ArchivedLogs:A Big Tip
|A Big Tip|
Hell has never been so hot.
<NYC> Heaven - Chelsea
This Chelsea playground offers a divinely gay twist to the normal concept of the afterlife. On the first floor, you can avoid the masses on the dance floor and lounge on comfortable couches in the all-white Ethereal Bar or cross over to the similarly pearly Celestial Lounge to dance beneath the sparkling fractured-mirror decor that turns the entire floor into a glittering paradise. Purgatory is in the back, descending a few steps from Heaven to a subdued karaoke lounge. For those who have a taste for something more than the brightly frosted wonderland with its bubblegum pop music, a flame-licked stairway carries you upstairs, where Hell inexplicably sits above Heaven, all dominatrix-black with patent-leather couches and glowing red lights. Intermittently along the walls are images of those who - through the owners' wishful thinking - are burning in eternal fire: the likenesses of various noted social conservatives are not uncommon. The DJ here spins heavier music and on the dance floor, among the crush of scantily clad bodies and less-than-legal stimulants to keep them dancing all night long, anything goes.
That's the best thing about Chelsea: anything goes. When you're freezing your ass off, and are in possession of an illegal ID from the state of Florida, a dance club is -the- place to be. Shelby has shed the multitude of layers she typically wears, adopting instead the look of an 80s club kid, with layered tank tops, formal short shorts and spectacularly glittery gold leggings. Also, sneakers. She's got no makeup, no jewelry, no real club "cred" but she's having a Hell of a time--quite literally, because she's opted to avoid Heaven and Puragory, and gone straight upstairs where the music is harsh and the substances are liberal. If they'll let a slip of a girl in by virtue of a fake piece of plastic, surely she'd be able to score too--and so she has. Only drugs could explain why she's up on one of the boxes set up beside a couch. What had been intended for use as a side table has become a podium for some far-too-mature-for-her-age dancing--but it's nothing compared to the scrum currently on the dance floor.
Slipping through the crowd of Hell, Eric is on display. Chest bare with a green leather vest unzipped and hanging open, his hair has been carefully set into the perfectly mussed hair of your club-goer. His pants are black and tight to his body, and though they certainly don't need a belt to hold them up, a red one that matches his jacket is carefully buckled around his waist. Hands trailing along passers by in a very friendly manner as he goes, Eric pushes over to a couch and sprawls out on one edge of it, reaching to pull a cell phone out of his pocket. He checks it for a moment, flicking over the list, and then glances up at the side-table where Shebly is dancing. "Well, hello." he drawls, chuckling as his eyes flick over the girl's movements.
"Oh my god!" That's a greeting. Of sorts. Maybe more an exclamation of amusement to be addressed by a boy in this place of all places. Shelby turns on the balls of her feet to face Eric and frenetic dancing becomes a gentle sway--the club version of a breather. From this vantage she's got the height and she uses it to look him over, gaze just a liiiiittle jerky and dilated in the low light. "Those...are sweet pants," she pronounces solemnly, pushing sweat-heavy hair back from her face. "I can't believe you're like, even sitting down in those. Are they stretchy? Painted on?" One hand goes out, fore- and middle finger making the universal motion for "pinchy pinchy", though she's nowhere near close enough to actually -do- it.
Eric grins and winks at her. "If they were painted on, darlin', they'd be a lot tighter and leave even less to the imagination. And where'd be the fun without a little fancy?" he drawls, a Georgia accent drizzled generously over his words. His eyes sweep the crowd and then the surface of his phone before he presses the power button, blacks the screen, and shoves it back into his pocket. It does require some shoving and manipulation just to fit the damned thing back in, mind you.
A grin and a wink would have been enough to set dancing on hold. That accent? Shelby's eyebrows go up and her posture goes down, leaving her crouched ninja-esque on the couch's side "table". Or maybe that's gargoyle-esque? This -is- Hell, after all. It's a good thing she's wearing shorts. "I know that accent," she claims, putting a touch of the South into her own voice. Not a lot but just enough to soften up the consonants. "You looking for someone, fella? Up for buying a girl a drink? I'm fucking -thirsty-."
"I was." Eric says, glancing up and down her again unapologetically. "But he's nowhere to be seen, so I guess that leaves my drinking card open." he drawls, rising in a smooth movement that causes the muscles on his back to ripple through the wing-shaped cuts in the fabric. "Not for just any girl, but for a fellow Dixie..." he extends a hand to her, palm up and grin firmly affixed on his face. "Let's go to the bar."
"Hell, I'll be any sort of girl you want if it means you're buying." Score! Shelby spins her finger at him, indicating that he should turn around. The intent is to catch a piggyback ride to the bar. Why? "You're fucking huge, cowboy. Lemme catch a ride so I don't get squooshed out there? I wanna see how the tall people live." Okay, so maybe she's laying it on a little thick but there are free drinks at risk here--and she's not wearing spurs.
The bar is staffed, tonight, by a pair of bartenders, not as overworked on a Wednesday night as they might be on a weekend. One, tall and blonde and leather-clad, is down by one end lining up a row of shots for a crowd of barely-dressed men. The other, smaller, has a mop of black hair, a single silvery streak drawn through it; his jeans are tight, embroidered red flames licking up their sides, and his shiny black sleeveless shirt is tighter. Silver-studded at its collar and arm-holes, it shows off his colourful wealth of tattoos. There's a dusting of silvery shimmer on his lips and his nails glitter as well, but his sunglasses are as dark as ever despite the dim lighting. Leaning across the bar, Jax is laughing at something someone (a rather inebriated someone) is saying into his ear, but after this he shakes his head, sliding a drink across the bar to the young man and turning aside.
Eric chuckles and gives her a bemused look. Still, he turns around, crouching down to make it easier for Shelby to climb onto his shoulders. When she is atop him, his hands gently clasp her by the ankles and carry her over through the crowd towards the bar. He is careful to not only push a path through the crowd, watching his step for anyone who might cause him to trip, but also on the ceiling above him to make sure there are no overhangs that he will slam his passenger face-first into. He approaches the bar, eyes flicking over Jax with a playful grin. "Why, heya there." he drawls, eyes flickering over the bartender salaciously. "Can I get a Sam Adams and your number? And whatever the lady would like," he says, nodding backwards to indicate the girl above him.
Shelby loops her arms around Eric's neck and hangs low over his shoulder, also mindful of any overhangs. It is a small blessing that she doesn't hoot, holler, or order him to charge, but her expression is one of delight--with a dash of 'I can't believe that worked'. She -does- comment, "Damn, it's pretty sweet up here," but further commentary is put on hold when he cozies up to the bar. She does not appear inclined to dismount yet, so there she is, clinging like a monkey to the big guy, when she sets eyes on the bartender. Her grin promptly doubles in size. "Oh shit...My Little Pony! Oh my god, you didn't say you worked -here-! Can I get a Sam Adams too?"
"Sure thing," Jackson says with an equally bright smile, pierced lips curling wide, "soon's I see some ID off the both of you." He might be looking at Shelby with this, though behind his glasses its hard to tell. "I've worked a lotta places. You didn't ask. Y'all havin' a good night?" His palms brace against the edge of the bar, weight leaning down onto colourful arms and the piggybacking pair reflected in the stare of his glasses.
Eric fishes into his pocket with two fingers, pulling out a New York State driver's licence which he passes over to Jax with a playful grin. "So far, can't complain. Got ditched, but the night seems to be lookin' up." he says, glancing over the other man's outfit with a smile. "You like like you came straight out of Heaven." A factual statement, or a variant of the fallen angel pick-up line? He glances upwards as best he's able, trying to catch a glimpse of Shelby's face as he asks, "You know each other?"
"Aww," Shelby complains, but she too complies. One arm is kept around Eric for stability, the other reaches back into the pocket of her short shorts. No wallet, but she does produce a Florida driver's license, declaring Shelby Ann Wilson to be 21. "Isn't he hot? Good with his hands too," she confides to her companion/ride. Surely a compliment won't hurt when the license is passed over. "We -do- know each other. Do you want me to hook y'all up? I could totally do it." She says this as if Jax weren't standing right there.
"Who'd ditch /you/?" Jax wonders, looking over Eric before taking both licenses. His eyebrows raise slightly as he looks between the pair of people and the pair of licenses. "Does that line work for you?" he asks Eric, amusement lighting his expression. "Got wings, too, y'know. We kinda know each other. Don't usually have girls tryin' to hook me up with /their/ dates, though."
"Someone without any taste, obviously." Eric says, with a wink. He glances up to Shelby and then back to Jax. "Maybe she's up for sharing. Maybe she jus' wants t' watch." he chuckles, with a shrug of his shoulders. He winces and glances up, apologetically, at Shelby. "Sorry, forgot you were up there for a min'," flattening his shoulders back out. "Nah, not usually. But this time, I actually meant it." he says, jerking a thumb back in the direction of the other section of the club.
Shelby doesn't mind the adjustment in position--she goes along for the ride, giggling like a little idiot at the shifting. "Earthquake! Holy -fuck-, he's got a ton of muscles, Jax, you oughta feel them," she declares once things have settled down. Whumph, she flattens herself back out, arms looped loose and chin resting on her left bicep so she can smile at the bartender and kind of smile at Eric. "Hey, I'm up for whatever but what I -really- want right now is that beer. I'm thirsty. That's why I hooked this sweet ride here, see?" Eric's chest is patted in demonstration.
"Feel 'em?" Jackson looks amused, and reaches out a hand, fingers /beckoning/. For Eric's muscles. He slides both IDs back, turning up a hand apologetically. "I can get you that Sam Adams, sir," he says lightly, "but, Shelby, you're gonna hafta come back with a /real/ ID. I could lose my job. You're thirsty, I can get you somethin' booze-free. On the house."
Eric leans over towards Jax with a widening smile, hand half-holding him up against the surface of the bar as he leans in, exposing both his bare chest and one of his arms. "Not a real ID?" he asks, picking it up with two fingers and glancing over the surface of it carefully, eyes flicking along it before he raises his hand to give it back to Shelby in the same manner as he had extended his own license earlier. When she takes it, he takes his own and stuffs it back in his pocket.
"Aw, man, it's just an out of state license. It's not my fault they're goofy looking. You can't do a lot with a state that looks like a wang, right?" Perhaps Shelby had been expecting that though, because she does accept the license back but she doesn't kick up too much of a fuss over losing the chance for a beer. "I mean, if it were a -real- wang you could but...how about a Coke? With a cherry? I'll leave you a big tip," she says, with another chest-pay for Eric. See what she did there?
Jackson reaches out, curling glittery-nailed fingers around Eric's bicep and squeezing with a lift of eyebrows. "Y'ain't kidding. Thaaat's a nice handful. And yeah, Florida is kinda goofy," he agrees, but though he doesn't press the issue he doesn't get her a beer, either. He pours Eric a glass of Sam Adams from the tap, getting Shelby her coke after, a trio of cherries skewered onto the slim plastic sword that he sticks into the glass. "If it were a /real/ wang would people want to live on it? Be kinda -- unstable."
"I wouldn't want to live on a dick anymore than I'd want to live in Florida," Eric shakes his head with a little bit of a disgusted shiver. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a moneyclip, pulling enough cash off to pay for the two drinks and a healthy tip for the bartender. He takes a sip of his beer, nodding, satisfied. "I think I'd prefer the dick. At least you expect the shafting." he jokes, with a wink.
"Damn it," Shelby complains, "my pony stole my answer." Bad pony. For that, she waits until Eric has set down the beer before squirming to dismount. It's a -long- way to the ground, bless her. But once there, she has a Coke and -three- cherries to enjoy. The sword is picked up and the fruit adorning its plastic tip is pinched off between her teeth, and into her mouth. She tongues it into her cheek immediately after to provide the introductions needed for leaving her own "tip". "Pony, this is Jax. Jax, this is Muscle Pony, also known as...?"
"Only been t'Florida once," Jax says, considering, "but I'd have to agree. You couldn't pay me to live there." He turns aside, both to put Eric's money in the register (except his tip, which he pockets) and to pour a gin and tonic for another man nearby. "Most people here would prefer the dick," he adds lightly to the other two. "You should name him. Don't /people/ usually name their ponies? I never had no horses pick their own names."
"Muscle Pony?" Eric mouths, glancing sideways at Shelby with a bemused smile as he extends a hand towards Jax. "I know I would." he says, grinning at Jax. "Eric. It's good to meet ya." he says, hand open and extended towards the bartender. "Hey, you got me that drink, but not your number." He gives the other man a half-pout that does nothing to suppress the playful sparkling in his eyes.
"Oh my god, you're right! No, no, Eric's -boring-," Shelby stresses, making a faux-swat at the offered hand shake. Then, she brandishes the little plastic sword--still garnished with two cherries--and declares, "From now on, your name is Princess Thor McNoshirt Esquire. That means you're not allowed to wear shirts." This last bit she means for Eric alone, leaning a little closer--and going up on her toes--to confide in him before she slides another cherry from sword into mouth.
"Princess Thor McNoshirt. Pleasure's mine." For all the glittery nails (and missing finger), Jackson's handshake is firm, his smile warm for the introduction. "Remind me never t'let you choose a name for /me/, though." He answers the pout with a quicker grin, bright and -- if the air around him turns /just/ a little glowy-warmer for a moment, well, the lighting in here does strange things. "Hey, you're right, I did. I'll be around if y'need another round." His knuckles rap against the countertop, and, with another smile, he slides off down the bar. More shirtless customers to tend to.
Eric chuckles as he turns to Shelby, shrugging his shoulders once. "Well, can you blame a guy for tryin'?" he drawls, picking up his glass and taking a deep gulp of his beer. He puts the glass down on the countertop and pushes off of it, giving her a little salute. "Maybe I'll see you on the dance floor, yeah?" he says, playfully adding, "You don't need an ID to dance." He winks, once, then turns to slip back off towards the dance floor.
"With an ass like that? Hell no." The energy levels are rising. By the time Shelby has finished this answer, she's bouncing on her toes and clearly ready to make a break for it. "I already did pick you a name!" she calls after Jax. But what that name is isn't shared. Instead, she snatches up the Coke, takes a good, long, thirst-quenching drink, and then it's off after Eric in search of the floor upon which there will be dancing. Fortunately for her, he cuts an easily followed swath through things like crowds--and isn't being a poop about the ID thing.