Les Bains

[The Exodus]

The name "Les Bains" means, in French, the baths, which references the decadent bathhouse this nighttime hot spot once was. Nowadays, it's a glamorous nightclub, frequented by Paris' beautiful people. The lower level is the bar and dance floor, where tasty drinks and tantalizing beats can be had. The upper level is actually an exclusive Thai restaurant, beloved by Paris' glitterati. Whatever you look for in a nightclub, you'll find it at Les Bains!

[The Exodus]

OOC: Linnea/Santiago! BIC:


Santiago Ortiz

In a weird way, Les Bains was aptly named. The instant Santiago walked into the nightclub, he was bathed—utterly immersed—in flashing lights and seductive dance beats. It inundated his senses of sight and sound, and if he was some sort of wide-eyed innocent, he’d be gasping desperately for the calm the nightclub lacked, as though it were oxygen. But Santiago took one look around the night club and decided that this was not his sort of place. At least, not his usual sort of place. Santiago liked his bars dark and secluded. He liked his music sultry, but not punctuated by techno-beats. Even the people in Les Bains weren’t Santiago’s type. He wasn’t of Paris’ upper echelon. He wasn’t what he considered to be one of the beautiful people in Paris. He was handsome, but not classically. And it never bothered him, until Santiago’s dark features were put in direct contrast with sunnier good looks. His clothes never bothered him, until put up against the “ironic” clothing of a younger crowd. And Santiago supposed he wasn’t bothered by any of it. He was just aware. He could feel the curious stares of other revelers. Men, eyeing him like he was a threat—maybe a new bouncer—and women flustering at the appearance of a leather-and-denim clad man among their pretty boys in silk shirts. It didn’t feel bad. The contrary. It felt a little flattering. Santiago had learned since moving to Paris to relish his difference from the natives. It was the only way to stay comfortable in your own skin. Even if it was a little annoying to stand out so much in a crowd like tonight’s.

Santiago was prowling tonight. Too long, he’d been cooped up. He’d grieved his doomed relationship for too long. Mourning wasn’t becoming on him. Not forever, anyways. He could pull off a brooding, Heathcliff-on-the-Moor image for only so long. Though not exactly Mr. Congeniality, Santiago had his own bad boy charm that was begging to get out and mingle with some gorgeous Frenchwoman or another. And, though he’d come to possibly the worst place for stimulating conversation, Santiago held onto the hope that someone would excite him, ignite his mind for a few drinks. Not too much to ask for, was it? He’d been a good boy, after all… Working, mostly. Supporting his friends, too. He deserved a little fun.

Santiago sauntered up to the bar and ordered a beer, much to the bartender’s chagrin, and began people watching. There was no shortage of women to look at; women who would be interesting looking on their own, but who looked the same under the rainbow of lights. He left the beer alone and pulled out a cigarette and lighter. Smoking in bars in Paris may have been prohibited, but in a place like Les Bains, petty laws didn’t matter as long as everyone had a good time…

[plantnerd92]

Linnea Hepworth

A place like Les Bains wasn't exactly what Linnea was used to, but it was her night off, and she figured she'd go out and see the sights Paris had to offer. Clad in a simple maroon halter-top and a pair of jeans, Linnea stood rather out of place among the flashier dressed crowd. She danced a few times, but eventually got bored, and slunk away from the masses and headed to the bar and ordered a water. She didn't much care for alcoholic beverages, though she would have an occasional glass of wine on special occasions. Haunting a nightclub wasn't one of them. She looked over at the man next to her, similarly dressed, and nursing a beer and cigarette. Linnea was mildly allergic to smoke, so she tried not to inhale to rapidly lest she start choking.

Feeling in the mood for a little casual conversation, Linnea turned to the man with a good-natured smirk.

"I think we're under-dressed in a place like this," she said, making fun of the overall appearance of the rest of the clubbers. Honestly, she didn't really see the need for being dressed to the nines in a place like this.

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

It wasn’t a dive bar, so the ambiance was different. What Santiago thought run-of-the mill was no where to be found. There were no gambling games set up at cramped tables; no lipstick-stained prostitutes plying their trade. The hipsters at the bar would likely throw red paint on him if they knew Santiago’s jacket was made of real leather, but none of them could even begin to imagine why someone wouldn’t flinch at the thought of being drenched in symbolic blood. There were bleach-blondes with bustier-made bodies, flirting with men in Armani suits, too, who had probably driven there in their daddies’ old Mercedes Benzes. To Santiago, these self-indulgent rich kids were characters, the way he must have seemed to them. Surreal, different. Walking nightmares from the other side of the tracks. Santiago wondered which of the girls would be curious enough to look his way; which one would be bored enough by the Prince Charmings abound to let Santiago try his luck. He felt a woman join him at the bar before he looked at her. The air changed; it got heavier just from another person breathing close by. And Santiago hazarded a sideways glance.

What he saw impressed him vaguely. A girl, smirking over at him, clad in jeans and a reddish tank-top. She had curves and touchable-looking brown hair. Santiago hadn’t officially sworn off brunettes and he was glad he hadn’t. He half-smiled back at her crookedly.

"I think we're under-dressed in a place like this," she said.

Santiago shrugged, took one last drag from his cigarette, and snuffed it out.

“I think ‘underdressed’ is the wrong word,” he said, nodding towards a woman wearing barely enough fabric to cover her unmentionables. “But I know what you mean. You got a name, chica?”

[plantnerd92]

Linnea Hepworth

The man was good looking, in a rather rugged sort of way, as he flashed her a crooked half-smile. Linnea returned it with one of her own as she briefly mentioned how they were a bit more casually dressed than many of the club-goers here, and he shrugged, taking one last puff of his cigarette before putting it out. Linnea was grateful, because now she could breathe a little more easily.

The man spoke with an accent that was distinctly south of the border of France. Linnea found that it fractionally increased his overall attractiveness, simply because it fit so well with his appearance and 'devil-may-care' attitude.

"I think 'underdressed' is the wrong word," he told her, nodding towards a very scantily clad young woman. Linnea's eyes rolled heavenward once she caught sight of her, feeling very tempted to tell her to put some clothes on, but she refrained, smirking. If people wanted to make spectacles of themselves, then by all means, she would let them. "But I know what you mean. You got a name, chica?" the man asked, bringing her attention back to him. Linnea smiled and inclined her head slightly.

"I might have a name," she said, mischief dancing in her dark eyes. "That all depends on who wants to know..." she fired back, her voice lilting slightly. "Linnea Hepworth," she said finally with her signature slacker grin. She wouldn't mind a bit of flirtation with this man. He was cute, and she was in need of distraction.

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

It seemed Santiago had developed a taste for brunettes since moving to Paris. This yet nameless girl was no different. A pretty brunette in a bar with the same eschewal of the dress code Santiago enjoyed.

"I might have a name," said the brunette cryptically. Santiago didn’t blink. Instead, he regarded the mischief in her eyes with mildly agitated curiosity. The flirting game was fun, but not for the impatient. The girl blinked first, so to speak. "Linnea Hepworth.”

“Santiago Ortiz,” he said, giving his name in return. “Linnea… Not a name you hear every day.”

Of course, his name wasn’t much more common in Paris.

“And your accent… English?” he asked, cocking his head. His lips turned up into a grin. “You come all the way across the Channel for a couple drinks or do you dance?”

[plantnerd92]

Linnea Hepworth

"Santiago Ortiz" the man said after Linnea had introduced herself. Linnea smiled and nodded in acknowledgement, before he spoke again. "Linnea... Not a name you hear every day," Santiago mused, trying out her name. Linnea laughed and nodded.

"Not sure where my mother got it," she said with a smile. Not that she minded. Her name was as unique as she was, and she was perfectly happy with it. There wasn't a person in the world exactly like Linnea Hepworth, and there never will be.

"And your accent... English?" Santiago asked with a tilt of his head, making Linnea smirk.

"You're good," she drawled, returning the grin he flashed at her.

"You come all the way across the Channel for a couple of drinks or do you dance?" came the question, straight to the point. Linnea found it refreshing, and wouldn't mind a bit more dancing. The night was still young, after all.

"As long as your asking," Linnea began with a smile. "I do, as a matter of fact, dance."

[The Exodus]

OOC: Madeleine and Myron! BIC:

Madeleine de Chandon

She’d changed in the backseat of a taxi cab, but Madeleine had decided before the day even began that she would spend the night clubbing. It was nice, having Valter around, screwing each other when they felt so inclined, but it was even nicer knowing that he wouldn’t get terribly jealous, if jealous at all, should she prowl on her own. If there was one thing Madeleine prized, it was her agency to do as she pleased with her time and her body. She didn’t understand how some girls did it, really. Give all this up for so-called “stability”. Ain’t no such thing as stability. Anyone who says otherwise is lying or trying to get you to promise forever.

Anyways, she’d planned her day around tonight and was quite proud of the transformation from business casual to LBD. She had managed to change without giving her cabbie an up-skirt view, which made her feel classier than a woman who planned her days around dancing, drinking, and sex ought to. But even her friends in the highest places would have to agree, Les Bains was a hot place to be.

Okay, well not all her friends in high places. Ashton was probably too busy perfecting her pat-a-cake technique to go clubbing. Never mind her fiancé would likely drop to the ground from cardiac arrest at the sight of the flashing lights. (Maybe making heart attack jokes wasn’t that funny since Ashton’s dad had one and Madeleine was so sure Aryeh would be next). But, she thought of some of her other friends: Toddy, for instance, would think this place was a veritable Xanadu. Hot bodies, cold drinks, music and lights and a restaurant upstairs. Little else a gal could want in the world.

Madeleine made a b-line for the bar. She’d spent her day dancing—choreographing, actually—and before she regained her dancing feet, she wanted to build a buzz. Maybe more than a buzz. She sat down on one of the leather-lined barstools and smiled at the bartender. He smiled back, but he wasn’t the only one. Madeleine was surrounded by beautiful people. Models, in fact, and movie stars, but despite all that, Madeleine still could command attention. It was reassuring because the way she figured, she only had, like, five years to be in the spotlight and ten before she ought to get thee to a surgeon’s consulting firm. She’d enjoy it while she could. Burn bright, burn out quick was better than staying in obscurity forever.

“Armagnac,” she ordered. She’d need it. Every time she came, Les Bains seemed to be more of the same radio-garbage every night club played and less of the interesting, intricate beats of a clever, up and coming DJ. She wondered if it made her sound old if she said she could remember when David Guetta first opened this place, before he was internationally renowned. No. It just made her sound like a hipster. When her drink arrived, she downed it far too quickly, not even bothering to taste and savor the brandy like a proper French woman. She slammed the glass down, and signaled to the bartender again. “Another.”

The night was young and as far as Madeleine was concerned, so was her liver.

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar

At one point Friday night prowling was a sport, and Myron Bolitar was Babe Ruth.

Also at one point, it wasn't 'Friday night prowling' (which served more as a title for a Dateline episode), but it was just a regular Friday night. You know you've hit rock bottom when you're homosexual best friend has to talk you into switching the Batman jj's (yes, jj's) in for a suit, and actually get you off the couch which has the *ss imprint in it from how long it's been sat on, and give you a 'man' talk about your sex life- or lack thereof.

The real rock bottom to this was the fact that Toddy St. James had to give a 'man' talk.

Here he was on this Friday night at a night club. Back to the old days it felt like. See, Myron Bolitar use to have Friday nights on Saturday through Thursday. Going out, having a couple drinks with friends, meeting women, buying them drinks, flirtation, networking- that's what it was all about.

It seemed so new now, as Myron Bolitar stepped into the night club, shoving one hand into his black dress pocket, standing in front of the double doors, and taking a nice look around with squinted eyes. Which, he would like to think of as the Clint Eastwood eyes. Nothing had changed about the scene. Same bimbos, same perverts, same dense beat, with the same dancing as if the women were going to conceive right on the floor from how close everyone was moving their hips together. This sortive' night life had never been his 'thing', but it made for good publicity, kept him up to date, and kept him out of the house from Toddy St. James who was sulking on his couch with pink footie pajamas on. Could the princess get anymore Brokeback or what? This wasn't fair. Why did Myron have to face the world, and Toddy got to sulk with the comfortable leather couch and General Hospital?

It just keeps getting rockier, and way more to the bottom, doesn't it?

A devilish smirk that felt so right and so natural crossed Myron's lips, once he noticed he was catching a few eyes and a bit of murmurs. Sure, they maybe were gossiping now about the tabloids that were sweeping the magazines at an annoying rate. 'MYRON BOLITAR- WHERE HAS HE GONE?' Or, his personal favorite that he will probably frame- 'MYRON BOLITAR- BRING YOUR SEXY BACK!'. Who knew they had it in them to make a Justin Timberlake joke, or did they know? At any rate, Myron Bolitar did a pretty good job of slipping into incognito and staying there. Of course, it wasn't his first choice, going into the whole rehab thing. Although, if it were a contract for that Doctor Drew show, he would be all over that sucker. Doctor Drew was an attractive man, he would admit it. Erm- yes he has been spending too much time with the gay.

Rehab was something that made Myron Bolitar feel flawed. It felt like everything was going just grand until all that commotion happened. At first, he felt weak for having to do it- but after Madeleine left, the migraines and flashbacks ensued, what choice did he have? It wasn't too bad. Myron got to talk about himself all the time, and Santiago and he had fun with the nurses. Of course, that was one sided. Although, Toddy befriended many of them with their gossiping and fashion tip exchanges. Working from his laptop had been a bore. Myron had missed the social life. He missed being able to meet new people, say hello to old faces. It's so odd what people take for granted.

But, that was all gone now and this was a fresh new start.
Feeling it now, the rush, the adrenaline, the good feeling of being surrounded by people- Myron unbuttoned his dress jacket, and flapped it outward, sliding his other hand in his pocket, and slithering his way back near the bar. Myron Bolitar was taking the room as a little experiment.

On the way to the bar, a redhead with a sultry babe-o-rama stare caught his eye. Myron Bolitar gave her a quick once over, noticing how tight her green dress was to her killer body. She was the epitome of sexy, and she was doing that thing with her straw. The thing where the woman takes a sip, but does it a little too sippy with her lips, biting it for no reason but to make the man cringe with excitement, and parting her mouth. So the thing that has no intention of drinking out of her drink, but seducing. Seduction with a straw. It was an art. A craft. Something that apart of his body particular enjoyed watching. Wow, men were easy.

"Bonjour, Monsieur."

The redhead- straw sucking-green dressed lady made a move in and Myron blinked back the fact that he had almost ran into her with his shot to the bar, wanting a drink a little more severely than he should.

"Hello. Couldn't help noticing your-" Don't look. Don't do it. Myron's eyes went to her breasts that were practically rubbing against his chest at this point. He hadn't felt a woman's body in a long time. Don't say boobs, Myron. Say eyes! Look! They're pretty!"Dress." Oh, good. "It's green. Makes you look like Christmas with your hair."

That's when she gave him the huff, the glare, and the walk away.
Erm- apparently she was Jewish?

Myron Bolitar continued for the bar. He hadn't been single in awhile, was a smooth flirtation man by nature, but his heart wasn't in this game right now. He could play the game whenever he wanted without a single doubt, but tonight it's not what he really wanted to do. It would take him awhile to want to, he figured, after all that had happened. Not having Madeleine was just weird. Myron Bolitar tried to push that thought away and listen to- yes, awful to admit- Toddy's advice, and try to act a little smooth tonight. Toddy had pretty much told the Rouge owner to go out and 'get some', but in his fairy about way- but it just felt gross. Meaningless sex with a beautiful woman?

He could walk the walk, talk the talk, do the do- but not actually do a... woman. It needed to mean something. Myron Bolitar was a walking sappy romantic comedy. Myron needed to man up tonight. He needed to forget about you-know-who-love-of-his-life, and all the junk that followed that- and just have some sex! Intercourse! Fornication! Doin the nastay deed! Bow chika wah wow worthy things!

Yep.

He was going to need that drink.

Approaching the bar, Myron's elbows grinded against the wood and looked up at the bartender. "I'll have the-"
That's when his eyes turned and met the profile of Madeleine Ledoux.

"... the..."

Myron Bolitar's body was stunned, his brain was turning into garbage disposal worthy mush, and his tounge seemed to be swelling in this way that made him look like a camel without a clue. His body slid and angled, opening his body to the profile of her.

"Monsieur?"

Myron's world was closing in on him. He had not seen, heard, smelled, tasted, kissed, touched, anything that involved the five senses with Madeleine in so long. Myron Bolitar thought about her every two point five seconds though, and finally tonight he wasn't going to! He was going to try and escape the pitiful teenager angst away, but the woman he was trying to run away from was right there!

D*mn, she was beautiful. She was gorgeous. She knew it too, and d*mn well better keep knowing it. Myron's eyes rounded in a puppy stare with an open mouth, feeling the hot wet tears form in the ducts of his eyes, slumping his shoulders over. He just wanted like, a hug. Was that hard to ask for? This entire time- all the rough patches, he just needed her. But, she didn't trust him. After the stunt he pulled of just leaving to save his brother and keep her from danger- how could she? There was so much she didn't know though, but lets face, it was one of those things that would never find a happy medium. Myron Bolitar never stopped loving her.

"Holy sheeeeee-it!" Myron whispered in a high pitch squeak, beginning to freak as if he hadn't before, and slammed his chest into the side of the bar.

The bartender, stunned, leaned in with concern. "Um, Monsieur, drink? On the house-"

"Okay, look over to the right. No- you're left." Myron whispered, keeping his eyes down to the wood of the bar. "But don't make it obvious."

The bartender, probably thinking Myron were apart of some cooky stalker gang, did so uneasy, and then once he looked at Madeleine, his eyes set a little too comfortably.

"I said look, not check out! I will kick your *ss."

Myron Bolitar wasn't over protective or anything.

The bartender gulped, squinting and not squinting- trying a few different looks to make sure that the crazy Bolitar man didn't think he were 'checking' Madeleine out.

"That's my ex fiancee."

Myron Bolitar didn't really know what he was saying, but his eyes were hazy and breathing was rugged.

"Tell me... does she look happy?"

The bartender examined for a moment, and shrugged.

"She could use a friend I suppose."

Why was Myron asking a bartender this? Was it because he was freaking out and even the support of a stranger seemed good for now? If Santiago were here right now he would tell Myron to leave the bar. Toddy would want them to magically get married on top of the bar. So, it was up to Myron to find that happy medium.

Settling down, standing up right, but still looking at the bar, Myron breathed with a knowing soft smile. "She looks beautiful, doesn't she?"

The bartender continued to look. "Yes. Very much so."

Myron Bolitar didn't even have to see her face to know that. He had seen her eyes so many times in his mind, imagine her a lot. Sounds really dumb and so cinema when talked about, but when you really feel it and really need it- it's all you have to hold onto.

"What is she drinking?"

Seeming to understand, the bartender went off to go get the drink.

Myron from the corner of his eyes peered over slightly but kept his head down so he was out of sight, but a little of him hoped he was not to out of mind. Madeleine. If that were one thing Myron Bolitar wished he could take back, it would be what had happened with them. He wouldn't know how exactly, but he would make sure above anything, that she knew how much he loved her and would do anything for her. It hurt and killed that they didn't talk anymore. This is what tonight was going to be. To fill that void, because Myron Bolitar rather be chatting awkwardly about the freaking weather with her than nothing at all. Even if she hated his guts, he would at least make her say something to him just to have some communication with her again.

Out of all the bars, this one? Myron Bolitar didn't believe that much in luck, fate and what have you. He left that for John Cusack movies. But this was something special ...

The bartender handed him the ... Armagnac? Huh. Someone wanted a stiff drink too.

"I'll have scotch on the rocks too please."

He ordered before turning to the side, taking a breath, and slipping back into old Myron Bolitar for her, and suppressing so much else there was for her.

Myron realized the audience they had from afar. The men, google eyed at her, and the others looking at Myron and either checking him out, but mostly wondering where the hell he had come from.

Approaching from the behind side angle, Myron Bolitar shot back into this familiar Myron he once was, and decided to take one for the team, and try something that was way old. The time before they were a couple.

Ouch.

Sliding an arm close by her side, jolting at the warmth of her body and peering at her bare back in that form fitting black dress that hugged her every beautiful curve with long wavy dark hair, Myron set the drink in front of her, and moved his face close to her left ear to murmur.

"Excuse me Miss," He purred, "I'm going to have to remove you from this bar if you can't keep your gorgeous looks to yourself. I so do not feeling like mopping up the drool tonight."

[The Exodus]

Madeleine de Chandon

A warm sensation tingled Madeleine’s toes and abdomen after the second drink. It was barely there, something she could attribute to the thrumming of the nightclub or to the alcohol she had consumed. The beginning of a buzz felt the same as an adrenaline rush. Maybe she ought to take up rock climbing or parasailing. She didn’t know much about either, but at least it’d be new, instead of more of the same. Flirt, drink, dance. There wasn’t that much variety, but it was better than diaper duty, same man or woman for the next fifty years, getting old and going out of style. Not much variety was better than none at all. Take this Armagnac. It was strong stuff, quality stuff. Better than slurping down a Singapore Sling or Sex on the Beach. It was classy; tonight, Madeleine was classy. Another night, she’d be ordering drinks with silly names (Slippery Nipple, Fuzzy Navel) and she’d be something—someone—else. Whatever she was, she wasn’t the ballet mistress she was during the day. Instructing dancers, savvy, dressed like a dancer or a lawyer, depending on the day. If not variety, dichotomy. Liberation.

Or madness. Sometimes Madeleine wondered if this was how the descent into split personality disorder began. If there was such a thing as a descent into split personality disorder. She finished her second Armagnac of the night.

The warmth was more intense now and it had spread to her side Madeleine frowned as another drink materialized in front of her. She hadn’t ordered a third; she wasn’t too drunk to remember ordering. Either she’d attracted attention or she really was going crazy.

And then it dawned on her the warmth was an arm. And then a mouth.

"Excuse me Miss," the mouth said. It had an all too familiar American accent. Madeleine stiffened. No, she wasn’t going crazy. She didn’t have to look to know it was Myron Bolitar who had joined her. "I'm going to have to remove you from this bar if you can't keep your gorgeous looks to yourself. I so do not feeling like mopping up the drool tonight."

In the past, Madeleine would have laughed. Back when she and Myron were dating or—more recently—engaged. Now, he was her ex-boyfriend, ex-fiance, even ex-boss. Ex everything, really, except husband. Someone hadn’t notified him, of the “ex factor” though, because he was acting as if he hadn’t disappeared without a word or returned in desperate need of psychological help. He was acting as if the engagement hadn’t been called off, as if Madeleine wasn’t seeing someone else. She wasn’t sure if it was guilt or annoyance making her nauseous.

Or maybe it was the alcohol.

“Didn’t think you’d ever take on janitorial duty,” she said, not missing a beat.

She smiled, perhaps grinned or smirked was a more apt description. But from the corner of her eye, the glint of her new glass caught her eye. She quirked an eyebrow. Wasn’t there a rule about letting your ex buy you a drink? If not, Madeleine thought there should be. The idea of owing Myron, being indebted to him, was thoroughly unappealing. Not just because it was Myron and he would—undoubtedly—try to pass it off as chivalry, which Madeleine wanted less than a debt, but because he was her ex and there really ought to be principles involved. If she let him buy her a drink, then she’d have to talk to him at the very least. And all she could imagine were terrible, awkward conversations. The old ‘how have you been?’ ‘How’s the Rouge?’ ‘Are you seeing anyone’ routine followed by the ‘I’ve been in freaking rehab. Why the hell do you care about the Rouge, traitor? Yeeah, and she’s hotter than you’ routine. Conversely, Madeleine had been getting by, loving the power she wielded within the Garnier’s walls (more boss than housemom), and she was seeing someone—lots of someones, but one someone in particular she didn’t expect Myron to want to discuss at length. She thought of Valter. He wasn’t her boyfriend, per se. It sounded juvenile to call him such, since their relationship comprised of sex, unnervingly deep conversation, and tiptoing around four year old child because neither of them knew how to behave around kids. She knew—knew—mentioning Edie would make Myron angry. She couldn’t handle psychological baggage of PTSD, but a child? Madeleine had always professed to hate children. And while she wasn’t curious enough about Edie to ever entertain being her stepmom, Edie was a side-effect like nausea or a headache, while Myron’s gangster family and stint in rehab were more akin to strange abdominal bleeding or seizure.

Okay. She was comparing dating to medicine. Maybe she ought to get back on topic. She didn’t want to owe Myron anything—certainly not any more than she might already—because everything about their lives and broken relationship screamed awkward. How to deal? How to deal…?

“How much do I owe you for the drink? Eight euros? Fifteen?”

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar

It was forced charm (if that's what that line was called), and a smile (if that's what that thing was tugging at his lips), but it was better than what had really wanted to come out of Myron Bolitar.

First, maybe just a hug, you know? Hugging it out. Then, the questions: Why didn't she try to understand? Why didn't she trust him? Why, in the darkest point in his life- did she have to cut out all communication off? Then, explanation time. The game where the man attempts at getting out all the information into one big breath, because the first inkling of something a woman doesn't like- boom. They may as well just walk out of the door. Which, is what essentially happened. Then that whole internal questioning of- 'gee, Myron. Are you really at all in the right?'. A conversation with a strong powerful person can tend to dumb a person down a bit, make them the weaker link. All in all, Myron felt angry, guilty, depressed, hurt, and sad.

Yah. He'd take the silly charm and a forced smile for one thousand.

“Didn’t think you’d ever take on janitorial duty."

And there was that fast retort that he always loved. No- sh*t. Gotta' get use to this. Not love, but appreciate. Appreciate! Good word, right? There would be no saying, thinking, feeling, or even in knowledge that the word 'love' exists.

Smirking to himself, still standing near her shoulder, Myron took a moment to realize how many people were watching them. Either blatantly, or doing that ever so humble, I-am-talking-to-my-friend-or-drinking-this-drink-but-my-eyes-are-eating-into-your-soul-I'm-so-subtle gaze.

Since this was an attempt to reach back into the old times, Myron couldn't help in the back of his mind, wonder the question he use to worry over. Who would she have gone home with tonight? He didn't own her. She was a grown woman with needs, she was a free spirit and was free with her body- which Myron Bolitar once judged her for, but it came out of jealousy more than anything- and she was now ... single. You can thank yourself for that. So what if Myron weren't over her shoulder right now? What would be happening? And since he was gone all this time ... Nope. Myron wasn't allowed to care. It wasn't his place anymore.

It hurt like hell.

Madeleine's voice brought him back to a blinking reality.

"How much do I owe you for the drink? Eight euros? Fifteen?"

A shot ripped through his chest. That was, different. Myron's jaw clenched subtly, trying to keep this ultra smooth composure that was seriously like asking Jack the Ripper to keep his cool as a prostitute crossed the street.

Mmkay. Hold the phone. That sounded awful, and it may seem like he was doing that Freud thing- calling himself Jack the Ripper and Madeleine a prostitute. Not true. D*mn, the more he was aware of his metaphors, the more Myron wasn't shocked he had gotten more blows to the face in his lifetime.

Anyways, this whole drink thing. Was this buying her a drink not acceptable? It was a pride thing for her probably. A guard that isolated her independence from him. So, buying her alcohol was what? Too close to home and familiar?

D*mn, was there like a manual for this?

Sliding sideways to lean up against the bar, facing her head on with both elbows on the ledge- and making sure to leave enough space for her little bubble of, 'don't buy me a drink!'. Myron Bolitar met her eyes, and stole a beat to really gaze into them. There was a relief that swelled in his chest that was just this overwhelming feeling of, she was there. In one piece. Odd, but it was a thought he had and rode it.

"It was on the house, Madeleine." He murmured quietly during his gaze softly, not even blinking away from her deep chocolate eyes. Myron would respect her dignity, pride, isolation- whatever it was.

But he would not have it turn awkward, because lets face it- he was so doing that longing stare thing.

"So what's on the agenda tonight?"

Myron Bolitar inquired, tapping into anything besides awkward small chatter. Christ on a cracker knows how that would turn out.

Turning to face the bar, he stared out not looking at her and grinned.

"Drinking til' your teeth tingle?"

The waiter slid down his scotch on the rocks.

"Getting a night out? Findin' some inspiration? Lettin' loose? Tryin' to get some action because-" Myron Bolitar held up his glass, "I've been told I make a fabulous wing man."

Hold thee friggin' phone.

Did he really just offer to be his exes wing man?

Something died inside of him. It was his pride now.

Myron threw back his scotch until just the rocks were left.

[The Exodus]

OOC: Don’t You Remember by Adele is on right now. MM much? BIC:

Madeleine de Chandon

She was offering to pay a man for a drink. That had to be a new one for the books. Madeleine de Chandon was a freebie junkie. Free samples of perfume, of food, of wine were all fair game while shopping. Here she was, getting an entire glass of free Armagnac and instead of reveling in it as if it was a reward for being amazing as she was wont to do, Madeleine offered to pay Myron back.

Madeleine de Chandon singlehandedly murdered chivalry in one fell swoop.

Whatever she’d done, it got Myron to pull away. She supposed she should feel bad, but after a break up, exes had to set limits. Don’t drunk dial me, for instance, had been one of theirs in the past. Myron broke it one Valentine’s Day. He said he loved her then. A lump lodged in Madeleine’s throat. If the drink hadn’t been purchased by Myron, she’d be using it to dislodge the lump. Boundaries were very, very good things.

Madeleine never once thought she’d say that.

"It was on the house, Madeleine."

They stared at each other for a long time. Madeleine was sizing him up, trying to figure out if he was being sarcastic. Myron, meanwhile, looked at Madeleine in that lovey-dovey way that used to give her goosepimples. Now, it made her want to shudder. Was that a bad shudder or a good one? Who could tell? Not Madeleine, who couldn’t even tell whether or not she could have that glass of Armagnac she wanted. She had no idea what her face was doing. She hoped it stared at Myron, unaffected, but in reality, she probably looked confused and hesitant, like an animal sniffing the air before deciding between fight or flight reactions.

"So,” said Myron, breaking the silence. “What's on the agenda tonight?"

Madeleine stared, still hesitant and confused, at her ex. Agenda> As if she had one. As if she had one with him. Madeleine wondered if she’d misheard.

Or maybe it was sarcasm. Myron swiveled away from Madeleine and looked out at the sea of night clubbers. He was grinning like a kid on laughing gas.

"Drinking til' your teeth tingle?" he suggested. "Getting a night out? Findin' some inspiration? Lettin' loose? Tryin' to get some action because-" Myron Bolitar held up his glass, "I've been told I make a fabulous wing man."

“Did you just offer to be my wingman?” Madeleine asked dubiously. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, I guess. Don’t ask why. “What’s the catch?”

So much for not looking gift horses in the mouth.

“No. Don’t answer that. That was rude.” Madeleine decided to take a drink of that Armagnac after all. This time, it actually burned her throat. She was hyper-aware of her surroundings now. “Better question: why do you want to be my wingman? It’s a generous offer; you, offering to take a guy’s unattractive friend for me. Unless you were counting on me hitting on women.”

Neither idea was unappealing. Still, that sounded ruder than before. She shut her eyes. What was it, Valter had said when she told him about Maureen? Something about two women being better than one. Did Myron want in on it or to play spectator? Were they swingers now? Or was he, what, her BFF? Since Toddy was out of commission tonight and Ashton was playing house with Lucian and the baby, did that make Myron her gal pal? She took another drink from the Armagnac to brace herself.

“You know what? I’m going to shut up and just say, ‘thank you’, like a sane person and see if you live up to that fabulous reputation of yours.”

She smiled as winningly as she could. God, he was a sneaky b*stard, coming in and knocking her off of her A-game. He still had that power, or maybe it was the alcohol. Or both. She’d have to fight back somehow, otherwise Myron could get her to say anything. And right now, the best plan seemed to be zipping her lips and letting Myron do the smooth talking. Then maybe he’d feel as awkward as she did, watching her go home with another man.

It sounded like a plan. But then again, didn’t everything sound good in theory?

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar

Did I just offer to be her wingman?

“Did you just offer to be my wingman?”

Myron Bolitar stared at his empty glass, feeling the burn from the alcohol riding down his throat. Wow, this was weird. This was riding the U.S.S boat of awkward, and it was bound to just crash and sink. Yes, yes he did just offer to be Madeleine's wingman. Yes, he did just offer his services to his ex to find someone for her to take home tonight. Yes, he would be asking for another drink.

“What’s the catch?”

If only Myron Bolitar knew. He continued to stare at the bar for a moment wild eyed. He wasn't quite processing what she was saying, let alone, that she was actually talking to him. All the lunk alarms were going off in his head and they were pretty friggin' loud. You know, the alarms that were saying, 'Gee, this seems like a bad idea, lets ski-daddle before you totally regret it later and regret everything and feel like an a*swipe'. You know, the alarms we never listen to.

“No. Don’t answer that. That was rude.”

Good, because Myron Bolitar's haze had him not really hearing what Madeleine had asked in the first place. It was obvious that they were both a little off and the atmosphere took a turn. When she dove in for more of her drink, Myron with an open jaw, finally looked at her. Thinking she had the right idea, he made eye contact with the bartender who had been keeping an eye out- and understood completely with Myron's expression what he needed. The bartender would be his best friend tonight, and Myron Bolitar would apparently be picking Madeleine's tonight.

Okay, that drink could come now.

“Better question,"

"Hmmm?" Myron high pitchly noised, dipping against the bar, slamming a hand and facing her with high eyebrows.

"Why do you want to be my wingman? It’s a generous offer; you, offering to take a guy’s unattractive friend for me. Unless you were counting on me hitting on women.”

Holy piss, this was a science. Myron Bolitar was awful at science. He stared at her with glassy eyes and couldn't respond like a tardo. What was he suppose to say here? Myron had no freaking idea what he was doing so there wasn't much to say but a good ol' 'Deerrrrrrrrrrrrr'.

“You know what? I’m going to shut up and just say, ‘thank you’, like a sane person and see if you live up to that fabulous reputation of yours.”

Oh. So, this was happening?

Like this was a movie, the drink slid Myron's way, and he pivoted and grabbed it, chugging it down and taking his sweet time doing so. It burned like a mother and apart of him wanted to vomit- the part that doesn't usually drink, except, well, if it's over Madeleine (i.e. Valentine's Day). When the drink was finished Myron Bolitar slammed it down and squeezed his eyes shut soaking it in. How do people become alcoholics? It was horrible. It tasted like he just ate a steaming pile of rhino feces. Anyways, he was already beginning to feel a little tingle. But, not good enough.

"Lets do this." Myron Bolitar said to Madeleine.

Looking at the bartender he called out, "Two more drinks please!" They both were going to need it. He knew Madeleine well enough to know that she was probably freaking out almost as much as he was. This night was happening. The night of was-suppose-to-be-groom finding suppose-to-be-bride's next sexual partner.

"Alright m'dear," Myron murmured, sitting up on the stool next to her, leaning against the bar, and beginning to scan the room. Myron Bolitar would have to get into this and have to do it. Take one for the team of... tardos. Which is consisting of one person tonight. Myron would have to tap into another person almost or treat her like a 'bro' in order to do this.

"Are we feeling some testosterone tonight or some po** t*-" Myron stopped himself and realized that although he was acting like she was said 'bro' she wasn't, and the terminology was probably going to get him a slap. A well deserved one.

Clearing his throat, he continued, "Er- Women."

[The Exodus]

Madeleine de Chandon

Madeleine was considering asking Myron to pick her up a girl tonight, just so, as she and the lucky b*tch were making out, she could sneak a sly glance Myron’s way to watch him squirm with jealousy, wishing he was caught dead center between them.

Maybe they were swingers now.

No. They weren’t anything. They weren’t dating, they weren’t engaged, they weren’t swingers.

They might not even be friends. Maybe, after tonight, Myron would disappear from her life altogether and leave her with nothing more than years’ worth of memories of them, them, them followed by an awkward one-night stand he’d helped arrange. Madeleine didn’t like the sound of that. Myron was a part of her life. Period. She had lived without him before and while she wasn’t exactly skipping down the aisle with him anymore, Madeleine didn’t want to go back to that cold turkey thing. What if this was a ploy to chop her out of the picture?

Ugh. Overthinking. They were doing this. Myron was hooking her up and one of these days, she might return the favor.

"Let’s do this,” he agreed. "Two more drinks please!"

Or maybe it was a ploy to get her drunk and back in his bed.

Ugh. Paranoid. They were doing this. Myron was hooking her up and one of these days, she would return the favor.

She accepted her new drink and swirled the glass between her hands, tentative to drink it because she didn’t want to be too drunk.

"Alright m'dear," he said. The pet name made her ears burn. She was glad he couldn’t see them under her long hair. He was going to make this harder than it had to be. For both of them. "Are we feeling some testosterone tonight or some po** t*-"

Did he really just go there?

"Er- Women."

Yes, he did. Pr*ck.

"Pr*ck?"Myron’s voice purred in her head. They were in a janitor’s closet, glowering with all the sexual frustration of a trashy romance novel. He smirked and she regretted the word instantly. His eyes slid to her cleavage, well represented in her form-fitting leotard. "Does that mean you're still thinking about my-"

“Of course,” she cut him off with a sickly sweet tone, laden with sarcasm. “A woman doesn’t just forget one so small.”

A laugh bubbled up in the back of Madeleine’s throat. They were awful to each other, weren’t they? All the time. Since the dawn of time. She covered her mouth with both hands tented and leaned into them.

“Oh, God,” she said. “I don’t even know. Truth be told, I’m just looking for a good time tonight. And there are just… so many options.”

Her hands slid from her face; her eyes flicked out to the crowd. Men, women, blondes, brunettes, redheads. What looked appealing?

Not much with Myron sitting right there.

This wasn’t supposed to be appealing. It was supposed to make him feel awful about ditching her. It was supposed to make her feel better about being a spinster for the rest of eternity. Not that being married was a goal anymore. She thought—with an almost visible shudder—of Ashton’s fate. Same man for eternity. Babies. Watching the man she loved get old and die before her. Madeleine was smart for cutting her losses and deciding to live the life of a cougar once she hit forty. She almost couldn’t wait ‘til forty. Imagine the look on Myron’s face as she enticed barely-legal boys to her bed.

Okay. Even in her head that didn’t sound as appealing as she thought. Young men. In their twenties and thirties. Not boys. Men. Real men, who didn’t disappear when she needed them or wanted them. Real men, who could take heartbreak without hanging around to remind her of how awful she felt.

Also, real men, who didn’t call her names in a janitor’s closet as she spit equally awful venom in his face.

How boring real men must have been, compared to her boy-man.

Not her boy-man. Not her anything. Jesus, Madeleine. He was her ex. Ex everything. And just because Myron didn’t get the memo didn’t mean Madeleine hadn’t read it a hundred times over. She was single. She was free. And she was not sorry about any of it. They’d taken turns hurting each other forever, so they were even. So there was nothing to feel bad about.

“You’d enjoy it too much if I picked another girl,” she said finally. “I want a man.”

And I want you to watch us until we walk out the door.

“Attractive is a must. Preferably around six foot tall, good body, over twenty, under forty. Think you can spot someone who fits the bill?”

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar


If we could tell the future we’d never get up in the morning. If Myron Bolitar could have foreseen this moment, he would have never left his place. Things like that could make people pissed that they weren’t born with super powers or something. Myron would have avoided this night entirely as of now. Not because of seeing Madeleine here in general. In fact, that was the good part about tonight because they were talking. Somehow Myron Bolitar was slithering his way back into her life. Well, more of like a struggle-sloth slide-slow motion-slither, but you get the point. What really was the shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning moment was when Myron told her he’d help her get some action tonight, and then used a vulgar word to describe just what he could help her get, really deepening his grave here. Obviously chivalry was not dead.

Madeleine let out a laugh that Myron tried not to hear. Hating everything about her at this point would be so much easier. It would be simple to hand her off to a girl or guy tonight and just walk away. No, he had to go and be a stupid sap that misses laughs, and can’t help but tear up at the thought of what happened to them. Myron Bolitar really needed to start being more of an arss; which, in a lot of people he had met over the years- wouldn’t think that was possible. He was so misunderstood. Ladies and gentlemen, cue the teenaged angst music.

“Oh, God,” Madeleine said. “I don’t even know. Truth be told, I’m just looking for a good time tonight. And there are just… so many options.”

Myron blew in a big gust of air and exhaled it, rubbing his hands together in his lap and both of them looking out into the sea of people. So many options was right. Couldn’t he just be the optio- Hold the phone. This whole pity act was really not that attractive on Myron. Obviously Madeleine was not that affected by it, so screw it. Myron Bolitar was going to swallow his pride and ignore things just like the usual man does when things get taken into crapola land. So what if his heart was broken? He cried over it, he dwelled over it, and now it was time to get over it. Because tonight was going to hurt so much worse if he couldn’t suck it up for at least a couple more hours. Ben and Jerry’s was waiting for him when he got home. Plus, wasn’t this better than just thinking about whom she would be going home with and all that would happen? Now he had complete control over it.

Yeah … there was really no plus side to that. Good try though, right?

“You’d enjoy it too much if I picked another girl.”

Myron rolled his eyes fingering for another drink. Right, because there was nothing more than he rather see than some bimbo with her. Myron Bolitar never got the girl-on-girl thing and was suppose to turn a guy on. Save it for the Jersey Shore hot tubs.

“I want a man.”

The Jersey Shore hot tub was looking mighty nice about now.

“Attractive is a must. Preferably around six foot tall, good body, over twenty, under forty. Think you can spot someone who fits the bill?”

Myron Bolitar puckered his lips from the alcohol, feeling it now hit his mind as things were getting slightly more heightened, and he looked around the room nonchalantly. “Mhmm. Now do we have standards as far as IQ or good humor or concerned?” He asked, looking at some tool over in the corner trying to make a crowd laugh and it was so obvious because of that crowd, he was the only one laughing.


He took another swig of his drink, bending backward on the stool slightly to look over Madeleine smoothly to scan the other side of the room. “Or are we just going for the looks thing and you can gag him to shut up if you need to?”