddy had been running things, there was no crime in sidling up to the bar for a drink or watching a show or even spending time in the offices. But now that Myron was back, Madeleine knew the honorable thing was to respect the end of their engagement and not complicate things by hanging around the nightclub like a dizzy fangirl. It was the best way to respect herself. She’d broken things off; if she didn’t honor that decision, she was a flake. And if she came running back, there were no guarantees. Myron had no reason to trust her.

And maybe Madeleine didn’t want to run back, anyways.

Because, you know, there were upsides to being single. Like hitting on other men and women. Like sleeping with other men and women. Like maintaining her essential Madeleine-ness without compromising and becoming Mrs. So-and-So or Blah’s wife. Well. Not Blah So-and-So. Myron Bolitar. Myron Bolitar, who’d left her once to pursue his gangster brother (a brother Madeleine doubted existed, since she’d never heard of Win Bolitar until Myron decided to peace out with not even so much as a by-your-leave). Myron Bolitar, who’d always been derisive of her unbridled sexuality, unless it was directly benefitting him.

Also, Myron Bolitar who she’d been in love with for a good slice of her adult life. Myron Bolitar who had wanted to marry her.

He wasn’t a bad man. He was one of the better ones (best ones) Madeleine had ever known. Still. He’d left her. He’d needed freaking counseling. There was this gulf between them that Madeleine would be a fool to cross blindly. Myron, too, would be an idiot to just pick up where they left off. They needed this whether because they were different people now or because they were supposed to find their ways back to each other. And that was why Madeleine was cross dressing tonight.

Wait. No. That wasn’t a good explanation.

The Moulin Rouge was off-limits since the break up. Fine. That made sense. Myron didn’t need her hanging around like a tantalizing piece of what might have been. Likewise, Madeleine didn’t need to get all nostalgic for what they had because on the off chance they were different people now, acting out of nostalgia would only end in tears. But just because these facts existed, they did not cancel out one, glaring truth.

The Moulin Rouge was the Opera Garnier’s biggest professional competition. Bigger than the Bastille, even, since the Garnier had a ballet company and the Bastille didn’t. Madeleine an Myron were vying for Paris’ most talented dancers and showwomen. The best and most beautiful. And each of them were trying to build reputable programs and trying to entice people to come to their shows. Which meant that a little espionage was always in order.

However, the espionage had once been light-hearted and fun. She’d sit in on his rehearsals and trash-talk the choreographers, while her head rested on Myron’s shoulder. He’d hang out in the wings while she conducted on stage rehearsals, and occasionally he’d cat call or make a wisecrack and she’d start laughing. They both knew the other was spying, but at the end of the night, they went home together a la Mr. and Mrs. Smith.

That wasn’t happening anymore and Myron would probably have a bouncer escort Madeleine out of the Rouge if she showed up. She wasn’t fraternizing with the enemy anymore, so what right had she to be there?

None, really. But she had need. And Ortiz said something about language lessons, so he couldn’t go be buddy-buddy with Myron and do some spying for the company himself. So Madeleine came up with a Plan B worthy of James Bond.

Or Jamie Bond.

Or James Bond dressed up as his twin sister, Jaime Bond.

She’d stolen a tuxedo from the costume closet, and a short, black wig. She stripped her face of usual makeup and replaced her bronzer with simple foundation to hide her skin. She brushed grey around her eyes to make the sleep-lines stand out and around her jaw to make it stronger, almost stubbly looking. She looked at herself in the mirror of the dressing rooms and decided she would have made for one hot dude.

Of course, Ortiz had stuck his head in the dressing room to lock up. He narrowed his eyes at her, told her she could close up shop herself because he was running late. But Madeleine had distinctly heard him mutter, “Freak” before leaving.

Oh, well. If he told Myron, it’d be a long time after Madeleine was gone from the Rouge’s premises, and chances were, Ortiz wouldn’t. He would chalk it up as Madeleine being weird. The doorman, who’d known her longer than Ortiz, hadn’t recognized her when she came to the door and introduced herself as ‘Mateo Moretti’ with an Italian accent that she stole from a visiting opera singer. The only one who might recognize her was Myron, by that logic, and as long as she avoided him, he wouldn’t get that chance.

Foolproof plan. Voila. Madeleine de Chandon was truly the underrated genius of the century.

Or, maybe Mateo Moretti was. Whatever.

It was night to see the world from a man’s perspective, particularly at the Rouge. She wasn’t a scantily clad piece of meat, to be salivated over and pinched for testing. She was a foreign businessman (or performer, or politician or something), cruising the bar where attractive girls in tight clothes vied for her patronage.

“I could show you the night of your life,” one girl purred at her, taking Madeleine—Moretti’s—arm. “The boss isn’t in his office, we could take things upstairs…”

The thought of letting this girl have her way with her in Myron’s office made Madeleine cringe.

“Thank you, but I am here to drink and enjoy,” she said in the broken French of a lazy tourist. “Perhaps we could be doing the body shots?”

She knew that was against policy. Something about them not being classy enough. The girl stiffened and eventually went in search of a less troublesome, less kinky customer. Madeleine laughed. She’d never liked Bernadette, anyways. Another girl came up to her again, not even five minutes after Bernadette disappeared. Chloe raked a hand up the center of Madeleine’s chest. Madeleine seized up, hoping Chloe kept her hand dead-center on the sternum and didn’t stray left or right.

“Pretty boy,” she drawled. “Do you want me to dance for you?”

A private dance would cost money. Madeleine frowned. Chloe, as she remembered, hadn’t been the most talented of the dancers. But she had a sick mother she was supporting. Madeleine slipped her a twenty.

“Why not?” she said. “I’d love to see you put that body to good use.”

Fifteen minutes later, Madeleine couldn’t help but be surprised that Chloe had gotten better in the last few months. She almost said as much, but instead, she gave her another twenty and went to the bar.

She’d made it far away enough from the girls who trawled the dance floor and dining area to breathe again. Still, no Myron. Not even behind the bar. It was a new bartender, who made her a Singapore Sling almost as well as the usual guy. The cherry-syrup drink was an odd choice for most men, but not one who couldn’t find his way around the menu, and certainly not that odd for Madeleine. She sucked up some of the sickly sweet drink and turned to face the stage. The show was about to begin and Madeleine was in. She could put the spy greats to shame. Bond, McGayver, Johnny Fedora.

Madeleine de Chandon.

Or, well, Mateo Moretti.

Damn. Spying really was a Gentlemen’s Club.

Now, the curtains rose and here it was.

Showtime.

[blueeyeddevil]

Maksim Volkov

Where on earth was Myron?! Maksim couldn't help but wonder why the actual manager wasn't the one taking care of this situation as he made his way down to the show room, this girl Bernadette trailing after him. She had come up looking for Myron but had been directed to him somehow and had told him how some guy in show room had asked about doing bodyshots and she considered that sexual harassment and wanted him thrown out.

Honestly, Maksim felt that if she wanted to avoid being sexually harassed she should not have made the decision to work at the Moulin Rouge. He was almost completely sure the man had been joking but Bernadette wasn't going to let this go. Maksim didn't plan to throw the man out but in order to get her off his back, he had to at least pretend to go chew the man out. Needless to say Maksim wasn't too happy about it at the moment.

"I'll talk to him..just go ahead and get back to work," he assured her with forced smile she seemed to buy. She pointed to a rather "pretty boy" looking man at the bar and left with a smug smile on her face. Maksim rolled his eyes and approached the man. "Listen, my name is Maksim Volkov, I'm a patron here and I kind of need a favor from you," he began. "A waitress named Bernadette said you said you wanted to do bodyshots off of her. She got upset and wants me to yell at you and throw you out. I'm not going to but I'm pretty sure she's watching right now, so I need you to act like I'm chewing you out..." Maksim hoped the guy would play along. It would help them both out.

[The Exodus]

Madeleine de Chandon

The music started, some hot and jazzy number, and Madeleine was disappointed to realize the world was still turning without her. She sucked up some more of her tropical drink and decided that when she finished it, she was switching to something harder. More manly, and more fitting of her mood. God, why couldn’t things be falling apart at least a little?

"Listen, my name is Maksim Volkov,” said a voice by Madeleine’s ear.

The Russian accent—she assumed it was Russian, anyways—sent electricity through her. At first, she forgot who she was, so when he said, “I'm a patron here and I kind of need a favor from you" she almost told him, “Sorry, mon cher, but I don’t work this circuit anymore. But you buy me a drink and we’ll talk.” She smiled behind closed lips and looked at him. Ooh. And he was a handsome young thing, too…


"A waitress named Bernadette said you said you wanted to do bodyshots off of her. She got upset and wants me to yell at you and throw you out. I'm not going to but I'm pretty sure she's watching right now, so I need you to act like I'm chewing you out..."

“I didn’t realize Myron was sending his investors to do his dirty work,” Madeleine muttered under her breath, still feeling much more like Madeleine. And then something hit her.

She was a man.

Or, well, she was supposed to be a man who had been trying to do body shots off of a worker. Sh*t, sh*t, sh*t!! At least this guy was only planning to fake-chew her out. She’d get to stay. And you know, maybe it was good Myron had sent him—or that Myron wasn’t around to handle this himself, whatever—because if she knew her ex, he would have heard that and made some snappy comment.

“That is,” she said, a little more clearly and in her adopted accent. “I did not know the body shots were a problem. Do what you must. I will pretend to be scared.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Maksim Volkov

Maksim couldn't believe he was actually doing this all to appease Bernadette, but he really just wanted her to leave him in peace for the rest of the night and this was the only way he was going to get what he wanted. Chances were that if he didn't at least pretend to do something about this then she would just go Myron the very second he returned and it would only make the manager irritated. It would just make things a lot easier if they happened to make it look like the guy was getting chewed out enough for her be satisfied.

Maksim explained to the man what the situation was and hoped he was smart enough to just play along. “I didn’t realize Myron was sending his investors to do his dirty work,” the man said under his breath and Maksim just barely caught it.

"Oh? You know Myron?" Maksim raised an eyebrow. Myron hadn't mentioned anything about a friend of his stopping by.

“That is, I did not know the body shots were a problem. Do what you must. I will pretend to be scared.” the man said with vaugely Italian accent. Maksim couldn't help but be relieved. He wasn't going to have to put out any more fires tonight.

A quick glance back told him Bernadette was too far out of range to hear anything which made things easier but she was still watching like a hawk. Maksim crossed his arms with a stern look on his face. "Okay just nod and look guilty," he instructed. Maksim held a finger up in on the universal 'one more chance' gesture as he spoke before pointing out the door as if he were telling him he had one more chance before he got thrown out. Another quick glance back showed that Bernadette had gone back to her post on the other side of the room and wouldn't be bothering the guy again. "Sorry about all that. Can I get you a drink to make up for it," he asked the man, not wanting to lose a customer.

[The Exodus]

Madeleine de Chandon

For a minute, the world was still. Madeleine saw her life—well, her life as Mateo Moretti—flash before her eyes. Trying on suits in the costume room, doing her make-up, that funny look from Ortiz, the subway ride, the sneaking into the Rouge, Bernadette, Chloe—Goodbye, cruel world, I hardly knew ye!

Dramatics aside, Madeleine was pretty sure the jig was up and Myron would come bursting forth from the crowd, pointing a finger and shouting, “A-ha!” before having the bouncers seize her like a prisoner of old or—perhaps worse—he would beckon for her to follow him and say something like, “Excellent work, Volkov” to the Russian guy before having a serious heart-to-heart with Madeleine, who would just feel like an *ss hat because she was dressed like a dude and she needn’t be and—

"Okay just nod and look guilty.”

Volkov say what?

Madeleine was off the hook for now at least. He had glided past her slip-up and was now fake yelling at her. Although, honestly, the terror on Madeleine/Moretti’s face was not fake. No, sir. That was genuine terror. The fear of God had been put into her by that brush with exposure. She was not going to do anything else to mess up this espionage mission.

"Sorry about all that,” Volkov said. Madeleine looked to see Bernadette had disappeared. Typical. “Can I get you a drink to make up for it?”

You’d think it was the first time a hot guy offered to buy Madeleine a drink. Her eyes bulged and her jaw fell a little slack. She stared at Volkov for a long and silent moment.

“Is it customary for men to buy other men drinks here?” she asked, trying not to show the real reason for her shock.

She wasn’t revealing that she was mostly shocked that she hadn’t been found out and that this was so easy. Surely, it should not have been this easy to sneak into a place like the Moulin Rouge. Right? Right?! Holy hell, was she a good spy. And she was still hot enough for a man to offer her a drink.

She really ought to try this drag-spy thing more often.

[The Exodus]

OOC: Carmen/Charlotte! BIC:


Carmen Vega

After the week she’d had, Carmen deserved a break. On Monday, she’d been in Malaga, delivering what she hoped were rousing speeches to discontent gangsters and on Tuesday, she came with a handful of them to Paris. Wednesday, she found Diego and on Thursday she marked him as their leader with a heated blade and a bottle of ink. The morning had been spent co-signing papers that bought out the Seine property she and Diego had their eyes on to set up Reyes Shipping Co. It was Friday night and time for a little fun.

Tonight, Carmen traded her jeans and black t-shirt for a white shirt-dress and wide-brim fedora. She had a blade concealed on her innermost thigh, instead of swinging a gun from her hips. Her usually slicked back hair hung in loose curls around her ears. And in the Moulin Rouge, it was okay to be something other than one of the boys.

The infamous red windmill looked like a lighthouse, beckoning to her in the sea of unfamiliar streets. It promised shore-leave, where she would be free to indulge in booze, music, and sex. And once she walked through the doors, Carmen caught sight of the tricky sirens that populated the place. The burlesque dancers, clad in feathers and sequins, sparkled under the colored lights, calling her to them. She watched, but tied herself to a margarita at the bar, contenting herself to watch and listen to the performers. Carmen lived for risks. But she’d seen the bouncers the club employed and she refused to mess with them. It was her night off and she really, really didn’t want to draw blood.

Besides, there were plenty of beautiful women throughout the cabaret. Women dressed like Carmen, sitting at the bar, holding drinks. These women were fair game. The performers were the same as any stripper or prostitute Carmen had met—wives, mothers, whatever, just trying to scrape by. She didn’t seek complications and baggage tonight. She had enough of her own without messing with some man’s broad. Men, Carmen had found, didn’t hesitate to take a swing at her. Where other women were “frail” or some other sh*t, Carmen stood eye-to-eye with most men and her toned arms were a dead giveaway that she was more than just a member of “the weaker sex”. She refused to make herself a walking target.

Carmen turned her attention to the women mingling at the bar. Two stools down, a redhead sat alone. Carmen watched her in the mirror. She had perfectly carved lips, and the contoured cheekbones of a plucky, Hollywood heroine. Carmen frowned. She didn’t usually go for redheads. She often found them attractive, but it had always been an unwritten rule when hunting in a pack: Diego got the redheads, Carmen could have at anyone else. But Diego got everything else— the better guns, the better jobs, even the gang itself. Not that she was complaining, exactly. She was a scavenger by nature. Great at getting by, happy with the odd jobs. But just once, she wanted to go home with the best girl in the bar. And if the redheads really were “the best”…

Carmen slid off her barstool, margarita in hand. She walked over to the space between the redhead’s barstool and the taken seat beside her. She leaned against the wood; her mouth twisted into a crooked grin.

“Pick your poison, Red,” she said. “On me.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Charlotte Babineaux

These days, there were very few places Charlotte could go without seeing the dumbfounded looks of current students, appalled that even their teachers had social lives. Too often did she find herself tentatively searching the parameters of a place, waiting and preparing for the gasps and gawks of teenagers as she tried to grab a cup of coffee or get her hair trimmed. But here at the Moulin Rouge, Charlotte had no such fears—there was an age restriction and faces were obscured beneath the lights and glitter. She was a frequenter here, enjoying the show as much as the booze and feeling each paper that needed grading flicker from her mind.

Brushing hair from her eyes, she swiveled around on her barstool, facing the dancers. Feathery leotards paraded the stage and long, slender legs kicked into high altitudes, pointing up into the sky. Charlotte was enthralled; the last dance show she attended was in the school auditorium, performed by B students on the dance team. She had clapped politely then, smiling out of support and pride for her students, but now she smiled with enthusiasm, clapping excitedly at the talent, whistling at the toned and skilled bodies.

But intermission hit like a buzz crashed and Charlotte returned to the bar and beckoned the bartender towards her. She moved her lips to order a martini, but the words and voice that tumbled forth were not her own.

“Pick your poison, Red. On me.”

Charlotte turned her head to face the source and a smile flickered onto her lips. It wasn’t everyday an attractive woman approached Charlotte, adding a dash of weekend fun on her otherwise mundane routine. It was flattering, exciting, even, and Charlotte licked her lips as if she could taste the sweet thrill.

“I’ll have what you’re having,” she said. “On you, as you said. Do you have a name?”

[The Exodus]

Carmen Vega

Red turned to look at Carmen. She smiled and those sweet-looking lips parted to reveal teeth that glowed in the black-light. This close, Carmen could see freckles spattered across Red’s face and barely disappearing underneath her nearly-sheer top. Carmen could imagine that the dots and dashes continued all over Red’s long body. She wondered what they’d spell in Morse Code or what web of constellations they formed in places she couldn’t see.

Yet.

Red licked her lips. Carmen had picked the right woman to hit on, after all.

“I’ll have what you’re having,” said Red. “On you, as you said. Do you have a name?”

“I got a lot of names,” Carmen said. She ordered a second margarita before turning to look at Red again. “It’s Rosario. Friends call me “Rio”. What about you, Red? What do you like to be called?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Charlotte Babineaux

“I got a lot of names,” came the slender woman’s reply before she turned to order Charlotte a drink. I’m sure you do Charlotte thought as her eyes wandered over her petite frame, falling on her protruding shoulder blades. They looked so sharp, giving a new meaning to ‘blade’ as they sliced through the air while the woman moved to reach for the margarita. The woman was an enigma, that was for sure.

“It’s Rosario. Friends call me “Rio”.” The woman said, and Charlotte smiled. Rio rolled her r’s, something Charlotte had never attempted. It was a far cry from the swallowed sound French r’s made, and it made Charlotte wonder what else Rio could do with that tongue of hers. “What about you, Red? What do you like to be called?”

Charlotte thought about this. To her students, she was Madamoiselle Babineaux (or, to her more intrepid and disrespectful pupils, she was ‘hey’). To her friends and co-workers, she was Charly, and to her family, she was Lotte. She smirked, wrapping a slim finger around the stem of her drink. “That depends on who’s talking to me. What do you want to call me?”

Rio was an enigma, but two could play that game. On Monday, she would return to the classroom, and relinquish her name once more, this time in return for a cursive title on a chalkboard, and her little charade would be over. And after five, she would become Charlotte once more, with little thought of Rio, the woman she met in the Moulin Rouge bar.

[The Exodus]

Carmen Vega

No one called her “Rio”. Why would they? It meant ‘river’. Carmen could have just as easily told Red her name was “Fuego” or “Aire”, even though she wasn’t fire or air, either. She couldn’t help but be amused how quickly people accepted commonplace words as names if they weren’t in French. If all Parisians were so gullible, she’d have an easy time pickpocketing and conning a small fortune from locals. Las Gardunas should have moved to Paris years ago. But Carmen wasn’t after this woman’s money. That would have been prostitution and if Carmen had wanted to donate to the Fund for Fallen Ladies tonight, she would have. Carmen preferred the thrill of the chase. And she’d absolutely love to hear the genuine praise flow off of Red’s lips tonight. Carmen wondered what name she would be calling out later tonight.

“That depends on who’s talking to me. What do you want to call me?” Red asked.

Carmen’s lips twitched to the side. She’d been calling this woman “Red” since the moment she laid eyes on her, but she couldn’t call her that all night, could she?

“Calida,” Carmen decided. She smirked. “Do you know what it means, Red? It means ‘hot’. ‘Fiery’.”