Batofar

[The Exodus]

Looking for a bit of novelty in your nightlife? Look no further than Batofar, the orignial Paris nightclub on a boat. Located on the Seine in a moored lighthouse ship, Batofar provides a truly unique clubbing experience with several bars and dancefloors and a riverside view not found anywhere else in the whole city!

[blueeyeddevil]

Noelle Girard

Honestly, who really cared about which holiday foods were highest in fat? Why on earth was it even considered news worthy? Whatever the answer to those questions, Noelle was the one stuck covering it. She had just spent the whole day watching a person convert egg nog into calories which really wasn't as fun as it sounded and she certainly was not going to get any awards for figuring out how much gingerbread you should eat if you wanted to keep your figure. She was beyond tried of these rediculous fluff pieces which just seemed to get even more fluffy this time of year.

She walked into Batofar (or onto it...) in desperate need of a drink. The place was cool and unique and just the kind of place she could go to get away from the frustration of her job. She took a seat at the bar, shrugging out of her coat and setting in the seat next to her. She just wanted a drink. She certainly wasn't looking to have some random guy come up and try and flirt with her.

Noelle waited patiently for the bartender to finish with the customer a few seats down and come over to help her. She offered a polite smile, wondering if this guy was having as bad a day as she was. She ran her fingers through her (now) copper colored hair and sighed softly. "I'd like a Sea Breeze please," she requested. She thought for a moment. "And I'll tip extra if I can get a small bowl of olives. I could use something salty..." she requested with a hopeful smile.

[The Exodus]

Quentin Degarmo

Quentin hated it when customers ordered plain beers or whisky shots. Everyone had the right to drink as they pleased; he couldn’t tell them what to order. But it was just so boring, so unimaginative. Usually, he didn’t mind his night job as a bartender. It was in imitation of all those chemistry classes he’d taken, mixing liquids to concoct something. To an untrained eye, the two looked the same: chemistry and mixology. One of the waitresses, Jacqueline, sometimes teased and said that Quentin was their resident mad scientist. She meant it as a compliment; his drinks were the best in the house. But every time she walked past, Quentin had to resist the urge to pelt her with garnishes because she didn’t understand. Bartending wasn’t science. Bartending was bartending and science was science. And given the choice between being a half-rate scientist or talented bartender, Quentin would have chosen the former. He’d rather be working in some huge, government-owned and confidential lab where no one knew his name and he couldn’t talk about his projects than have everyone around him calling him “Q” and praising him for a cheap skill he’d taught himself to make friends in college—

The point of this mental rant was that he hated—loathed—when people ordered straight shots. It didn’t take a genius to pour whisky into a glass. In fact, pouring a glass of liquor was so mind-numbingly dull, it was a wonder Quentin hadn’t taken to sneaking sips between customers.

He poured the rowdy young men their whisky shots and started zesting lemons for garnishes, when another customer caught his eye. She had a delicate chin, high cheekbones, and clear eyes without a hint of drunkenness. Quentin walked over to her silently to take her order. She was smiling. At him. Finally: a customer with manners.

"I'd like a Sea Breeze please," she said. "And I'll tip extra if I can get a small bowl of olives. I could use something salty..."

Quentin blinked. She was ordering a garnish. A funny smile contorted his lips. He’d have to account for the missing olives if he poured a whole bowl of them for a customer. The tip offer was tempting; but so was not getting lectured by his boss.

“We serve food, you know. Real food, anyways. As real as bars go. Pickled calamari, cheese plates… Here.” Quentin pulled a menu from behind the bar and offered it to her. “I’ll make you that sea breeze; you take a look at that. If you still want those olives when I’m done, I’ll get them. But if something else looks good, let me know.”


He reached around in the drying rack for a highball glass.

[blueeyeddevil]

Noelle Girard

The look on the bartender's face when she asked for the olives made her realize that she had said something wrong. She knew it wasn't exactly heard of to give out bowls of what they used for garnish, but Noelle was frustrated and salty food was comfort food for her. Plus it was never a good idea to drink on an empty stomach, even if all you ate was a few olives. The silly little grin on his face made her bite her lip in embarassment though. Surely what she was requesting wasn't that odd!

“We serve food, you know. Real food, anyways. As real as bars go. Pickled calamari, cheese plates… Here." he said. Noelle's eyes lit up at the mention of a cheese plate. Cheese was even better than salty stuff! “I’ll make you that sea breeze; you take a look at that. If you still want those olives when I’m done, I’ll get them. But if something else looks good, let me know.” The bartender said before turning around to begin her drink.

"The cheese plate," she said almost immediately. She sighed and winced, knowing just how that response sounded. "I'm sorry...just, when you get the chance...the cheese plate just sounds really good. Thank you..." She rubbed her forehead, wondering if she should reach into her purse for pain killers to battle the headache she could feel coming on. The bartender probably thought she was a complete spazz by now and she found herself wishing he had met her on a better day.

[The Exodus]

Quentin Degarmo

Lip biting was a predominantly feminine gesture. When the customer did it, all Quentin could do was wonder why that was. There was something delicate about it, perhaps even about this girl in particular he couldn’t understand. It made him want to bite his own lip in thought. Instead, he shrugged and measured out forty milliliters of vodka.

"The cheese plate," the customer said quickly. Quentin nodded, but since he wasn’t actually looking at her, he rolled his eyes. Well, if she wasn’t a bossy little thing… And here he thought she’d been so cute and polite "I'm sorry...just, when you get the chance...the cheese plate just soundsreallygood. Thank you..."

“It’s fine,” Quentin said shaking the cranberry and grapefruit juices together. “You aren’t the first customer to get snappish; it’s a bar. You get the worst people in this place sometimes. It’s not like anyone here expects finishing school manners or something.”

There’d been a point when Quentin actually had expected finishing school manners—or, well, at least some manners. That had been during the mandatory six weeks of bartending school. No one had really warned him of rowdy drunks, which was an occupational hazard he always assumed only bouncers faced, nor had anyone told him that the exquisite girls in shiny, low-cut dresses flirting with him were only looking for a free drink, not his genuine interest. No one told him that customers saw bartenders as a means to an end, not as people. It broke all the rules of Kantian philosophy, actually. Mill’s too. Really, most ethicists would be appalled at the way customers treated Quentin, except the Nihilists, who would have smirked phlegmatically over their gin and tonics before shouting out, “Hey, you! Get me another one of these suckers.”

It was moments like this, when Quentin fell back into Academia speak that he hated most. He didn’t belong in a bar being abused by rowdy drunks, slutty girls, and women who had little time for manners. He belonged in some think tank or proper university, doing something intelligent and useful.

“Besides,” he said pouring the tumblers of vodka and juice together over some ice. “You said ‘sorry’, which probably counts for something. Karmic-ly speaking, I mean. Also, the not snapping your fingers in my face means a lot. No sarcasm, I swear. Happens more than you’d think.”

He plunked the Sea Breeze down in front of the customer and flagged Jacqueline down.

“Cheese plate for the woman in the white shirt,” he said, nodding towards the still nameless customer.

“How about a ‘please’?” Jacqueline said, adjusting the serving tray she was carrying. Even as she rolled her eyes, Quentin had no doubt she’d bring one by. She was a waitress, for Christ’s sake. Waitresses waited. Bartenders bartended. And customers customed. Or something. He looked back at the woman.

“Anything else?”

[blueeyeddevil]

Noelle Girard

Noelle was nice person generally. But she was hungry and tired and it had been an awful day. Still that didn't give her a right to be snappy and rude. This guy had probably had a long day tooo. She hoped that the quick apology would do something to rectify the situation and make her not seem like a crazy person. Though sometimes she wondered if maybe she was crazy. She would have to be to have stayed with Gaston for so long.

“It’s fine. You aren’t the first customer to get snappish; it’s a bar. You get the worst people in this place sometimes. It’s not like anyone here expects finishing school manners or something.” the man insisted as he worked on her drink. She couldn't help but smile and she wrinkled her nose, thinking about how she must have sounded. “Besides you said ‘sorry’, which probably counts for something. Karmic-ly speaking, I mean. Also, the not snapping your fingers in my face means a lot. No sarcasm, I swear. Happens more than you’d think.”[/b]

"Seriously?!" She was shocked at the nerve of some people. She sighed and shook her head. "Still, it was rude even without the finger snapping. I'm just in a bad mood..." She paused for a moment. I say that like you haven't seen every mood under the sun working in a place like this." She shrugged and smiled apologetically as she let the man go back to work, watching as he spoke to one of the other employee, sipping at the incredible Sea Breeze he had given her.

A moment later the woman he'd spoken to returned with the cheese plate she had quite literally ordered. She smiled and said thank you before beliving into the plate, enjoying the cheesy goodness. The cute bartender returned a moment later. “Anything else?”

"No, I think I'm good. This is really good by the way," she said, taking a sip of her Sea Breeze with a grateful smile.

[Deleted]

M / S / N madness!! ... and not the messenger program.


Myron Bolitar

Having Santiago Ortiz as a wingman was the ballsiest thing Myron Bolitar has done to date. If the women tonight were going to go by his taste, Myron may end up with some kind of neck choking dominatrix with a bad temper. Oh wait, that was probably Santiago Ortiz. Which, you know, would be bringing an entire new level to the term 'bromance' if that were the case.

Seriously, Myron trusted Santiago. It was getting back into the game that was the uneasy part. Meaningless sex with a beautiful woman. A woman Myron Bolitar would not feel any emotion toward whatsoever, not know their favorite color or if they have allergies, and just make her moan and then leave. Meaningless sex. How did crackwhores do it?

Sitting at the bar of the Batofart (he knew the real name, he just decided to be five years old), dressed up to hopefully meaningless sex standards (he really needed to find a more flattering name for that), made him feel less crackwhore-esque. Or, just a wealthier classier version.It kinda' made him feel like a pervert too. Looking at a woman and wondering if she would serve as just some sexy meat for one night only and not giving a rat's *ss for her I.Q level, personality, or feelings, didn't really sit well with him. Myron was beginning to understand this new culture though, and the fact that some women wanted to be, erm, said meat. That for some reason the creation of human beings got screwy, and everyone just started to give out their goodies like it was Halloween.

Thanks or no thanks to papa and granny Bolitar- Myron Bolitar was a respectful person. Which, shocked most people. Myron would admit, with there being a sexual joke spewing from his mouth every other sentence, as much smooth talking as he does- it sounded like he had a woman every night. At least, a lot of the magazines thought that, and that he was some kind of sex icon. It wasn't like Myron was bad at sex or hated sex. He just wasn't that free to it all the time. With his high school sweet heart, the one night stand that landed a short term relationship- that turned relationsh*t - and then Madeleine- Myron Bolitar didn't have much time to be in the game. Thank Christ on a cracker he was still Paris' top five hottest men, or this entire night would be fruitless. But hey, it was time now to give into that title. Time to get in the game, get laid, and get some! Wow. That sounded just... Hollister wearing teenage gangster. Lets just stick to meaningless sex.

Picking up his Jack and coke, Myron took a nice swig of it, letting it sink into his gums and burn the roof of his mouth. Ol' Jack would be his second wingman tonight.

Myron supposed this was why he had a brick up his *ss, rather than a cocky stick like everyone else. (Wow. Pun so intended. But he met a conceited 'stick up your *ss'. But the pun... so now intended) He hadn't been laid in forever. He needed to get with it. Lasting love was out and sexy stranger time was the rage. Being not ready and hung up over Madeleine? Meaningless sex was the cure! It sounded like a cheesy infomercial. Which, was sad, because that 'cheesy infomercial was his so called life.

Spinning his spinny stool over to Santiago, which he found the spinny chair far more interesting than the women here as of now, he nudged his friend's elbow.

"So do I get a say in this, wingman?" Myron asked, his eyes moving out to the sea of clubbers. Which, sea being another pun because this Batofart was on the water. Legit, right?

Myron Bolitar looked at his good looking friend, and realized that they make a pretty good duo. Looks wise- you get the best of both worlds. Personality wise- you get a lot of variety. It's the perfect thing.

"Or do I have to get another drink?"

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

After a harrowing week of flipping from detective to stage manager to language tutor and back again, Santiago was glad to be nothing more that Santiago Ortiz, single man. There was so much less pressure once he disassociated from the Opera Garnier, “The Reyes Case”, language tutoring sessions, and all the responsibilities that came with each. He could even be anonymous in a crowded bar, filled with sweaty, attractive people, drenched in booze and music.

But tonight wasn’t about him.

Santiago, in trend with all his actions lately, was doing the right thing for a friend’s sake. The old him would have called him a sap. Where was the Santiago Ortiz who didn’t need anyone, wasn’t needed by anyone? Dead and gone or lounging on a beach on the coast of a private island far away from all civilization. Santiago missed that version of himself, but with several others floating around lately, he couldn’t complain about not having a fourth or fifth persona. Besides, antisocial Santiago would be of little use to Myron.

Santiago volunteered to be his best friend’s wingman tonight and he wasn’t letting Myron down. Santiago had last played wingman to Cam, what seemed like a thousand years ago, hooking her up with hot girls, and taking the leftovers greedily. That had been during a time when Santiago was not only single, but younger and in the possession of a libido to rival his countryman, Don Juan. The good old days had returned to him, paired with a few years’ experience a new best friend.

Myron would be no problem to hook up. After all, unlike Cam, Myron was a straight male, whose tastes overlapped with Santiago’s. As far as Santiago could tell, they were both leg men—a particular penchant for dancers—and neither of them enjoyed insipid conversation. Trick was, beyond that, Santiago didn’t know Myron’s “type”.

What kind of type could a man possibly have after years in a stifling, cuckolded relationship with Madeleine de Chandon?

He pitied Myron. He didn’t say it, but that was a part of why he was doing this whole wingman thing. Not to get laid himself, or out of the sheer goodness of his heart. No. Santiago felt bad for Myron, who was pining after a floozy. What man hadn’t been there? Santiago had. Plenty of times. Of course, he’d never been engaged to one—never to anyone at all—and he’d never been in love. He had believed himself to be, twice, but in Santiago’s world, love was an illusion. It was lust and friendship and oxytocin all piled up so thick that you couldn’t breathe. Myron didn’t get it. He had this hang up about “making love” to a woman. He didn’t understand biological imperatives or the problems with grief.

. "I mean, call me old fashioned, but when I give myself over to a woman, and she gives herself over to me- sure, it's hot and sweaty, but... I really give myself, and I really take her for what she gives. Because, in order to make it great, it has to have meaning and not be taken advantage of, because then ... Why is it so special? At least not to me. But what do I know?"

Myron had lectured him once, those exact words, while sitting in a corner booth of the Moulin Rouge. Santiago thought the sentiments sounded sweet, but a little too tidy to feel realistic. Now, Santiago felt bittersweet satisfaction knowing his friend had been wrong and that he had been right. Biological imperative, not this romantic notion of “giving”. After all, Madeleine had just taken Myron’s heart for a run through the mud. He deserved better than that. And the first step to finding something better, was getting over old-what’s-her-name by losing yourself in someone else’s arms.

It could not possibly be that hard to find Myron a one-night-stand. When the two men walked in the room, heads turned. Santiago was acutely aware of the gazes, but he did nothing to acknowledge them. Instead, his dark eyes roved the room, looking for a leggy somebody that wasn’t too drunk.

Or someone that was. Really, Santiago had no scruples.

They now sat at the bar. Santiago watched the revelers in the mirror between liquor cabinets, passing his whisky from hand to hand silently. He had a nice view of the dance floor. Santiago half-expected Myron to gravitate towards the dance floor. Find a pretty girl and take her for a spin. At least to show some enthusiasm—real or faked—as he usually did. But instead, Myron sat beside Santiago with a drink, seeming far more interested in the barstool than anything else.

Santiago wondered if maybe, they weren’t that different, after all. Pity. That made his job a bit harder, since Myron wasn’t acting particularly outgoing.

"So do I get a say in this, wingman?” Myron asked, nudging Santiago’s arm. "Or do I have to get another drink?"

Santiago shrugged and swiveled to face the crowd.

“Look, there are two ways to do this,” he said. “You pick one out from the dance floor and risk life and limb by going up and dancing with her.”

Santiago remembered a particular instance in Madrid where he did just that and the girl’s Neta boyfriend held Santiago at knifepoint beside a dumpster for feeling the girl up. He’d kicked the man in the cajones and had gotten to take the girl home for a night he could still remember clearly. Martina Terese Lopez, her name had been; they’d hooked up for months after that and she passed him information about her other boyfriend’s gang. Hadn’t lasted, though. Nothing ever did. She left him when her other boyfriend found out and threatened to kill her little brother if she didn't stop seeing Santiago. Pity. She’d been a great lay and an even better spy.

Maybe this wasn’t a a good option for Myron.

“Or, we can pick a girl out from the bar. One who’s drinking alone. Women drink alone either because they don’t want to be bothered or because they do. Either way, they might as well have a sign over their heads saying: Take me, I’m yours. See anything you like?”

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar

This was so Night at the Roxbury esque. Only, Myron Bolitar didn't think Santiago Ortiz would join in on the infamous duo's bump and grind. Well, maybe if Myron got him drunk enough ...

"Look, there are two ways to do this,"

Santiago told him, both of them turned now on there spinny tools(which, did Myron mention were legit as hell?), and looking out into the sea of people. Myron waved his glass in his hand, trying to act a little casual, and not like... Well, a horny man looking for a good lay.

"You pick one out from the dance floor and risk life and limb by going up and dancing with her.”

Risking his life once again didn't seem that attractive of an idea. Being tortured by mofians seemed like a Christmas present compared to the tortures a woman could perform. Well, depending if you're into that kinda' thing.

Hopefully there was a plan B. Mryon Boliar, under any circumstances, would not resort to one of those scuzz balls at the club. Y'know, the guys with the pants down to their as*hole, going up behind women without warning and grabbing ahold of their lovely lady lumps.

Thank you Fergie, for a better grasp on the woman anatomy.

“Or, we can pick a girl out from the bar. One who’s drinking alone. Women drink alone either because they don’t want to be bothered or because they do. Either way, they might as well have a sign over their heads saying: Take me, I’m yours. See anything you like?”

Santiago knew a lot about this. Apart of Myron wanted to feel a little humiliated for being so underneath him as far as 'the game' went with women right now, but that was silly. They were friends. There was no competition. Plus, they were two... very.. different people.

"Or because their apart of the nerd herd." Myron added in a murmu to reasoning for drinking alone comment, and taking a drink, still looking around.

Setting the drink down behind him, spinning around again, he clasped his hands together and rubbed them.

"Alright, lets make this easy."

Easy, as in the woman Myron Bolitar hoped to find tonight. Talk about the mindset of a pig, right?

With his eyes, Myron began pin pointing one person on each word to the famous little diddle-

"Eenie-" Myron moved his head to the right and landed on a brunette woman checking her lip gloss in the corner booth.

"Meenie-" Next up was a red head grinding up against another girl.

"Myn-"

Before Myron moved on, the 'Meenie' girl, dove in for a kiss to the other girl. He watched for a moment, cleared his throat and proceeded onward.

"Mynee."

Mynee was a blonde skinny girl that looked like she had not eaten in three weeks, sobbing her eyeliner off, and drunkily walking toward another man pointing and howling. Oh, the beauty of relationships.

"Hoe."

This 'hoe' was a man.

Myron Bolitar slyly looked over to his best friend and murmured sarcastically, "Wouldn't want to make you jealous, sweet-ums."

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Santiago hoped Myron would see a girl, nod in her direction, and say nothing more complex than, “Her” or “That one”. Wingmanning was easier that way. Otherwise, it fell to Santiago not only to select a woman for his friend, but to also drop some bullsh*t line about, “My friend over there thinks you’re hot, but he’s shy”. Myron was not a shy man. His job should be so, so—

"Or because they’re a part of the nerd herd."

--frustrating. Who was Santiago kidding? Myron just had to be clever all the time. Why couldn’t the man shut his mouth and let Santiago pull the strings? What woman was going to want to sleep with a guy who made snide comments about her being part of “the nerd herd”. It wasn’t as if the man could afford to be picky, anyways. He was rich, he was handsome, but Myron Bolitar was a serial monogamist who hadn’t dated—let alone had sex with—a woman named anything but Madeleine de Chandon in several years. He was at best rusty, at worst, inexperienced. Santiago would need another shot of liquid courage. He took a swig from his own drink.

"Alright, lets make this easy," said Myron with sudden enthusiasm.

At least, Santiago hoped it was enthusiasm. What red-blooded male was unenthusiastic about getting laid?

"Eenie-"

Santiago groaned. They were playing that game. He followed Myron’s gaze to a brunette applying makeup in a booth. A possibility.

"Meenie-"

The next girl, a redhead, made Santiago’s own pulse thrum as he watched her snake and slither against another girl. As soon as he could ditch Myron--

-- the redhead began to kiss the other girl and Santiago’s own plans were dashed for the night. They didn’t look like they wanted to make their party a deux a party of trois.

"Mynee."

The blonde Myron now pointed at was crying and chasing another man. She might have been vulnerable enough—Santiago would have used her as a last resort for Myron—but she was screaming like a wild thing. She might come with more baggage—or man-hatred—than Myron needed right about now.

"Hoe."

Santiago blanched at the derogatory term. He wasn’t exactly a feminist, but he didn’t think words like “hoe” would do Myron much good tonight. Not unless he was willing to shell out some cash on the wrong side of town. Which Santiago would sooner arrange than with the screaming blonde.

Or with the man Myron now pointed at.

"Wouldn't want to make you jealous, sweet-ums."

“Hah.” Santiago said, biting back a mean remark about Myron’s other best friend, Toddy St. James, being first in line anyhow. He was only being civil so Myron didn’t get angry. An angry Myron wouldn’t be fun; he definitely would have been harder to hook up.

He scanned the room for other women. The club was teeming with them. Women on men, women on women, women with chintzy veils and pins saying “Buy Me a Drink, It’s Your Last Chance”. Women on the dance floor, women stampeding for the bathroom in a herd. Women by the DJ table… Why had Myron picked the three (four, if you counted the last guy) worst contenders. Christ. Were their tastes really that different? Did Myron even want to get laid? With a name like Myron, he had to be begging for it…

Santiago’s eyes locked on a woman sitting a few seats down from them at the bar. Her legs stretched for miles upwards until disappearing into a green dress. Hourglass form, waves of blonde hair, a White Russian and no wedding band as far as Santiago could tell. She was alone, clearly female, not crying, not grinding with another woman, and not primping. She didn’t look poisonous or psychotic. That was all the criteria Santiago needed to look at Myron and grin.

“Her. The blonde three stools down,” he said with a nod. “Go over, introduce yourself. And don’t say ‘hoe’.”

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar

Humor as a defense mechanism ( if that's what we were going to call was what was always vomitting out of Myron's mouth) could only get a man so far in life. There came a point where the machine needed to be thrown to the side, the guard needed to be down, and whatever it was needed to be faced. This was one of those moments. 'Eenie, meenie, mynee, moe' was that defying moment. Mostly because, well, there wasn't with enough people to play duck, duck, goose.

Myron Bolitar remained in the same position as he had been in for awhile, accomplishing squat. Which, now he didn't have to blame himself because he hired a wingman to do that for him. Boom, dignity still in check. Yet, while his 'wingman', Santiago Ortiz, began scanning the room, Myron was still spinning on his chair, drinking his drink. His eyes were lingering around, he wasn't checking out babe-o-ramas, he was not going over suave pick up lines. Where the hell was his mojo? Where was his passion to find a mamma with a great pair of legs? There were dozens in there! He had to find at least one pair attractive! Where was that horny feeling men could never wave away, and gave women things to b*tch about at the hair salon?

Above all, where the hell was Myron Bolitar's sex drive?

"Her. The blonde three stools down."

Ah, yep. He found it.

Myron Bolitar had followed his friend's nod to a few chairs down, and found all of the above from this exotic package he was now gazing at slyly from over the rim of his drink. She was gorgeous with thick blonde hair that fell past her shoulders, and hit perfectly against that light green shimmering dress that was not gaudy or too sparkly- but just classy and sexy enough for the imagination to be going crazy. A blonde? Hm. Myron Bolitar had never been with a blonde before. Brunettes were his, erm, thing. It wasn't because of all the dumb blonde jokes and all the stereotypes that came with them- it was just that Myron had never been attracted to blondes all that much. Which is why right now was so intense, because he was very much so. Myron continued to look at her with raised eyebrows and a slightly open mouth like little Jimmy would do in his third grade class everytime the teacher turned around to write on the board. She was sitting alone, not really doing anything, but in a sophisticated sense. Not the chin up high, she was better than everyone's mom way either. She was just... there.

Hubba hubba was an understatement.

“Go over, introduce yourself. And don’t say ‘hoe’.”

"Right." Myron Bolitar said, finishing his drink and slamming it on the bar. Glaring over at Santiago with a smirk, he murmured. "Should I just grab her goodies instead?"

Standing up and straightening out the cuffs of his shirt, Myron looked at her for a glancing moment, and then nodded over to Santiago. "I got this, brother." He said, and patted him on the shoulder, "Thank you." It was genuine thank you.

Myron Bolitar left Santiago Ortiz's side, and thats when he realized... this was happening.

Myron walked over slowly to the blonde woman, not making deliberate eye contact with her or her existence whatsoever, but just being casual and walking. His mind though? Going bonkers. He was trying to wrack his mind of what worked on everyone else before? Oh yeah, because, you know, that worked so friggin' well. No. This was a new start for Myron Bolitar. He was back in the game. Something was swelling in his chest, and after so many months of torture, therapy, people telling him his flaws, getting his engagement ring sent back to the store, and internal hell- Myron was beginning to feel pride. This entire scenario was bringing him back to before everything happened, and he was Myron Bolitar. Owner of the rouge, wealthiest man in Paris, a smart and nice guy who would do too much for a lot of people, and just liked to have fun. Wow. This was new.

Okay, so this was the part where Myron Bolitar was suppose to approach her. Now, there are a few ways this could happen and many options men generally had to choose from:

First Approach

"The Pick-Up Line"

Now, this generally doesn't work for a lot of people, but do it right, it can work. Usually, man approaches woman, says a line that is a line, but doesn't seem like it would be one. For instance: 'I'm sorry, but it's girls like you that get guys like me in trouble. Can you please leave?" It's not a pick up line, but it is. You dont' say it rude, or you'll get slapped. It's a smirk and a murmur.
Then there is the pick up line approach that usually earns a slap. Especially for lines such as- "Nice shoes, wanna-"

Second Approach

"The Sob Story"

Now, there are things people need to know when they are playing 'the game'. The other person usually does not give a rat's *ss about you, and therefore, doesn't want to hear about anything personal. Such as,

"My fiancee' just broke up with me, I was tortured my mofians, I just got out of rehab, and I need to get laid."

Would. Not. Work.

But, there was a more simple approach for a sob story. Now, the key is to not look the person in the eye, order a stiff drink, and seem very sane.

"I hate when you're at a club full of people, but you feel lonely." Then the look at the woman and a-"Oh, wow. That sounded totally like a pity line. But it wasn't. I just..." Then they interrupt you with an, "It's okay ya-ba-da-ba-doo." Except, probably not that because the Flinstones are out of season.

Third Approach

'Using your wingman to the fullest.'

"My friend and I were having a debate... What do you think?", or "My friend said I couldn't talk to a gorgeous woman so-"

There are many approaches. Myron Bolitar knew of them all. But, there was one approach that he was going to do that was a very sketchy one because not many men think to do it and not many women prepare themselves for it.

Myron approached her, put a hand on the edge of the bar, standing at her side, and stuck out a friendly hand. On his face, his eyes twinkled in not a gazeful way, hopeful, or horny- but friendly, and he wore a warm boyish smile.

"Hey, my name's Myron Bolitar, what's yours?"

[The Exodus]

Natalie Blackwood

Natalie’s head was clearer these days. Not perfect; nothing was. But accidentally meeting Ashton and Gregory in the Latin Quarter last week served as a bit of a wakeup call. First, that Lucian had moved on and wasn’t looking back. Second, that she should do the same. At forty-five years old, Natalie should have been hearing her biological clock ticking. Menopause, or at least perimenopause, should loom over her with its threats of infertility and a broken sexual identity. But since she was twenty-three years old, Natalie had been waiting for the time in her life when the pressure to have more children went away.

And she had never felt sexier than she had, staring herself down in her bedroom mirror.

Her wedding ring was stashed in a small, velvet box—the box it had come in, in fact—in her drawer underneath layers of folded clothes. The band of skin once covered by it was now evening out so nicely that the lighting had to be just so to see a whisper of it. She’d found a stylist to touch up her hair that morning and it still held a sleekness that women half her age would envy. And her dress, an impulse buy, showcased her legs, which were long and smooth. She felt strangely touchable; hungry.

And that terrified her. The last time she’d wanted that, she made the mistake of being the other woman while she, too, was still married. Now, her ex-husband and ex-lover were both content family men. They’d left her with nothing to show and Natalie was unprepared to make the same mistake. So unprepared, in fact, she’d considered not even leaving her apartment tonight. She would have made herself a cocktail, strutted around the apartment in silk and stilettos, and curled up in front of the fireplace, congratulating herself on a baby step towards moving on from past mistakes.

Natalie was never content with baby steps.

At twenty, she’d dreamt of seizing control of her father’s company. At twenty-two, she’d been hellbent on proving to everyone that she could be a flawless wife and mother. At thirty, she’d been determined to push her husband to political renown. At forty, she’d juggled a marriage, a son in college, and an affair simply because she could. At forty-four, she filed for separation. Divorced by forty-five. Clean slate, since nothing panned out.

If you wanted something, you went for it. You calculated a route from Point A to Point B, and you set fire to your heels. You didn’t achieve anything, lounging around and looking good. You had to venture out into the world and at least try.

If you never tried, you could never fail. But if you never tried, what was the point? Natalie believed in security above all else, but her second strongest conviction was that if she wanted something done, she’d see to it herself.

Tonight, she wanted to go home with someone.

There was just one problem.

She was forty-five years old, competing with twenty year olds for what? A one-night stand? A “quick shag”? There was something a little pathetic about that. But as far as Natalie was concerned, there was no moral dilemma here. Merely a practical one. She looked good for her age, but she didn’t look like she was twenty. She probably looked like a—she hated the word-- cougar. That’s what she drove. A bronze Cougar. She was either a predatory cat or a midsized luxury car. She was determined not to look as ashamed of that as she felt. Was it so bad she wanted to be the younger, prettier Oxbridge coed she’d been two decades ago?

Natalie focused on the pretty array of bottles lining the space behind the bar. Blues, greens, browns, reds, and golds changed colors in the ever-changing lights of Batofar night club. She was good at finding an emotional happy place, even when she felt like being anywhere else. She could have just left. That was always an option.

It was also a step backwards.

Natalie supposed she could mingle more actively. She wondered how one worked the dance floor without playing hostess. The bar was safer, really, than the jungle at the center of the club. The women there—the “competition—were all overly-inebriated and writhing in some sort of lusty agony. The men, meanwhile, looked as drunk and as subtle as their counterparts. Natalie supposed if she could start the night over, she’d pick a better venue: one which said “classiest” instead of “trendiest”, for example. Too late for that, though. She looked down the bar and tried to look at a man a few stools down in some sort of lingering way.

She blinked the look away. Lingering looks weren’t her thing. She wanted conversation or music and dancing or making love to a man equal parts handsome and clever. Clearly, that was asking for too much from this place. Maybe those dating sites weren’t a horrid idea, after all.

Natalie swiveled back around to take a sip of her drink. She shut her eyes for a moment, and when they opened again, she caught a bit of movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned to see a handsome man walking her way. A hopeful flutter passed through her stomach and Natalie tried to smile without looking too excited. Her lips curved upwards slowly, steadily and then the man offered her his hand.

Natalie blinked. Her smile didn’t falter, but the initial spark in her eyes dimmed in confusion. A handshake? She looked up at him dubiously, to see a smile matching her own, and a sort of glimmer in his eyes.

"Hey, my name's Myron Bolitar, what's yours?"

“Natalie Blackwood,” she said, taking his hand and shaking it. It was firm, but not callused. Somehow, she’d snagged a businessman. An American businessman, who spoke her language. Thank God.

Well, perhaps she’d snagged a businessman. There was no guarantee he wasn’t coming over here to ask her if she had a more attractive daughter on duty tonight. Still, her eyes met Myron’s and Natalie could feel that craving stir inside her again. They were dark, his eyes, a warm brown unlike what she was used to. They weren’t the cold blue she’d seen time and again, steelily regarding her as the unworthy ex-wife, ex-lover. They weren’t something she could trick herself into being anything remotely close to familiar. Something in that was thrilling.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, gesturing to the barstool beside her. Her smile was crooked, intrigued. “I was beginning to think charming conversation was a dead art in this country.”

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar


Ladies and gentlemen, let it be known that no matter what Cosmo, Tigger Beat, GQ-LMNO-whatever magazine said- men did not have it easy when it game to, 'the game'. Okay, sure, women take forever and a day in the bathroom trying to get their sex appeal on and it is more of a production in that sense than for a man, but the approaching aspect of it was a dude's worst nightmare. That was what seperated male and female. The fact that women could sit there, on a bar stool, looking like a too hot to trot superstar, and the men had to just move in like some freaky predator was not fair. Not all the time, but lets be honest, it was what the social norm was, and what society pressured of men. Playing this game could completely backfire on a guy in a heartbeat.

For instance, this particular moment. As Myron Bolitar extended his hand to this lovely blonde creature with shimmering eyes and long legs, the skin on his straight forward fingers began to freeze over like it had just entered the cold tundra of what was the woman's personal bubble. In this instant, his hand was left alone. His hand was vulnerable as ever, and all Myron could do was await. Would his hand be taken, or would it be chopped off by a verbal rejection? Dum-Dum-Dum material, right? Not only was it even that simple yes/no question, but there were more things to worry over. Such as, what if this beautiful vixen had a freak car accident and lost her hands, so everytime she sees a hand she bursts into hot-mascara running tears? What if she had a boyfriend who was standing right behind him about to rip Myron a new a$shole? Psh, well good luck with that. No big deal but, Myron Bolitar had a wingman that could probably remove each intestine with two fingers if that were the truth. Best. Wingman. Ever.

Myron was over reacting but it was better than being a too casual doucher about it. If he didn't think it was a big deal, introducing himself to a woman and not allowing it to phase him, then he would look like an over confident shmooze. The key was to allow whatever paranoia was lingering in his stomach to happen, but let the outside just be calm and so into anything that was her next move.

“Natalie Blackwood."

Relief. She spoke American. This night would have ended so quickly...

The Natalie Blackwood took a grip on his hand and shook it. With the contact, Myron smirked, and mentally took back all the whimpy things he had just thought about. Yeah, right. It was all about game, baby. Now that Myron Bolitar had the handshake, he felt that the rest would be easy. Oh wait, that was when he was a gentleman. Being a gentleman and a charmer was easy. This whole, blunt and 'lets have sex tonight' was a new mentality. Jesus on a Ritz Bitz, how did people do things like this every night? The entire world needed to have the stranger danger speech.

Enough of that though. Myron found himself actually incredibly entranced by Natalie Blackwood. Her eyes were reeling him in slowly, and he was genuinely interested in how this chit chat would go down.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you."

Success never felt so good, and Myron allowed himself a little bit of pride as he took the seat she was gesturing to next to hers. He never took his eyes off of her though, watching as her lips twisted into a smirk, but only let them linger away from her eyes for a milisecond. When men lingered away from eyes women always noticed. It was the first sign of a pig, and Myron Bolitar was no such thing. This wasn't an issue, as Myron Boiltar had never seen such a set of crystal eyes before. They weren't chocolate brown. They were on the other end of that color spectrum, and for personal reasons that was a highly good thing.

“I was beginning to think charming conversation was a dead art in this country.”

With a twisted grin, Myron Bolitar leaned in closely to her, but not close enough where she wouldn't have the option of leaning in or out. "Well lets hope we can both keep that art form alive tonight."

That could have been interpreted in oh so many ways. Before she had time to over think it, Myron Bolitar continued with a smile, putting a hand under his chin boyishly and casually.

"I was beginning to think that tastefully dressed gorgeous women were dead in this country."

[The Exodus]

Natalie Blackwood

Myron sat down beside her. Natalie felt her pulse skip, as if giving itself a high-five. She could hear, dimly, in the back of her mind, Beatrice’s voice.

You always pick the ones with the strangest names, Nat.

Better that way, she’d say sweetly. They think they have something to prove and end up… overcompensating.

She thought of her last two—her only two—men. Lucian and Anthony, who went by his last name, Walden. She’d been disappointed emotionally; never intellectually or physically. If that was what she was looking for, Natalie Blackwood had possibly hit the jackpot. She’d never head the name “Myron” outside Regency Era texts. Just a little push towards conversation would be all they’d need. And really, it wasn’t desperation nearly as much as it was intrigue. She’d only ever had two men in her life. Both Brits, both disappointments in the end. This change of pace might be all she needed to prove her theory.

"Well let’s hope we can both keep that art form alive tonight."

He was a smooth talker. But it was more than that. She’d had smooth talkers for a total of twenty four years. Myron, as if to prove he could walk the line, leaned forward subtly and maintained eye contact. Natalie’s smile deepened just a bit.

"I was beginning to think that tastefully dressed gorgeous women were dead in this country."

Natalie shook her head with silent, almost derisive laughter. He had a point. A very, valid point. She thought of the girls on the dance floor, in their barely there dresses. And if this was a beauty contest, an English rose would always have a French maid beat. There simply was no contest.

“I suppose that’s why they’ve had to import people like you and me, Myron,” she said, running a finger around the foamy rim of her cup. “A need to… stimulate the senses.”

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar

When Natalie Blackwood (Myron figured if he said it mentally enough he wouldn't forget it, or you know, not say it later. He was always so paranoid about that.), laughed silently in appreciation, Myron Bolitar knew that they were in business. Mostly because she wasn't looking at him like a tardo for an attempt at wit. There was always an accomplishment when someone was given good feedback. Plus, Natalie had a sense of humor. Myron was willing to sleep with a beautiful stranger tonight, but not one that couldn't have fun. Myron Bolitar was a man with standards, dammit.

“I suppose that’s why they’ve had to import people like you and me, Myron."

Ladies and gentlemen, the name 'Myron' can sound sexy. Just have Natalie Blackwood say it. Inwardly Myron Bolitar kicked himself. Toddy had talked to him about the name jokes...

“A need to-"

In the corner of his eyes he watched as her slender pretty fingers moved around the rim of her drink. Although the rim of the glass looked nothing like men genitalia, Myron couldn't help but react as if it were some kind of phallic symbol. Just imagine if there were a straw in that drink.

"Stimulate the senses.”

There went that manly- ding!

Oh, she was good. If Myron Bolitar weren't turned on before, there was no denying how hot and bothered he was now. Natalie Blackwood was equally as witty, and just increased the scale of her sexiness. That's when Myron knew that tonight needed to happen, and he needed to make it happen.

Squinting his eyes, switching his smirk completely to a once boyish to a now seductive danger, Myron Bolitar shook his head slowly straightening in his seat but still maintaining some distance. The lack of physical contact was sexy, at least for now.

"You should watch what you say, Natalie." He purred, now not just looking into her eyes, but boring into them. "Talk of stimulation can make a man act out."

Without leaving her eyes, Myron shifted his hand to pluck the drink that she were tracing with fingers away from her.

"Or maybe-"

He set the glass down and put his hand right next to hers on top of the bar to the point where the side of his hand was barely touching hers. Myron Bolitar wanted her full attention, physically and mentally.

"That wouldn't be such a bad thing."