TiltProof
Salt-Free
Somewhere in the confusion and the panic of getting caught, the hand that held Victoria had worked its way down. Leather kissed bare skin as Garrett's grip slid down to her waist, tracing her silhouette as it curved into her hips until his fingertips settled on the back of her thigh. Lifting her leg so it rested on his hip, he pressed his weight against her, hoisting her up as he hunched down to meet her halfway.
At the sound of her voice, he was quick to step back, blinking. His hand had a mind of its own, as far as he was concerned, and right now, it chose to plant itself on the back of his neck, rubbing his nape as he looked down. His gaze refused to meet hers.
Right. Best if he left this whole bit out once he had to report back to Alcott.
What followed was the longest second and a half known to man. Garrett kept opening his mouth and closing it up before any real words could form. His whole body was rebelling against him. That was it. That had to be it.
Thankfully, an eternity of a second later, he remembered how to actually speak. ‘Are you sure? Never hurt to be thorough.’ He even managed to sound just a little bit teasing, he thought, although not a moment later, the same rebellious little mouth let out a pathetic noise that could barely qualify for a chuckle. Thank god for the club’s dim lighting. His face must have looked just as embarrassing.
With his coat left unbuttoned, the grey wool sweater he wore underneath did not do much to hide the empty holster clipped onto his belt. ‘Well, what’s the plan?’ Garrett took out his other hand from his coat pocket, and returned the gun he held back to its holster. ‘Don’t look like they’re letting just anyone in tonight. If we crash a private party, the guests will know right away. Although …’ He glanced at the direction where the woman -- Rita, was it? -- had come from, eyes squinting, voice trailing off.
Garrett walked towards the staff area, not bothering to check if Victoria came along. The kitchen was the first thing on the hallway. Presumably, at least. The frosted glass doors obscured the view inside, but not a moment later, a scantily clad server burst out, tray full of greasy food in hand.
He had opened his mouth to come up with a quick lie, but the server only told him, not bothering to make eye contact, that he was in her way and he needed to change that quick. She had a scowl on her face, grumbling about a slew of mostly incoherent things. The only words he could make out was 'understaffed' and 'overworked.' 'Murder' could have been one of them. The look in her eyes said that much, at least. Palms open in a display of good will, Garrett stepped aside, making a face at the woman who had already long been on her way, and continued walking. There was no shortage of crazy and/or scary people tonight, it seemed.
The dressing room door had been left ajar, and even from a distance, Garrett could see women in various states of undress, puffing their faces full of powder. He wrinkled his nose as the acrid stench of hairspray wafted around the air. It mixed with sweat, and perfume, and spiced meats from the nearby kitchen.
Inside, the cacophonous chattering continued even as he knocked on the door. In one corner of the room, a middle-aged woman was arguing with a broad-shouldered man with the kind of jawline and five o' clock shadow reserved for the likes of Arnold Schwarzenegger. They seemed to be the only ones who even noticed that Garrett was standing by the door.
‘Heard you could use more hands,’ Garrett said, already beginning to regret this. The door creaked as he pushed it further open. ‘I could always use the extra cash.’
The other man crossed his arms, an eyebrow raised. He was covered in tattoos up to his neck. Not quite as tall as Garrett, but definitely bigger. His pecs threatened to pop out of his short-sleeved black shirt.‘How’d you get in?’ The man asked, after a silence that was far too long for anybody's comfort.
‘Came in with Rob.’ He shrugged.
‘Oh, that fat bastard.’ The woman chimed in. She was all weary sighs and near bloodshot eyes underneath her thick makeup. Her wispy jet black hair, greying from the roots, had been teased into a giant poof of curls. ‘Yeah, I saw his ugly mug walking around just a few minutes ago. He has a lot of nerve showing his face here.’ She leaned in closer to the other man, and though Garrett could see her lips continue to move, he couldn’t make out what she was saying.
‘Well, he’s trying to make up for it now, isn’t he?’ Garrett said. The strangers turned their head to face him at the same time.
‘For his sake, I hope he does,’ the woman replied. The sad smile that crept up on her face was probably the closest thing she ever had to a sincere display.
The other man only turned his back, and if there were any changes in his stony expression, it was lost on Garrett. The former walked into a far corner of the room, and retrieved something from one of the rusty lockers over there. ‘Get dressed.’ He flung a roll of short-sleeved shirt in Garrett’s direction. It bore the logo of the club at the front, and the word ‘SECURITY’ at the back. ‘There’s an empty locker for your things, including the gun.’
The corner of Garrett’s lips quirked up. He almost looked like he had been caught red-handed. ‘Oh, I have a permit for--’
‘We’re in Hermes’ District, son, not the goddamn West End. We don’t give a shit about no permits here.’ The other man waved his hand in dismissal. ‘Now what did you say your name was again?’
‘Oh,’ Garrett blinked, ‘uh … Victor.’
‘Right, Victor. Get your shit in here, and your ass out there.’
‘Right.’
‘Good. But first -- explain who that is hovering behind you.’
Katrina
At the sound of her voice, he was quick to step back, blinking. His hand had a mind of its own, as far as he was concerned, and right now, it chose to plant itself on the back of his neck, rubbing his nape as he looked down. His gaze refused to meet hers.
Right. Best if he left this whole bit out once he had to report back to Alcott.
What followed was the longest second and a half known to man. Garrett kept opening his mouth and closing it up before any real words could form. His whole body was rebelling against him. That was it. That had to be it.
Thankfully, an eternity of a second later, he remembered how to actually speak. ‘Are you sure? Never hurt to be thorough.’ He even managed to sound just a little bit teasing, he thought, although not a moment later, the same rebellious little mouth let out a pathetic noise that could barely qualify for a chuckle. Thank god for the club’s dim lighting. His face must have looked just as embarrassing.
With his coat left unbuttoned, the grey wool sweater he wore underneath did not do much to hide the empty holster clipped onto his belt. ‘Well, what’s the plan?’ Garrett took out his other hand from his coat pocket, and returned the gun he held back to its holster. ‘Don’t look like they’re letting just anyone in tonight. If we crash a private party, the guests will know right away. Although …’ He glanced at the direction where the woman -- Rita, was it? -- had come from, eyes squinting, voice trailing off.
Garrett walked towards the staff area, not bothering to check if Victoria came along. The kitchen was the first thing on the hallway. Presumably, at least. The frosted glass doors obscured the view inside, but not a moment later, a scantily clad server burst out, tray full of greasy food in hand.
He had opened his mouth to come up with a quick lie, but the server only told him, not bothering to make eye contact, that he was in her way and he needed to change that quick. She had a scowl on her face, grumbling about a slew of mostly incoherent things. The only words he could make out was 'understaffed' and 'overworked.' 'Murder' could have been one of them. The look in her eyes said that much, at least. Palms open in a display of good will, Garrett stepped aside, making a face at the woman who had already long been on her way, and continued walking. There was no shortage of crazy and/or scary people tonight, it seemed.
The dressing room door had been left ajar, and even from a distance, Garrett could see women in various states of undress, puffing their faces full of powder. He wrinkled his nose as the acrid stench of hairspray wafted around the air. It mixed with sweat, and perfume, and spiced meats from the nearby kitchen.
Inside, the cacophonous chattering continued even as he knocked on the door. In one corner of the room, a middle-aged woman was arguing with a broad-shouldered man with the kind of jawline and five o' clock shadow reserved for the likes of Arnold Schwarzenegger. They seemed to be the only ones who even noticed that Garrett was standing by the door.
‘Heard you could use more hands,’ Garrett said, already beginning to regret this. The door creaked as he pushed it further open. ‘I could always use the extra cash.’
The other man crossed his arms, an eyebrow raised. He was covered in tattoos up to his neck. Not quite as tall as Garrett, but definitely bigger. His pecs threatened to pop out of his short-sleeved black shirt.‘How’d you get in?’ The man asked, after a silence that was far too long for anybody's comfort.
‘Came in with Rob.’ He shrugged.
‘Oh, that fat bastard.’ The woman chimed in. She was all weary sighs and near bloodshot eyes underneath her thick makeup. Her wispy jet black hair, greying from the roots, had been teased into a giant poof of curls. ‘Yeah, I saw his ugly mug walking around just a few minutes ago. He has a lot of nerve showing his face here.’ She leaned in closer to the other man, and though Garrett could see her lips continue to move, he couldn’t make out what she was saying.
‘Well, he’s trying to make up for it now, isn’t he?’ Garrett said. The strangers turned their head to face him at the same time.
‘For his sake, I hope he does,’ the woman replied. The sad smile that crept up on her face was probably the closest thing she ever had to a sincere display.
The other man only turned his back, and if there were any changes in his stony expression, it was lost on Garrett. The former walked into a far corner of the room, and retrieved something from one of the rusty lockers over there. ‘Get dressed.’ He flung a roll of short-sleeved shirt in Garrett’s direction. It bore the logo of the club at the front, and the word ‘SECURITY’ at the back. ‘There’s an empty locker for your things, including the gun.’
The corner of Garrett’s lips quirked up. He almost looked like he had been caught red-handed. ‘Oh, I have a permit for--’
‘We’re in Hermes’ District, son, not the goddamn West End. We don’t give a shit about no permits here.’ The other man waved his hand in dismissal. ‘Now what did you say your name was again?’
‘Oh,’ Garrett blinked, ‘uh … Victor.’
‘Right, Victor. Get your shit in here, and your ass out there.’
‘Right.’
‘Good. But first -- explain who that is hovering behind you.’
Katrina
