Turning Heads
| Turning Heads | |
|---|---|
| Players |
The best club in town needs a headline act. |
Satin and Savagery. Or so the 'Coming Soon' signs denote the outside of the club space currently undergoing extreme renovations inside and out. Entry into the building itself isn't too hard to gain, the night young yet and the presence of a nighttime skeleton crew working near the front and willing to direct those coming inside for interviews to where they should head. Inside is a maze of tarps, paint cans; plastic sheeting, and drop cloths protecting what furnishings and work have been completed so far. The scent of fresh paint is not overpowering but a lingering testament to what work is taking place amongst the dust and detritus of construction work. The centralized circular bar space is by far the most completed area, along with the main stage and a smaller walk-on stage with a pole. In front of that smaller stage, a round table and a set of chairs have been placed and are currently occupied. The table is a disaster area of paperwork and beer bottles, open and empty. Marigold rests just a knee in the seat of her chair as she looks over the papers in her hand, the dark-haired woman dressed tonight in a daringly low-cut, spaghetti strap Maxi dress in vivid, deep greens and golden accents. Her feet are bare and her hair is swept up off her shoulders and pulled up into a hasty bun allowing wisps of hair to trail down against her neck. "Thanks for coming in, Carmen. We'll be in touch shortly," she says without looking up at first before she flashes the retreating figure of a blonde woman a warm smile. It's to her companions Marigold then shifts her gaze as she continues with, "She was rather good, add her to the list? One more dancer tonight and a couple of bartender applicants. Maybe we'll get some walk-ins."
Andreia scoops the bottle up toward her lips, tipping it near-vertically as she lets a gulp of thick fluid escape into her maw. A trail flees further, dribbling over one edge of her chin. A finger flicks out to catch it, and enters her mouth once the neck of the bottle nestles inside her palm, a sharp smack as the Brazilian sucks her finger 'clean'. In wild contrast to Marigold, Andreia looks like she belongs in the contruction zone. Her dark hair is a tangled mess, and aside from the jeans she's wearing a deep red tank top that's falling off one shoulder, is a little stained at the pits, and bears a few sloppy oil smears just above the hem. She probably shouldn't be judging these beautiful, put-together women. "You're lookin' at the outside, but it's what in here that counts." The bottle smacks against her chest, fluid sloshing around, before she lets it hang beside her once more. "Good's fine. /Bad/, but good at it. That's the shit."
Or at least he appears to be, as he leans so far back in his custom made office chair, one can imagine the collective souls of every furniture craftsman, living and dead, are simultaneously crying out in anguish and horror. Undoubtedly it was expensive to have a chair that could accommodate his enormous size made to be sturdy enough to stand-up to the rigors of supporting his muscle-bound weight, and he looks very much like he's putting it fully through its paces with that singular recline. His hands are tucked behind his head, and his face is tilted back to point up to the ceiling as he completely ignores Carmen's departure. "Behave," he growls at Andreia in his normal, easy-going tone as he begins to slowly rotate his chair like a bored child. "Wait until they're fully gone before you say they're boring." He gives a pleasant wave to Carmen's retreating back as his chair spins him slowly around. "She was fine. She's not a headliner, but we need workhorses, too." How he can determine that is hard to say, since he started examining the ceiling in earnest about two minutes into Carmen's dance. "Who's the next on the list?" he asks over to Marigold as he rotates her way... and then past, still moving in that lazy spin.
But even as she looks about with bright curiousity, there's a confidence settled on her that few people who look her age seem to possess. Embers dance in her dark blue eyes as she makes her way through the maze. It's mostly sheeting and tarps, but there's also /possibilities/, and it's clear that it dances in her gaze. There's an edge of excitement too, as her steps carry her closer, though rather than nerves it's not unlike the gleam of a predatory eye when there's grounds to explore. When she hears the voices, and nods politely to the retreating interviewee, she looks towards the trio at the table. Her step doesn't falter, but it does slow. As if to buy her more time to take them in. Her gaze seems to linger on Andreia, her nostrils flaring ever so slightly as she takes in a deep breath. A flicker in the embers that glow in her eyes, maybe just a little bit of a shiver too, but her smile suddenly flares. Showing just a little bit of teeth. She seems very keen to at least keep Andreia in her peripheral vision, but her eyes also linger first on Marigold, and then on Roman. And then back to Marigold. "Hello," she greets them. Though the tone is not at all shy, hers is a naturally soft-spoken tone, more suited to intimate whispers, perhaps, and encouragement to lean in. "I'm Fiametta Croy. It's nice to meet you."
The 'next' doesn't seem to require any introduction, not from Marigold at least, as the dark-headed woman pauses and turns to look toward the sound of approaching footsteps. The look that Marigold gives Fiametta's closing form is one of curious appraisal as the total weight of those eyes settles over the flame-haired woman and travels from head to toe, lingering on the hair but also appreciating the style of dress. Whatever else Marigold sees gets the corners of her mouth to curve into a warmly indulgent smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes as she tips her pen toward Fiametta, bouncing it excitedly between her fingers, "That would be Miss Croy here. She's our next applicant, the last dancer on our agenda for this evening unless we get some walkins." There's a crooking of a finger in the invitation for Fiametta to approach closer as Marigold nudges Roman's rotating form with her knee.
The Brazilian doesn't seem the type to take orders, or even really suggestions, but at Roman's nonchalant snarl she visibly retreats into herself, the smirk fading and gaze sliding down to the table and then across at the giant, before flicking immediately back. There's no verbal submission - there doesn't need to be - but neither does she balk into rebellion or dissatisfaction. From him, she just takes it, returning her gloomy stare to the room a moment later. Enter, Fiametta. Andreia straightens up a little, like a cat who's seen something scuttling, eminently watchful as the redhead makes her way into contention. The Black Wolf tends not to force her expressions, but as Fiametta breathes in, she leans forward, and she /grins/. All teeth, the mortal echo of her terrible mien, around which she drags up her beer for a perfunctory toast. Unlike the submissive flicker she gave Roman, she keeps those dark-smoldering eyes riveted on the slender dancer. "Might be the last one we need," she mutters, aside, to Marigold. Approval? Rare, from Andreia.
He gestures towards the side-stage and the pole upon it as he drags one of the papers from the table towards him and flips it over to the blank side while he reaches for a pen. "Head on up," he tells her as he quickly scratches out 'Fiametta Croy' on the top of the page in ink. "How much experience do you have, Fiametta?"
"Thanks," she replies to Roman, her gaze washing over him now, that she can actually see his face for more than a few seconds at a time. She's not exactly petite, but she might actually start to have a little more empathy for what short folks feel, surrounded by these fascinating people. But then she nods, at the instruction. There's a brief pause as she sets her bag down on the other side of the stairs, discreetly out of view, and she's definitely practiced at slipping on her working shoes without so much of a bobble before she heads up. They are the deceptively supportive seven inch platform heels, ghostly clear. When she climbs to the smaller stage, she looks like she's walking on air. "About four years," she answers, in that soft voice. "Though a lot of it's off and on." She takes a moment to look out from the new vantage point, as if trying to fill in with her imagination what will go where, and where the people will be--but her attention quickly returns to the trio. "I've never worked in a place that this looks like it's gonna be," she admits. "But I've got a variety of training." There's a flit of an amused smile, at that.
Luckily Roman is getting right to the meat of it, allowing Marigold to keep her gaze trained on Fiametta as she moves to deposit her bag and head up those stairs. And while there's weight to that stare, it continues to bear intense curiosity, no hunger. Remembering herself, Mari finally slips to sit in her chair, hands rotely adjusting that dress around her as she moves to ensure she's not hindering herself. "Four years, impressive. What sort of training?" A beat. "If you don't mind, of course." There's that warm smile again, open and inviting, offering up a chance for the dancer to share if she likes but expressing no heavy expectation for it. A snap of fingers then as Marigold laughs and turns in her chair, stretching toward the bar where a small setup for music has been laid out. It isn't anything fancy just some speakers connected to someone's phone at best glance. "Do you need any music? I can find anything just name it and give me a couple minutes." She flicks a look, now expectant of a 'yes' from the dancer, device in hand.
Until Marigold pauses, hovering over the sound system. Clearing her throat with a rumble, Andi slides in. "/Nobody's/ worked in a place like this," she assures, her voice cutting confidently through the air, "We're all learning. Just do what you do. Point here's to be yourself, the best you can be. And we make each other better, yeah?" She jerks a thumb at the Serpent as she says that, both making a point and redirecting attention her way.
Then, satisfied that the opening spiel was completed in a way that won't earn him another nudge from Marigold, he leans back into his chair and once again folds his hands behind his head as he waits for Fiametta to begin.
But she absorbs Roman's instructions as well, not so distracted that her attention on him isn't keen. Her gaze is direct and unwavering. "Sounds fair," she says, the smile still lingering in her eyes. But then her eyes move to the Andi, and she bites the finger that had tapped her lips just a few minutes before, in thought. It's another spritely gesture, though with absolutely no feigned or real innocence whatsoever. The performer needs to connect with the audience, of course, but the strike of the match usually starts out with one that sets it off. And no doubt she's found it. She beams at all three, and then offers, "Ready when you are."
Satisfied, Marigold hits play, letting that bass-rich song thump through the speakers. There is an initial adjusting of the volume before satisfied with the sound as it tries its best to fill that open space of the main room. She sets the phone back down so she can re-settle in her chair and give the dancer on that stage her full attention.
Tossing her dark hair, Andi sinks back into her seat and sets her watchful stare to that blossoming flame on the stage.
It's distracting, that new pleasure, and she shares it with the audience, dark blue gaze flitting around the room, as if checking to see if anyone's noticing that it's getting just a little bit hotter in here. When she turns, and her eyes meet Andreia's first, her hand seems to catch the pole in happenstance, and she eases into a quick outside step, spinning quickly to that beat. It's on the second pass that her free hand unbinds that glorious hair, now cascading in silken ripples as if the flick of the lighter has been ignited. She even laughs, though it's swallowed up by the music, her eyes aglow, as the cage of ice shatters. It seems only fair to /show/ her pleasure, even if playfully, and as she gets a little more height and speed to her spins, her legs part with an elegantly posed toes and a flash of copper gold. (Relax, Chicago authorities. It's a lacy thong. Though for a heartbeat, maybe it would make someone look twice!) It's a cheeky move, and one she playfully does again during the chorus, playing along and freezing each time on the "stuck" part of the lyrics.
There's some shifting, that stillness of her own broken as she leans forward to rest her folded arms on the table top. That bottom lip finds itself soon worried by her teeth, no harsh raking here as she teases it before she lets it go on a soft laugh at that moment Fiametta catches metaphorical fire, that cascade of flame hair dances through the air. Pushing back from the table, Marigold shakes her head and leans toward Roman to say over the music, "This one is a keeper." There's no doubt to her tone there, not believing for a moment that he'd say otherwise. And if there was? Oh, it's evident at that moment, that look in Marigold's dark eyes as they dance and glitter with dark flame, she'd override him in without a second thought. Content they're on the same page, she looks back to that stage, not worried that Andi might have anything to naysay about herself.
It's Fiametta she's in rhythm with, the half-smile's twitch in time to the first spin, the impatient scratching of long nails at the tabletop in time with the second, and then they're in flight, in /flames/. Roman's senses may have adjusted to the heat, but now it's become an inferno, the breath catching in Andreia's throat as the dancer unbridles her joy. Both hands grip the table, leaving furrows in the overhanging cloth at the playful - as it were - climax. She breathes out, finally, in what's almost a sneer but quickly becomes that same, feral grin from before. Her bare arms pulse with corded muscle as she thrusts herself upright. Her chair would screech were it not on carpet, and even still the sound of her boot-clad heels shifting is audible as she turns and strides past Marigold, then Roman. "Hire this one," she /exudes/ in passing, her dark gaze sliding to Fiametta. Her mantle is explosive, smoke and heat pouring from her mien as she tips a nod and a casual salute to the redhead, already losing herself in a brash stride... Across the room, and out. She's said everything she needs to say.
"You're hired!" he calls up to her on stage -- as if she needed that louder proclamation to confirm it. His applause carries on for a few more seconds before he drops heavily back into his seat and lets out a grunt towards Marigold. "Give her some sexy jazz," he tells her more softly so only those at the table can hear -- theoretically -- then turns his attention back up to the stage and calls out: "It's a slow night. Quiet night. Some regulars. A couple of major whales. Playing smooth jazz. Keeping it sensual and slow and intimate. Let's see what you do." Just because she's hired, doesn't mean the interview's *over.* Time to see where her strengths are.
That demand for some 'sexy jazz' gets a grin to flash to life as Marigold twists and stretches back toward the bar for that phone again, fingertips grazing it before she snatches it up. "You're the boss." She starts to flick and tap through the device, her attention given over to it but not without those upward flicks back toward the stage as she works to find something suitable.
His words luckily in that clarity hit her immediately, and gracefully she gathers herself into a seated position, tucking one leg under her, the other one in front bent at the knee, as if she were about to tie on pointe shoes rather than wearing stripper heels. But she seems not even the least bit self-conscious. It's a pretty pose, and one that lets her catch her breath for a moment, before she rises. The instructions settle the momentary ruffle, and she nods, already slipping in to the next mood, as the music is found. She shakes out her hair again, already slipping back a little cooler. Her body seems made for the slower and more elegant sensuality as well, but the intimacy--that is doled out in small portions. A game of challenge perhaps--looks over her shoulder, coyly given. Parted lips on an elegant pole sit spin, her head tipped back and her eyes closed, until it's just the time to open them to meet Marigold's eyes, eating up that hunger. She doesn't try to pull off shy, but that sensation of gaining her curiousity, her interest, that would probably put butterfies into many a mortal's stomach anticipating her gaze being turned their way? It's easy to see how she could lure someone into that. Tempting them, perhaps, into tipping over into some recklessness they shouldn't, a little thrill of danger even, to find out how it would feel to have her settle on one's lap instead of the floor as she finishes the spin.
He's leaning forward, one fist in a tight ball and pressing into that newly formed crack in the wood while the other pats a solid beat upon a jumping knee. Energy coils through him, and his attention flits away from the dance to focus inward on his future plans. "Cut the music," he snarls aside to Marigold with unrestrained joy, "Last test." Then his volume shifts up a notch to call out to Fiametta, unwilling or unable to silence the amusement and relief at finding someone worth a damn. "Lap dance." For this, he plants a boot on the side of Marigold's chair and *sliiiides* her out from behind the table -- he's not blind to the heat, after all -- as he takes up the phone and starts looking for something, finally settling on "Boilermaker" by Royal Blood which immediately begins pumping its deep bass through the main room.
And it hits when Fiametta's gaze locks with her own, a soft hiss nigh sibilant parts her lips despite herself until it roils into soft, rich laughter. "She's perfect," she echoes her words again to Roman, a touch hoarse now but not too much lower than that smooth, sensual jazz as it flows from the speakers. Her fingers curl tightly out of sight to bunch the fabric of her skirt, fingernails threatening to snag until she realizes her actions and relaxes. A thing that comes right in time with that energetic, joyous snarl from Roman to cut the music. Marigold lifts and leans backward in that arch to snatch up her phone, cutting the music as asked. It's Roman's demand for a 'last test' that gets a rise of amusement out of Mari then as she slants a look his way, "Not perfect enough for you?" her tease before she makes a soft, startled sound that morphs readily into a laugh as he slides her chair out. Roman gets another look, this one just as hungry as the ones she's been openly giving Fiametta for the last few minutes. "I should've known," she purrs at him, but her gaze has already left him in favor of the dancer as she sits there pretty in her vivid green and gold, hands smoothing down the wrinkles of that Maxi dress as her bare feet stretched out before her, toenails painted a deep green edged with gold to match. Her smile warms to correspond to the smoldering heat in those eyes as she crooks a finger once more to the dancer, an invitation twice given now, as music once more begins to fill the space. That heat gaze is coupled with an undeniable air of anticipation now as Marigold spreads her hands and brings them to land on the armrests, keeping them in perfect view in a silent promise perhaps of being a good girl in this particular dance.
It's still slow enough to be tantalizing and fluid rather than bootyshaking manic. The willowy redhead sucks her lower lip into her mouth just a little, in anticipation, long lashes almost touching her cheek as she looks down on the newly smoothed gold and green fabric of Marigold's maxi dress. She gazes look from one of Marigold's hands to the other, as she rolls her body to that beat, until she's at a crouch, looking up into those dark eyes. There's a flash of a smile and then a wink, though whether that means /she's/ going to be good is anyone's guess. Her touch is perhaps surprisingly gentle--though firm, perhaps showing that she wouldn't have a problem attempting to keep a problematic customer in their place--as she strokes along the outside of Mari's thighs, as if guaging how much space she has between them to work her magic. Her hands move to Marigold's knees to that rhythm, hips and ass never stopping their glide and roll, gently urging them apart just a little more as if a request for more space--but if it isn't granted she'll work with it with no hesitation. Slowly she rises, not unlike that undulating serpent, brushing against Marigold as she twirls around her, her hand touching the top of one of those perched on the chair arm, gliding up an arm, dancing across her shoulder and down the other side, bringing her finally to being back in front of Marigold again. One heeled foot is brought up to the edge of the chair, and showing off her long leg, thigh almost fully revealed by that movement, with Fiametta now gazing down at Marigold, before placing her hands on the back of the chair for leverage as she slowly kicks out that perched leg and then straddles the other woman. She doesn't /sit/ on her, but maybe that almost-there contact is all the more exciting, as certainly the heat from her skin doesn't require touch to be felt. She brings herself so very close, looking into Marigold's eyes as she draws almost close enough for a kiss, though turns her face away coquettishly and showing the length of her elegant neck now. It doesn't last long, as her legs curl around the chair and skim Marigold's waist as she does a slow arch and rises from that straddle, only to turn it around, her back nestling close as she continues to dance, teasingly, her head almost on the other woman's shoulder.
"Perfect!" he exclaims, ignoring the mess he's made as he walks away from Fiametta and Marigold to literally fist-pump the air and growl with pleasure, "I *knew* we'd find it." He continues walking away from them, but he turns around to walk backwards as he speaks: "Grab a seat, Fiametta. You did good." He laughs exultantly, then turns back around growling a sharp "Fuck yes" to himself before he reaches another tarp-covered table. With one hand, he hefts it up and rests it on his shoulder like one might an umbrella, walking with the solid wooden piece without a hint or sign of inconvenience. "You're going to be our headline act," he tells her as he paces back to the pair and sets the table down nearby but outside the perimeter of the newly-made mess. "Here, sit. Let's talk details."
That wink stirs another response from Marigold as that coy act dissipates like early morning fog before the sun's breaking rays. Her smile blooms radiant as hands stroke along the outside of her thighs, moving them as bid by the dancer. If it is space Fiametta wants, it is space Marigold willingly offers up. Even with Roman always in the periphery of sight and mind, Fiametta narrows Mari's attention and shrinks it down to a pinpoint where only she exists. It's a carefully crafted thing, that attention, the Serpent riding that edge between predator and prey as a low, throaty sound rises forth as teasing brushes come from Fiametta. Those lashes lower on a shiver as that dance between them rides with the music's thumping beat, rising and falling all around Marigold as that spell is carefully woven around her. It isn't all soft purrs, as the predator in Marigold roils and claws to be let out, a soft snarl curling her lip before it evens back out into a smile as she leans toward Fiametta but stops herself short as their eyes lock. That closeness between them is electric as a hand lifts from its repose on the armrest, and fingers come up to seemingly stroke across one flushed cheek of the dancer's, stymied by that sudden turning away, that offering of her elegant neck, that drags a huff of sultry laughter from her. Still those fingers give chase, stopping just before they can make contact as the sudden splintering of wood, the crash of glass, and the flutter of paper breaks the spell like a soap bubble. Just because the spell is gone doesn't mean the heat, that promise riding beneath the surface there, vanishes. It lives, coiled once more in Marigold's dark gaze as she releases a shuddering breath her body doesn't honestly need to exhibit all while that backside of Fiametta nestles so close, that heat a tempting thing. "You /are/ perfect," come her softly shared words come near Fiametta's ear as Roman celebrates in the background now, drawing Marigold further out of that moment as her smile turns excited, catching onto his jubilant mood as her hand falls back to the armrest. Louder now to Roman, she says, "I told you she'd be perfect for it." No hurry for the dancer to depart comes demonstrated by Marigold as she continues to relish that presence for as long as she stays near. Only when she inevitably rises, does Marigold shift and rise to drag her chair over toward the new table.
Further assessment of an obviously excited and jovial mood from them both seems to ease her even more, and eventually she does reluctantly rise, the fingers of one hand once more gently touching Marigold's knee almost in silent thanks, before she goes to pull up a seat after Roman--drops the table rather than the mic. She doesn't sit in it so much as perch, tucking her legs underneath her, before she realizes what she's doing and straightens out, demurely crossing one leg over the other. "Details," she agrees, in that quiet voice. "I'm very much interested in hearing them."
There are nods at appropriate places, an aside given, "Full benefits package too: medical, dental, vision. Our talent, our family, isn't left wanting just because of the nature of our business. Part-timer's too." She crosses her right leg over her left, that elevated bare foot bobbing gently in time to some internal music since that has stopped for now as she falls back into quiet to allow Roman his reign. Again, there are more nods. When he stops himself again, she smiles at Fiametta, "And if anything happens, be it between a patron and yourself, or another family member, we keep an open door policy. Rivalries are fine until they cross a line." It's laid out so clean and well, Mari gives Roman a warmly approving smile when he finishes up and asks for further input, "That was upstairs. There's downstairs, too. We should tell her about /that/ too. Just in case, yeah?" That dark head tips as a hand lifts to toy with her messy bun, pushing some slipped strands back into place. "You've learned about Satin, but in the basement is an entirely different club: Savagery."
She's quiet for a moment, after listening to Marigold. "I think my life might've been a lot different, if I'd found some people like you earlier," she says quietly, but it's statement of fact rather than overly sentimental, even if she does tuck a copper wave behind one ear. "I hope the girls and boys that find their way here appreciate it. Or will." She's silent for a few heartbeats. "I've got some obligations, but I don't think it'll be a problem to keep that separate. I know that having a stage name here won't be a problem," she flashes a brief, inward smile. "I'm legal but there might be some quirks. I'll do my best to fix that before things start. I don't wanna cause problems over something as stupid as that." But then her more glowing smile returns. "Downstairs Savagery, right? I'm all ears."
For whatever reason, the idea of 'escort work with a purpose' doesn't sound particularly foreign to him, so he nods to her and grins. "Look, I don't care what you do, really, so long as you're happy and having fun. Let me worry about protecting the place. If you want to fuck a regular in a VIP booth for an extra tip or a bit of fun, I don't care. And if he starts doing something you don't like, all you gotta' do is say my name and I'll put his head through a wall." Honestly, he looks like he *relishes* the idea of someone causing trouble, just so he *can* put their head through a wall. "But officially speaking, those sorts of services aren't on our menu. We don't want anyone feeling pressured to comply in order to keep the job or get favorable booking." Her statement about her life going different if she had found people like them earns a snarling laugh, though. It's not mocking or derisive, but there is a hint of dark humor in it. "You're going to make this old, dead heart beat again, Fi," he rumbles with a smirk as he shoots Marigold a look filled with a bevy of unspoken communication that only two people who know each other *very* well could manage in such a short glance. "Obligations are fine," he continues after a pause, his hand briefly coming to rest on Marigold's thigh before he places it back on the table. "Let us know ahead of time so we can keep you off the schedule and it'll all be good." The topic of Savagery lights up Roman's already quite expressive face, his grin turning absolutely wolfish as he leans back and stretches both arms to the ceiling in a move that's either a stretch, or some silent exultation. "Savagery is the opposite of Satin. We can take you down to look around in a bit if you like, but it's rough, rowdy, and loud. You won't have to work down there. If anyone tries to feel you up or something, tell Andi and she'll break their fingers off. She's the floor manager for Savagery." He looks around briefly as if trying to find her, but gives up after a moment, "We run fights down there, too. There's a ring and everything. Betting is run through the house... Honestly, there's not much you *need* to know about it. There won't be much overlap. Maybe on special nights I'll offer a kick to some of the dancers if they want to be ring girls or boys or something, but... Usually your job will end at the door. Down there, you can relax and be a customer."
That look from Roman is caught, her dark eyes focused upon him with that intensity she shared with Fiametta, if sharper and deeper, something shared there between the pair. When his hand comes down, hers covers what it can and gives a squeeze before allowing it to retreat to the table. "We're happy to accommodate where we can," she assures with a slanted look given back toward that flame-haired woman. Knowing how worked up talk about Savagery would get Roman allows Marigold to fall into a moment of quiet contemplation as she listens to him speak on the club-beneath-the-club. Her fingers work at that bun, loosening it until that silky spill of inky tresses tumbles down. She shakes it around her shoulders, tossing the pins once she holds it onto the tabletop. "I'm excited for the prospects of both clubs," she murmurs after a moment, her smile indulgent once more as she looks between the two. "And I'm terribly excited to have you as a part of this, Fiametta. We've not put down roots in some time now, and how well things are going just proves to me that we made the right choice." She leans forward then and raps her knuckles on the table three times. "This time will be different."
She seems perfectly relaxed now, though there's still that taste of vibrant energy about her, even sitting still. "You've got all my contact information, too?" she asks. "I'm excited too. It's not often that I've had the chance to help build something almost from the start, that wasn't picking up the pieces of something else. Just let me know when you want to come in next. I'm not a contractor or anything but...I know sometimes promotions and stuff helps, and if I need to show up somewhere else, count me in. She untucks her legs, stretching them luxuriously. "Did you have any more questions for me? If not, I should check in at least, so he doesn't worry. And I can't wait until I'm here next." She glances around at all the things still covered, incomplete. "And see everything unfold." | |