A S K A R E E
BABY, DROP THEM BONES
SELL THAT SOUL
Irritated?
"Irritated" was a goddamn disingenuous joke. "Irritated" was the infinitesimal flea on the elephant's ass of what she was actually feeling. What she was actually feeling toward her dark-haired companion at present was something far more akin to outright unapologetic and manical rage. He had pressed his Italian leather-clad toes against a precarious line this day, heralded by some manner of morbid curiosity surely. Curiosity she would otherwise have welcomed with open... arms (yeah, sure... arms). Given separate circumstances she would have gladly plucked at his collection of taut marionette strings; she would have bent, prodded, and poked him as if the only thing she desired was to discover the limitations of his patience. It was, after all, her favorite pastime. Today, however, he had skirted a line that he ought to have avoided like all ten of those fucking plagues. A line that she had drawn for herself as soon as she had darkened Uncle Sam's proverbial doorstep, a line meant to separate this one piece of her from the remainder of the world. The single piece of her that she was not willing to allow him to see (and that was saying a whole hell of a lot). Her gooey caramel center, as it were.
Yeah, she was pretty damn peeved...
A smile played coyly at the edges of her lips as they made their grand entrance into the "bar" Spencer had deemed suitable for their little excursion. The place was absolutely something that Spencer would choose- not quite pretentious enough to be endowed with the glitz and prestige of a cocktail lounge but certainly lacking the layer of grunge that would have allowed it to be considered the quintessential dive that was Askaree's preferred locale. This earns her companion a sidelong glance and the pitching of a perfectly-manicured brow as she slides easily unto one of the weathered, cracked cushion of a barstool. "I pictured our first date going differently," she offers with a chuckle, perfectly content that she was quite possibly the only one even remotely amused by her antics.
"A double of your most expensive whiskey... and a double back," she issues in the direction of a bartender who looked to be the illegitimate lovechild of Duck Dynasty and Sons of Anarchy. Beard for days. The kind of beard that you could really twist your fist into to give it a nice, hardy tug. He looked like the type that would reward you with a throaty growl... and he might be halfway fuckable after a dozen or so rounds. Maybe.
Speaking of fuckable... Askaree inclines her head, and the piercing rapier of her seething gaze, toward the assuredly unfortunate individual who had, of his own volition, become the financial backer for this evening's alcoholic romp. "Get your wallet out, Spencer. This is going to hurt," she almost hisses, the syllables skating the curl of a tongue that is minutely less jovial than was her custom. "I do so hope your little excursion was worth it."