Just a Drink (Richard)

[The Exodus]

OOC: Richard and Madeleine! This is gonna be a blast!! BIC:

Madeleine de Chandon

There was some unwritten rule that said a girl should never drink where she worked. But if Madeleine lived her life following every rule set out in front of her, she’d never have much fun ever. Tonight she sat in the Moulin Rouge’s bar, sipping a vodka gimlet and watching the show on stage. The show that she’d choreographed, thank you very much. She was drinking to celebrate another triumph as chief choreographer, if anyone asked. Truthfully, though, Madeleine was drinking to drink. She was more bitter than anything stocked behind that bar. Bitter to be a choreographer these days and not a dancer, bitter that her friends were getting old and boring, bitter that it was the City of Love and people were pairing off in like penguins in mating season. The small spike in tourism paid for Madeleine’s salary – so many tourists flocked to the Moulin Rouge like it was a mecca for sex and love around this time of year that Madeleine could practically smell the pheromones. But that didn’t mean she liked it. Damn Americans. Waltzing in here like they owned the place. If anyone had a claim to the Moulin Rouge, it was Madeleine and not some dopey-eyed visitor who expected to see Nicole Kidman on a swing.

Madeleine polished off her drink and looked at the bartender. Suzette was a busty blonde who had been a dancer before having a kid. The stretch marks had prematurely ended Suzette’s career as a broken leg had ended Madeleine’s some years ago. She shared a knowing smile with the other woman.

“Can I get another?” Madeleine asked her, holding up the empty cocktail glass.

Suzette sighed and nodded.

“But no more freebies,” Suzette said. “You’d be our best customer if you weren’t using an employee discount.”

Madeleine’s lip curled. It was true, but she didn’t want to hear it.

“Whatever,” she said. “Just fill me up. I’m celebrating tonight.”

“When aren’t you celebrating?” Suzette grumbled, ducking under the bar in search of limes.

Madeleine put her hands to her temples and smiled a tight smile. Maybe after another drink or two, she’d actually believe herself when she said she was here to have a good time.

[youreokay]

Richard Contadino

Richard winced, rolling his shoulders and turning his head forward, adamantly refusing to look at the retreating form of the woman who’d slapped him. You know, he’d walked in here pretty confident like, flattered the woman and then asked a question. Were the rumors about French women true? Well that had been a sore spot for her he guessed. She was probably insecure.

He peered around, seeing how many people’s eyes he caught with a bitter glare. The interaction between them was mostly ignored, and a look to the bar confirmed that he wasn’t going to be thrown out. He looked at the stage, and tried to drown his long list of sorrows in the next third of his scotch and the titillating way the dancer moved.

Richard’s tounge pushed against the inside of his cheek as his mind wandered bitterly back to the exchange. That had been a real f-cking bust. Who the h-ll did that dumb b-tch think she was? Nichole Kidman? He hadn’t seen that b-tch on stage. That was bad too. He’d come all this way only to find Nichole Kidman didn’t even work here. What the f-ck kinda business are they running here? The act on stage could have been better. Didn’t they have a strip club around here? He looked to the door, thinking of leaving while drinking from his glass again. At least the scotch was pretty good.
Richard smacked his lips again and peered into his glass. Empty. A hand to his wallet reminded him that the night was still young, his wallet was still fat with prize money--more than enough to try and buy a drink for another pretty girl with more reasonable standards.

Richard tried his best to swagger to the bar, leaning against the counter. It took him no more than two seconds to spot the dark haired woman, mostly because she was right in front of the bartender. Time to get back in the game.

He forced a smile, showing his yellowed teeth and speaking with a voice heavy with the scent of scotch. “M…what a view.” He leaned forward further, conspiratorially. “And you’re not too bad looking either,” Richard gaffawed, shoulders heaving once, twice, the sound sticking in his throat.

[The Exodus]

Madeleine de Chandon

Madeleine drummed her nails against the rim of her empty cocktail glass. Under the pulsating music from the stage, she could hear the distinct “clickity-clickity-clack” that told her she was tapping in rhythm with her dancers. What wouldn’t she give to be up on that stage herself…

No, you’re celebrating, remember?

But it was hard to celebrate with an empty glass. Hell, it was hard to be happy about much of anything when your glass was more than half-empty. And Madeleine was a glass-half-full kind of woman. Always had to be. Always needed to be. She hoped that she could get out of this moody funk and back en pointe with her emotions.

Right about now would be a great time for a distraction, she thought – maybe prayed.

She felt the presence of a person at her side. And for a split second, Madeleine relaxed. Sometimes, God or whatever, had a great sense of timing.

“M…what a view,” a thickly accented voice said.

Ugh. American. Madeleine looked over with cool eyes. But when she looked, there was no way to hide her disappointment. A sneer twisted her lips. The man was short – much shorter than Madeleine, who was wearing heels and towered over most other women anyways. The American had yellowing teeth. And to top it all off, he was old. He leaned in close to Madeleine and she could smell whisky on his breath. Maybe if she hung around him a little longer, she could get drunk off the fumes. Where the f*ck is Suzette with my drink, anyways?

“And you’re not too bad looking either,” the man said, chortling. His laugh was a phlegmy, sticky sound that made Madeleine feel as if she were coated in mucus. This must have been what it was like to be one of Jabba the Hut’s slave girls.

And yet, if Madeleine said it was an entirely new feeling, she’d be lying. This happened a lot. Especially in bars on the wrong side of town, where she’d hung out when she was younger, stupider, and looking for trouble. Not that she was much better behaved these days… But typically, guys like that knew Madeleine was out of their league and stayed away. They usually left her alone at the Moulin Rouge. Especially since she wasn’t a dancer anymore, shaking her *ss and t*ts for their viewing pleasure. The Moulin Rouge was her safe haven, the place where Madeleine was practically in charge.

And for a moment, she wasn’t. This b*stard thought he had the right to flirt with her.

But. Well. Madeleine could use a free drink. This place was practically hers, anyhow. She was untouchable here; the top of the food chain. The woman all the dancers could only wish they were. Successful, sexy, smart. She was safe as long as she was here.

“Nice to be appreciated,” Madeleine said dryly. “Are you just going to stand there and crack wise, or are you going to buy my drink?”

[youreokay]

OOC: Sorry this is so short and it took so long. ^^;

Richard Contadino

Richard’s softer wheezing laugher turned into a cough as she spoke but he was able to catch those last few words, the most important part, “…buy my drink?”

It sounded almost like a command, but he wouldn't do more than let his face fall a little, because really, she was far too attractive to quarrel with about the way a lady should act and besides, he’d be sure to have her in her place later...

He let a smile spread across his face at the thought and briefly beyond, interrupted as he cleared his throat and sniffed, repositioning himself against the bar’s counter.
“Sure sweet’art, what’ll you have?" Before she can answer he speaks again, "Margarita, martini, uh…ya know, one of those fruity ones?” He shifts his weight a little, puffing out his chest. “I prefer a fine scotch myself,” he states, an air of superiority to his words.

He locks his eyes with the bartender, tapping on the counter twice. "Bar-woman, get me another scotch and uh, what did you say you were gonna drink?" He turns back to the pretty woman to his side.

[The Exodus]

Madeleine de Chandon

The American cleared his throat. Thank God. It was a disgusting sound, but maybe it meant he wouldn’t keep wheezing at her. There had been a time when men with washboard abs and million watt smiles came onto Madeleine, offering her drinks and flowers and marriage proposals. And then she’d hit thirty. Thirty one. Soon she’d be thirty two and horny skeletons would be after her.

But as long as they paid for her drinks and Madeleine didn’t have to turn tricks for them, she’d keep her mouth shut. She was like a priceless artifact. You could look, but if you touched, you could expect to be tackled to the ground and dragged to court.

Well, not all guys would get dragged to court… Madeleine thought.

She absently thought of Myron’s wry little grin and Valter’s perfect blue eyes. In Victorian times, girls were told to lie back and think of England. Today, Madeleine would just smile and think of attractive business men. But she wasn’t doing any lying back. Not for this guy; not even if he was secretly build like Adonis.

Somehow, I doubt that.

“Sure sweet’art, what’ll you have?" The American asked. But before Madeleine could answer, he said, "Margarita, martini, uh…ya know, one of those fruity ones?”

Madeleine’s lip curled. She could drown in fruity cocktails like the most dissolute 1960s housewife. But she’d also been known to reach around for a nice whisky, swill champagne, toss back a Heineken or five. She didn’t have a drinking problem; Madeleine loved any and all alcohol she could get her hands on.

But The American seemed to take her for a delicate little thing. He puffed out his chest like a bird performing a mating dance and said, “I prefer a fine scotch myself.”

“Fascinating,” Madeleine murmured, even though she wouldn’t exactly qualify his statement as such. She would have pegged this guy for a beer-drinker, though. One who thought that Budweiser was the height of class. You could tell a lot about a man by what he drank. Scotch implied he thought himself rather high class. And maybe he was. This was American high society?

No wonder there are so many expats here.

"Bar-woman, get me another scotch and uh, what did you say you were gonna drink?"

“I didn’t,” said Madeleine. Turning to Suzette, she said, “Vodka gimlet.”

Suzette cocked an eyebrow at Madeleine, clearly questioning Madeleine’s life choices in the last five minutes. Madeleine smiled wanly back. She pressed two fingers to her own right cheekbone. And then she watched Suzette pour scotch – a blended malt, if Madeleine had to guess, since The American hadn’t specified and Suzette wasn’t going to waste the purest stuff on someone who didn’t ask for it – over ice cubes. Then Suzette turned to Madeleine’s drink: the green bottle of Rose’s and the clear bottle of Svedka glimmered in the light. With ice and mint added, the cocktail glass quickly fogged up. Madeleine smiled. Suzette could question Madeleine’s life choices all she wanted; Madeleine was the one getting a free drink.

“So, what brings you to Paris?” Madeleine asked The American. She wasn’t really interested, but she didn’t mind making a little light conversation. If he’d been more attractive, she would have asked Business or pleasure? with a sly, little grin. But Madeleine wasn’t that drunk – or that desperate – yet.