by any means at all .

Today was one of the rare days where it felt as though she were back by herself. Alone. Back to lazy Sundays and dead silence and trying to find ways to kill the time.

It was wildly reckless and probably stupid but Betrice was nothing if not an addict. Today it happened to be the dull rush of adrenaline setting up a hammock in the middle of the park. Because it was better than the alternative of going back to an empty apartment and feeling the aching itching feeling of concern crawl up. With the sun hanging high above filtering through the trees, Betrice might even say the moment was perfect. She might if only it weren’t for the person standing close enough she could spot them in the corner of her half-closed eyes. Sighing, Betrice tilts her head to give them a slow once over.

-

Connor chuckled in amusement as she easily distracted the man she was with. “Babysitting duty?” he questioned, remembering the days when his parents had tried to get people to do that for him, though he had rarely been one to get quite so sloppy drunk, or easily distracted. He had usually just ‘needed’ someone to keep him from upsetting the wrong people, though that had been given up on eventually. 

“Ah, yeah, I know that type.” he said. They were unfortunately common, but not usually as much trouble, or even as frustrating to Connor, as those who did have two brain cells to rub together. Recognition lit in his eyes and he nodded at her words. “We should start a club!” he said, “My brother and sister are much better at the social aspect of things in our parents circle too. Chloe has the patience to deal with them and try to improve matters from the inside, Colin usually just keeps his distance and stays polite … but they never quite taught me any of that.” 

-

“Something of the like. His father insisted upon making a public appearance in return for a small favor.” Small being a relative term if signing over the land rights to six blocks of the lower boroughs counted as such. It was far from a favor though and more like insurance. Blackmail was a tricky thing these days but she wanted to make certain the deal went through. Heinrichs were notoriously slimy and found loopholes in every deal to work it in their favor. A headache really.

She grins a little when he recognizes her in turn. It was always nice finding kindred spirits to to speak. “I’m sure there’d be enough of us to get jackets. Our siblings would simply hate it.”

“If I recall I think it was Chloe that spoke to my brother at length during the last charity ball. No wonder the two of them got on so well, they’re practically twins. Reforming the corruption from the inside? Archibald would simply have a field day.” Laughing she takes the spot Bradley had occupied and doesn’t bother looking in the crowd for her ‘date’. Puppies had a tendency to wander, it wasn’t her fault.

𝕥𝕜~

“Thought that might work.” Tommy quips with a wink, that cigarette still hanging from his lips as he readjusts, turns back around to face her, glad to see a smile on her lips instead of that disdain that had been there only moments ago.

He’s good at that, though – making people change their minds about him. It’s not always for the better.

He frowns a little at her response, that she goes out fighting the urge to follow those she’s lost. He knows what that track is life – the path to self-destruction, the urge to just cut it all loose, once and for all.

“Don’t have anything else to live for?” He asks, eyeing her curiously – hopeful that there’s something. Tommy shifts a little, toeing some gravel with his boot, both hands in his pockets for a minute while he thinks. “We’re all just a couple of neurotransmitters away from something. Worse, or better. We’ll never know, right?” His brows raise, and he scrutinizes her expression. “I’m sorry to hear that. Sometimes… life just takes and takes.” He wishes he had better, more positive advice to give her, but he’s one to talk. “What do you do to keep your mind off it? What makes you happy?”

-

Several somethings.

But Bee doesn’t put it to words because it feels too real even confessing to a stranger about the family waiting for her. Stella would be furious she wasn’t answering her phone, Eric would be concerned, and sweet little Vic would be fast asleep with not a care in the world. Little scenarios, imagining them in their day to day lives at any moment - how could she possibly hope to tell him about it? How were there ever enough words to describe how terrifying it felt every second every day knowing how much they meant to her? She couldn’t even admit it to herself much less a man that reminds her of the dead.

So she shrugs, she listens to him instead and takes a drag of her cigarette.

Being infertile wasn’t so bad, she used to joke to her brother. She’d passed out high on something and woke up to those blue eyes, that raw terror only she’d ever seen. Oh how Archie’s hands shook. Oh how his voice broke as he told her how it was his fault for not getting to her soon enough. ‘I wanted an abortion anyways. Have to live up to your stupid little nickname don’t I? Though I’m not as chaste as Artemis.’ She had laughed and he had cried. Betrice always figured it was because of the fact she’d nearly died in his arms but now, especially today, she understood.

Archie mourned her choice being ripped from her.

“Life doesn’t accept apologies, why should I?” Betrice smiles though, flicking ash and meeting his gaze. “Fun? Why that’s simple. I hunt down any and every angle that will let me grind the lives of cruel men under my heels. That’s just my day job, Tommy.”

𝕥𝕜~

She says he has the ass for it, and it prompts Tommy to push himself up from the wall, hike up the back of his jacket with the cigarette hanging out of his lips, and show her his ass – through his jeans, of course. He pops his hips back just a little, looks at her over his shoulder. He’s ready to humor her, make her laugh instead of punching him in the face. Which it had seemed like she wanted to do just moments ago.

Tommy’s not afraid of a fight, he just prefers not to have them with women. Mostly because he’d simply take the beating until he could restrain them.

His face slackens in surprise. “You’re givin’ me whiplash here.” He says, biting back the sweetheart that almost comes out of his mouth out of instinct and the change in tone. Tommy clears his throat, leaning his shoulder on the wall so he can look at her. He thinks maybe that’s what made her so mean. Has to be. Losing a child is an unbearable pain, he imagines. “I’m sorry you went through that.” He says, and his voice is softer as is his expression. “And I’m sorry I reminded you of him. Caught you at a bad time, huh?” His eyes rake over her face, looking for something – he’s not sure what – but she’s hard to read. “You alright?”

-

The icing for her is when he doesn’t deny the fact in favor of turning and allowing her to appraise the pert curve of his ass. Whatever ire she might’ve felt melts away and there’s a ghost of a smile on her lips as she shakes her head. It feels like a betrayal laughing when her thoughts are mired in dark thoughts, recounting deaths and feeling bitter rage. Noah would’ve laughed and said it suited her being cold and heartless.

Flicking ash to the side, there’s a thoughtful little hum. It’s comforting confiding in a stranger especially one with the same charm as the man she’d loved so dearly. No one understood the appeal, no one saw him as anything less than scum on the streets. Closing her eyes with a soft hum there’s a small shrug offered. Tommy is softer now, his voice is at least, and Bee is almost surprised he seems to care for a man that makes it his pride to forget. Blue eyes meet his quiet appraisal, a brow raised. What do you see I wonder.

“Every year I go out fighting the urge to follow them.”

Smoke laces her smile and she looks away, head tipped up to examine the rooftops. “I suppose you could say I’m one wrong choice away from being far from okay.” A laugh slips free then and she rubs a hand across her face. “The real irony though is knowing if I gave in, well, there would be no one to inherit everything I’ve built. It’s hard to have a legacy when you can’t have children anymore.” Lips curl with a hollow smile as she meets his gaze once more.

-

Connor had recognized the guy he was talking to, their parents were in the same social circles after all, but he wasn’t certain that the guy had recognized him. He had decided to give him the benefit of the doubt though, but when he started claiming that his father was trying to fix accessibility issues in New York, he raised an eyebrow. That’d be the first he’d heard of it, and it didn’t exactly seem like Mr. Heinrich’s style. 

He shrugged as someone began to pull Brad away, “I don’t really mind, except I kind of doubt his father is actually trying to help. It’s not exactly the vibe I’ve gotten there.” he said carefully. For better for worse, Connor had interacted with most of the elite class in the city at some point due to his parents, and his reputation as the Andrews family black sheep usually meant that it was for worse. “I had him pegged for the … patronize and brush off type.”

-

A huff of laughter slips free and Brad sways on his feet as Betrice regards the man with an amused little smile. Sure she’d seen him once or twice at her brother’s ridiculous charity balls he insisted upon throwing for the good of the Maycroft name. Andrews something if she remembered right. Bradley hiccups and she’s quick to shove the cranberry and club into his hands with a charming smile. “There there, oh look the brunette at the bar is waving,” she whispers at his ear. Bradley Heinrich is grinning like the moron Betrice pegged him as and shuffles off into the crowd.

“Oh you’re entirely right.” Betrice sips her gin and tonic, easing into Bradley’s spot and gesturing idly towards the crowd. “Jameson is an ass and his son failed to inherit any speck of a backbone or a braincell.” She smiles slow and warm, offering a hand to the man. “We’ve met in passing, Betrice Maycroft. I’m certain you’re from the Andrews family if memory serves but my brother was far more attentive to the details than I was. Apologies for that, I usually make an effort to know all of New York’s finest black sheep. We’re an appallingly small flock.”

☆✮☆

It’s gut wrenching. Seeing tears well up in those eyes and then spill over almost has Stella own dam breaking. She knew eventually the day would come when one of them would see the other on one of their worst days but she hadn’t remembered how tough the secondhand hurt is the first time it happens. 

“It’s okay to not know. There’s not always an instant solution.” She’ll be strong here for Bee, if that’s what she needs. Stella cared too much to let her suffer alone anymore. She takes a step forward, wrapping an arm around her to comfort, to reassure. It’s what she could offer, along with listening. 

“Baby, you don’t have to apologize. Not with me.” Fuck whoever it was that had molded Bee into believing catharsis is something you had to apologize for.

Grief was in and of itself a beast to deal with, so coupled with a painful, volatile relationship, Stella could only begin to imagine the hurt. There’s a lot she doesn’t know but she doesn’t want to pry only to end up with Bee barricading herself behind her walls again. Maybe a simpler question to start. “How long has it been?” since he died; since you’ve talked about it; since you’ve let yourself feel all of it. Stella didn’t know even half the story but she already loathed the dead man for the pain he’d caused and that still lingers. 

-

It’s okay not to know. Was it? Betrice nearly collapses into her, choking on breath. Her forehead presses to Stella’s shoulder and another hiccup of an exhale slips free. Eyes stinging, her fingers are desperate to wipe away the hot tears rolling free. Sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry, she bites back, sinking into those arms wrapping around her. And yet it was more than just Noah’s death, it was remembering the girl she’d buried before her first stint in rehab and the secrets she held close to her chest.

It was all the little things she wasn’t sure she’d ever let anyone know.

Fingers twist along Stella’s shirt along her spine, desperate to hold her close as her own shoulders quake a little with a soft sob. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. Words are there on the edge of her tongue, old habits trained from her mother’s rough hand and cruel lessons. “I have to especially with you,” she sniffles out, rubbing her face with a huff. “Because it’s been so damn long I shouldn’t- it’s in the past, it’s over.” But it hurts remembering Noah, the clinic, everything. It hurt in a way she couldn’t merely throw out in her work or her sword-fighting or even running early in the morning. It was an old wound she’d never tried to fix.

How long has it been?

              “You and I must have different definitions of the word one then. For me, one is a singular glass poured from a singular bottle consumed in a singular setting. One for you applies to the whole bottle? Or….” He squints for a moment, “Two, almost three singular glasses consumed in a singular setting.”                  The comment about his shirt has him looking down. Sure it’s a little threadbare. He chuckles, a polite little thing. “Nicer shirts?!” He smooths the buttons in the middle of his shirt down before his hands find his glass again. “If I spent my money on nicer shirts, I couldn’t spend them on comfortable shoes. You know how long it takes to do a goddamn autopsy?” At least seven hours. And that’s for a straightforward one. Some of them take longer. Even with help.                  Brody takes a sip of his bourbon and offers another dimpled, polite smile. “Anyway, I feel like the amount of washing I have to do for my shirts would be wasted on nicer shirts. At least I don’t feel bad when these completely fall apart. I know what I paid for them.” Which isn’t to say he doesn’t have nice shirts.                   They’re just not his work shirts. Coming home smelling like death all the time means washing his clothes. A lot. And sometimes he does shell out for the nice shirt at the morgue. Generally though, Brody saves his good clothes for court. Beatrice offers her hand. Brody gives it a firm, doctorly shake. “Brody Levi. Rudeness forgiven. I am also having a string of rotten luck with men.” Though he supposes the bad luck he’s having is his own doing as opposed to actual fate or luck. “Glad I could be a little bit more refreshing. Not completely, obviously, I’m still a man, this is still alcohol, but. A mild change of pace, in any case.”

-

“A single of Macallan? That was being modest for this bar. Honestly, they could stand to charge more for it.” But Bee’s knowledge of fifty-seven year old scotch non-withstanding, she appreciates the gestures. Either way she can’t resist a little fun just to see how he’d squirm. “You could buy a bottle sure, hell if you’d like to split one it’d be a pleasure.” An amused glance is given to the little birdie beside her. “These days I believe the price is three hundred thousand.”

It’s not a question of price for her, no, she’s no taste for things wasteful. But she watches him brush over himself, making it apparent how the remark lands. Oh he is so tragically polite Betrice really ought to be kinder. What could she do with him on her side or rather, in her pocket.

A doctor dealing with forensics then.

Bee can’t help but muse how helpful it is he’s rather cute too. It was always nice when they were easy on the eyes. Motioning idly to the bartender, she buys them both another round and listens to the man talk about shirts and washing up. Once upon a time she had similar struggles of her own. “Nicer shirts would withstand a bit better. If they’re made right.” A slow smile quirks her lips and she reaches out after the handshake, straightening his collar. “You’re frankly doing the world a disservice dressing in anything but a lovely tailored suit, Mister Levi. It’s downright criminal.”

An amused sort of glance is given and she brushes off his shoulders once the left collar decides to lay flat under her fingers gentle insistence. “Nonsense, gender aside, you’re already miles beyond the typical barfly I’ve grown accustomed to chasing off.” Blue eyes dance with laughter as she gestures idly towards the rows and rows of liquor. “But you, Brody Levi, are with a friend tonight. So screw your rotten man for not buying you nice shirts to wear out and screw chivalric traditions.” Betrice gives a mild salute of her scotch, a wicked sort of smirk surfacing.

𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔟𝔬𝔶~

She’s watching him, he’s watching her. It’s an interesting show down between the two of them, although Jeremiah is painfully aware that he is the bug behind the glass and she the giant on the other side. He blinks with wide eyes at her, something like reverence in his expression though it might still be laced with a little fear – something he thinks she might also enjoy instilling in others. Perhaps, particularly, of the male variety.

He’s confused when Bee says it’s his greatest talent. He hasn’t ever thought of it that way – he’s always considered it a rather strange and bizarre personality trait that most people tended to avoid. He found out quite early that most people don’t like to be informed of their habits by an overly excited Jeremiah who’s spent days watching them. It’s weird. But Bee seems to think it’s valuable. “I’m used to not being seen. I kind of like it that way.” He admits, and his voice is small. He’s good at that, too, making himself smaller and more insignificant than he really is.

Jer swallows another sip of the shitty iced tea as Bee informs him of what he’d be getting himself into. His brows raise, and his lips twitch when she tells him just how much land she owns. She uses that little trick of pretending to lack the hubris of knowing exactly what she’s got, but Jer sees through that – at least enough not to prod too hard. “I’m sure I’ll learn all about it later.” He says, one eyebrow curved, a little bit of light dancing in his warm, brown eyes.

Jer takes a second to consider it, rubbing his lips together as he plays a little math game in his head, eyes on the napkins and table that separates them. Before answering, he inhales deeply through his mouth, then makes eye contact with Bee again. “Let’s say I agree – and I do all this little mouse detective work for you, and I agree to be groomed to be your heir, would I not have time to pursue the passion of my education? Or would my doctorate simply collect dust on an office wall?”

-

“Most people would agree with you. Being seen is intimate, personal, no one likes when they’re seen.” Oh how she likes him, how his clever mind works not yet where it could be but dangerously close. “It’s a talent only if you stop concerning yourself with the views of others. See them before they’re seen.” Betrice smiles and it’s a softer edged thing now as she says simply, “Most are either too naive or too frightened to acknowledge the things you and I notice. So they act with the only tool they have; violence. With words, with fists, anything to make you hurt for exposing them. No one reacts well to truth because there’s no fighting it, no denying it. Find the truth people are hiding? You own them.”

Jer takes a sip and her smile grows a fraction. It’s hard to swallow, shitty tea that tastes like ashtrays mixed with water and not nearly hot enough to melt the sugar at the bottom. Betrice knows he could order something else, set aside the drink, anything at all - but he chose to trust her. Just as he chose to lead her here to this quaint little dinner with shitty vinyl seats and old memories. Just as he speaks and she sees him, that light in his eyes like kindling sparking to life beyond the fear and awe.

It takes him a while to finally ask the question she’s known he would get to with enough time. All he needed was a little push, a few puzzle pieces. She lays out the framework of a future, a life where he wouldn’t have to risk being arrested at the cost of his passions. Betrice delights in watching him, seeing the gears turn and how quickly he pieces it all together into a whole grander picture. Jeremiah takes a breath and asks the question in so many words; is it worth it?

Reaching out, her fingers delicately pluck the iced tea away in favor of looking towards their waitress. A little wave and she dons her best smile for the woman. “Could we get coffee? With cream as well on the side? Thank you so much.” The woman gives a relieved sort of look, scurrying off while Betrice sets the iced tea to the side. It’s only when the waitress comes back, a tremor in her hands as she pours the cup for Jeremiah, does she look away from him. “My doctorate is collecting dust because only fools fixate upon a piece of paper telling them what they can and cannot do. Pride is the only thing keeping me from using the damn thing as kindling. The time you commit to your education is more than what’s spent between four walls. Darling, only fools believe tired old professors are the end all be all fonts of knowledge.”

The waitress chews her lip before leaving with a hushed, “Y’all let me know if you’re gonna need something else.”

Alone at their table, Betrice is quiet a long moment. “Mouse detective work,” she finally says, folding her hand carefully in her lap and nodding towards the flustered waitress just at their table. 

𝕥𝕜~

Tommy shrugs as he takes another hit. He thinks this woman is neither here nor there. If she wants to hate him or use him as an outlet for whatever she’s feeling, he’ll likely forget it by morning, depending on what he does when he gets home. His eyes cast over her as she moves a little further away. He’s left wondering why she’s still standing here, engaging him in conversation if she finds him so… lacking in positive personality traits.

“I mean, if you wanna slut-shame me, go for it, but I like to think I have the charm of at least a high level escort.” He flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette then takes another drag. It’s getting close to the butt now.

“Bee.” He repeats. “I suppose that’s appropriate, you like to sting, huh?” Tommy’s stunned just for a moment when she trades out his cigarette, but it makes him smile which quickly turns into a sharp laugh. “Well, glad to hear I’m not entirely repulsive, shit.” He takes a long drag from his new cigarette, “Thanks for the cigarette, Bee, and trust me, I won’t be callin’ you sweet nothin’. ‘Cuz you are far from it.”

-

“High level escort? Maybe. You’ve the ass for it.” It’s nice. He’s a good distraction from the whirlwind brewing in her chest. Rage she’d felt at first. Bitterness she’d felt at a familiar nickname. Now though - Betrice contemplates leaving before she says something that she’ll regret. But on today of all days? Frankly there’s not one iota of a single fuck to give what anyone thinks of her. Should she thank Noah for hardening her so resolutely? Or curse him?

You like to sting, huh?

A laugh dies in her throat, the butt of his cigarette held contemplative between her fingers. She knew his face, his name, it was enough to utterly destroy most people once she took an avid interest in them. “I suppose so.” Manicured nails flick the dying cherry loose and she watches as it fizzles out on damp asphalt. No, her temper dies because she remembers him in lieu of Noah. The smile ever present on his stupid face and the way he’d hold her face and tell her she was beautiful as a sunflower. It’s lazy Sunday afternoons behind her eyelids and she mourns him just as keenly.

“For a moment you reminded me of the man I loved.” Tapping the pack thoughtfully against her palm, there’s a soft hum. “He hated me too at first. I hated him a little.” Glancing sidelong at Tommy, there’s a wrinkle of her nose as she considers him. Yeah, it was there in the frustrating smile of his and it’s enough to have her pulling a fresh cigarette for herself. She knows he doesn’t care, not really, hell he may as well forget everything she’s said. It’s almost cathartic really as she flicks her lighter.

𝕥𝕜~

Tommy’s eyes narrow as the woman speaks, repeating back the little affectionate names he’d referred to her as in lieu of her name – which, in his defense, he didn’t have yet. “Mm… those were placeholders.” He says, arching an eyebrow as he takes another hit from his cigarette, trying to figure out this woman’s deal. He doesn’t think a comment about not all men will sit right in present company, so he says nothing, exhaling a plume of smoke instead of responding.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, there – easy up.” He holds up his hands, laughs a little though it’s devoid of humor. “I don’t remember anyone’s name, and it’s nothin’ personal. Nobody matters to a man like me, and it’s not for the reasons I’m sure you’re cookin’ up in that head of yours.” He doesn’t say ‘pretty’ like he would normally, because she already seems to have a bad enough taste for him in her mouth, and they’ve been in each other’s company for all of 2 minutes.

He wonders what the men in her life have done to make her whatever she’s become now, but he’s sure it’s not something he’ll think about again. This’ll just be another random, if inexplicably strange, experience in New York City. “Dunno what’s happened to you, but I consider any and all pleasure I engage in with whomever I engage with to be a two-way street, mutually beneficial and with as few strings attached as possible. And I make sure I’m clear. But, uh, glad to hear I’m unforgettable.” He’s twisting her words, just because that’s who he is, and offers her a lopsided grin, taking a step back to take another hit of the cigarette. “Thanks for the cigarette, sweetheart.”

-

“Placeholders.” Blue eyes skim his face and she taps the pack of cigarettes to her palm with a wry smile. What an easy excuse. Noah used it often with growing frequency up until the day of his death. Funny she’d hear it today on the anniversary of his demise. He’s defensive and trying to find a way out and it’s funny how aptly she reminds him of a rat scurrying desperately across the gutters so no one will notice the grimy little paws. Betrice is silent as he speaks, pulling a fresh cigarette from the pack with mild annoyance. Any other day she’d have humored him, joked that maybe he was more of a man than she gave credit.

Today though, well, she lights up a second smoke without pause and lets him slip away just far enough that when he finishes talking with that cocky grin it’ll be all the more difficult for her to punch the look off. Betrice amuses herself for a moment imagining if a man like him would scream or not if she were to snuff the cherry out on that clever tongue. It’s easy enough to let the thought go just as quick as it is to breathe out smoke.

“So you’re a slut with the charm of a cheap whore,” she sighs out, appraising yet again. There’s no venom in her voice only something weary. Maybe it’s because he reminds her so much of Smiley and his crooked grin, his sweetness. Betrice hadn’t been able to stay pissed off at him either for all the times she wished she could. She’s tired and angry and furious at a man so long gone all that remained were the bones she’d cremated and flushed down the toilet without a moment’s pause.

“Fine then, for the sake of your two way street, call me Bee.”

𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔟𝔬𝔶~

Jer would be lying to himself if he even tried to pretend like his nerves weren’t half anxiety and half excited anticipation. He doesn’t know what he’s about to get himself into, but he’s sure it’s better than whatever this woman could have in store for him if he didn’t at least hear her out. Her promise of such a lucrative grad school almost has him salivating, too. He has to hear this out, at least to get the opportunity, right? At least to say he’s weighed it all out, made the right choices.

Her shoes are expensive. Her bag is expensive. Her scent is expensive. Jer clocked all of this rather quickly. She doesn’t belong on this side of town, but she doesn’t stand out to anyone with an untrained eye. The most expensive of things are the most subtle, it seems.

“Not a problem at all.” Jer replies, following her into the café – he’s been in a hundred times before. It stays open late, sometimes 24 hours, and it’s quiet, and can be private. He says nothing when she orders him an iced tea even though he doesn’t like the drink. He’s going to stomach it for her, especially after she hands him the sugar. He dumps a significant amount into the cold liquid, watches it with disdain as it collects like a sludge at the bottom of the glass. He raises his gaze to meet hers again, listening to her before leaning forward to take a sip. He pulls the straw up from the bottom so he doesn’t get a mouthful of granular sugar.

Little mouse.

“I’m not good with people.” He says, frowning. “In fact, I’m almost spectacularly bad with people.” Betrice Maycroft. The name sounds rich, and Jeremiah swallows thickly. “What does being your protégé entail?” He’ll need more details, of course, and she’ll need to know more about him, he’s certain. There’s a look in her eye that tells him that she’s brilliant, probably in more ways than most people realize. And Jer gets the sense that maybe she likes it that way.

-

Clever eyes and clever hands. He wouldn’t have lasted as long being a dealer if he didn’t have some smarts to him and she’s appreciative of his skill. Seeing it in practice would be nice but it could wait. For now she watches him, sees how he fits in the little world of hum drum college life. Did he know this was her favorite diner? Did he know she once walked the halls of this shitty little college in an effort to round out her education? Maybe he’d find out if he lasted long enough that once upon a time they weren’t so different. She had found a quiet library once upon a time and hit up anything like it would change the past or soothe the pain. It hadn’t done anything but leave a trail of dead friends and lost loves.

Sipping her own iced tea she glances towards the waitress thoughtfully while he talks. “That’s your greatest talent you know,” she decides, setting the glass aside in favor of folding her hands and leaning forward. “You’re detached, you watch for details people overlook. You notice things while remaining perfectly unnoticed and forgotten.” Red lips curl, he’s asking all the right questions and not prying more than surface level. All the better to keep from prodding her temper. Toying idly with the straw, Betrice hums a moment and lets her gaze dance from his face and watch the ice shift and stir about in her glass.

“Being my protégé means you’ll be akin to my shadow, my second in command in layman’s terms. But in reality it means that at the end of your education you’ll have a choice. You may follow your original aspirations of doing god knows what in this overpriced institution or you can choose to be my heir.” She stops stirring the iced tea and gestures idly with her hand, meeting his gaze while their waitress hovers. Betrice smiles slowly, tilting her head. “I presently control eighty percent of the land rights in New York, a two hundred acre ranch in Northern Texas, oh a parcel or two in Vegas and a dozen commercial buildings in Los Angeles. There’s more but who has time to keep track of it all.” She does, Betrice could list off every minute detail about the breadth of her empire she’s meticulously built from the ground up. But he has to to prove he’s trustworthy enough to have that information.

Lacing her fingers together, Betrice smiles further. “It’s a question you have years to consider the answer you want to give but it’s an insult to both of us if you don’t understand precisely what’s on the table. Or what’s at stake.”

For: Open to anyone

Location: NYC Bar

Connor sat at the bar, beer in hand as he talked freely to whoever happened to be around him. Shy had never been a word used to describe Connor in any way, shape, or form. Though he had certainly seen the bad side of people before, he was an eternal optimist and still considered everyone he met as a friend until they proved otherwise. He believed that people were inherently good, which made his dislike of his parents and their high society crowd all the worse. He believed that they chose to be that stuck up, callous, and rude. 

Tonight wasn’t about his parents however, tonight Connor had a new topic of conversation. “I mean, you know there’s almost a hundred and fifty subway stations in Manhattan, right? Only thirty-six of them are wheelchair accessible. Isn’t that crazy?” he asked before taking another sip of his beer, “I mean, honestly, stairs still aren’t the easiest for me, sometimes I just can’t do it. And if the leg’s acting up bad enough that I have to use my chair for a bit? It’s a no go. I mean, the busses are accessible, but it’s still such a pain.”

-

A new night, a new bar. It seemed her stint of humoring the old men on her board extended to after hours as well. Well, Betrice absolutely adored being kept from her nice bed and the two very nice people presently occupying said bed. Which is why she was here with the unfortunate offspring of Jameson Heinrich whose first name she hadn’t bothered to remember because the twenty something idiot wouldn’t stop looking at her ass.

It of course didn’t stop trust fund brat from wandering once she’d leaned against the bar to order drinks. Apparently the guy hadn’t adopted his father’s taste for nursing his twenty year scotch and thrown it back like some sloppy sorority girl. Bambi or whatever the guy’s name was had wandered off and was listening glassy eyed while some pretty boy was going on and on about accessibility in the city. Well that was a fight she’d had with Heinrich Senior just last week. It was an old one that seemed to fall on deaf ears. His son didn’t seem to get it and was more or less nodding and sighing out, “You are so right, my father is trying to fix those kinds of things you know.”

Betrice nearly rolls her eyes and settles for clapping her hand upon the messy idiot’s shoulder to steer him away. “Sorry about that, uh Jimmy-”

“M’name’s Brad.”

“Right. Bradley here was leaving. Sorry for the intrusion.”

*

He didn’t mind sharing the booth, he could deal without all the noise around him so maybe someone to distract him from it would keep him from biting people’s heads off. Who knows. You never knew what you were going to get with Gabe, especially when he was lost in his own thoughts. 

“Teeth to myself,” he repeated and looked up at the waitress who looked both tired and frustrated to the core. He could relate, his mom had been a waitress and he knew how hard the job could be. A mental note to leave the woman as much of a tip as he could manage. “Joking anyway, miss, I don’t bite on the first meeting anyway.”

Okay, that was a lie but he wasn’t trying to pick her up so she was definitely in the clear. 

“Peter? Guess I could live with that but Wendy? Really? Something tells me you’re much more like a Tink than a Wendy, but If you want Wendy, I’ll call ya that. As for being a lost boy, I guess you could say that.”

-

“Good boy,” she jokes easily enough, folding her jacket out of the way and rolling up her sleeves. A huff of laughter is all he gets for a moment, really she’s wondering more in the moment how large a tip was too much. Her heart went out to the woman and Betrice even apologizes again for needing a moment longer to look over the menu. The noise is a dull thunder here in the corner of the diner, the plastic menu sticky between her fingers and when their waitress -- Janette her tired name tag says in faded black -- comes back she can smell the potent diner blend of yesterday’s brew mixed in with today’s mix.

It really was the best of New York, her favorite really.

Even people like her lost boy sitting across from her telling her she looked nothing like Wendy and more like some fairy with a temper. Her answering smirk over the edge of her mug ought to be telling enough as she takes a delicate sip of the steaming coffee. “Mm, you’ve caught me on a day I’ve yet to plot murder of the terrible Wendy bird.”

              Baby bird? Brody takes a second to try and figure out what the hell had given her the impression that he couldn’t afford top shelf whiskey when he’d just gotten himself top shelf bourbon, and that he was a baby. Maybe it’s the fact that he can’t grow a moustache. His facial hair is always a little sad. That’s why he’s always very clean shaven. He rubs his chin for a second. Self-conscious, maybe. Everyone always thinks he looks younger than he is.                  She calls him Tweety and Brody snorts. “Please. I wouldn’t have offered if I couldn’t afford one drink for a pretty lady at a bar.” One drink. Brody wouldn’t say he’s filthy rich but he’s certainly not hurting. Not by a long shot. Brody lives very very comfortably and the patent leather shoes probably say as much.                  Brody lifts an eyebrow. “Are you? I can do the one drink. And my own. After that you can afford yourself, I think. That’s fair, right? Ninety dollars for one glass isn’t going to clean me out.” 

-

“Two hundred forty-seven and sixteen cents.” Betrice is examining her nails, leaning against the bar with an idle sigh. “That’s what one drink will cost you because it won’t be just one drink.” He seems uptight, well dressed. The smell of his aftershave reminds her of something clinical and he seems to take her little jabs in stride. Smart. Put together. Educated. Those patent leather shoes say far more than the stray threads at his shoulder. New shoes, old shirt. Practical and on his feet. Doctor. Tapping her finger against the bar as she considers him.

“I am,” she decides then, pulling out her clutch and handing the card to the bartender. “If only for the fact you’re interesting.” A polite smile is given to the man that takes her card and she gives another thoughtful glance of the man beside her. Well, he hadn’t called her some pet name and hadn’t thrown a fit when she’d taken a jab at his ego. Promising. “And the fact I desperately want to see a world where men such as yourself are dressed in nicer shirts.”

𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔟𝔬𝔶~

You’re slow. That feels like an insult. It is an insult, right? He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but he thinks better of it and shuts it, shrugging his shoulders in response. She seems like the type of woman to no take someone on their word, like she’d rather see them prove themselves in action. And Jeremiah can do that. He can prove that he’s not slow, he just processes things differently.

Atypical. Not slow.

He reddens a little at her jab at his choice in graduate program – it had been affordable for a guy who’s main gig is selling party drugs. He makes good money, but he doesn’t make Cornell or Columbia money, even with the scholarships. It’d be too much to afford the tuition and his apartment in Midtown. The prospect is enough to have him salivating a little, like he’s ready to do what she’s asking of him as long as it’s no getting him in shit deeper, ‘cause he’s already up to his nose.

He follows her back out into the courtyard, looking at her with something like respect. “There’s a café about a block and a half from here. It’s really niche, I think you’ll like it.” Plus, it had private seating, somewhere they could talk without having to worry about interference or someone glaring at them because they’re in a library.

Jer shoves his hands into his pockets and steps forward, taking a gentle lead so that he can take her to the café in question. It’s only a few blocks, he doesn’t say anything on the way there, just rolls over thoughts and ideas and possible scenarios in his head. They get to the café and he opens the door for Bee, “After you.”

-

Clever boy. He hasn’t earned the praise but she imagines he would blossom under the right tutelage and wasn’t she considering about getting a dog soon? Being a mentor feels a bit like that, Betrice imagines. You teach them tricks, how to play nice, where to hide their bones, and cleaned up ripped up carpet and shit. Maybe he would prove more interesting than a dog, she muses. God she hoped so. He’s definitely cuter than the Pomeranian Amanda had shown her before she’d given her assistant a look of disbelief. Columbia then, Cornwell was too stuffy and had an abysmal fencing program.

If he was going to be hers he would receive a respectable education.

“A niche little cafe,” Betrice hums, nodding with quiet approval. So her appraisal of him hadn’t been altogether wrong. He was slow but it hadn’t been an insult, it meant he took his time and with practice that meticulous examining could be reduced to merely a look. He was quiet but it was to his benefit, no one paid mind to the soft spoken men in a crowd. You’re slow, she had said because telling him, you’re promising would be counter productive. There was no room for pride when she would have to break him down to teach him. Betrice promised Stella she would behave, she would be better.

She never promised to not take in a stray with the intent of fashioning him as something, well, more.

Watching him now, she follows in relative silence at his elbow, scarcely giving the old campus buildings a single glance. Soon the grey walls and faded tile wouldn’t matter for either of them. A slow earnest smile threatens to surface when he holds the door for her and remembers his manners. “Thank you,” Betrice says effortlessly as she steps inside and asks for a table near the back tucked at the corner of the quiet little cafe. It’s only when they’re seated does she flash a polite smile to the waitress and orders iced tea for them both with a request to wait on food until they ask. Alone, she sets aside the menu and folds her hands delicately atop the table.

“First lesson, little mouse. Always learn names. Waitresses, janitors, senators, professors, they’re all the same. Names mean everything. They’re a gesture of trust. They’re a future, a whole reputation that can flourish or die with the wrong word at the wrong time.” Blue eyes slide away as she watches their waitress -- Vivian -- leaves their iced teas with a practiced phrase of order when you’re ready. Betrice slides the sugar towards him with a small smile. “You learn the room and you control it. No more dealing out of some stale library.” Idly waving her hand, she sits back not once taking her eyes off him. All the better to watch him, to look for something.

𝕥𝕜~

That’s just the type of guy Tommy is – everyone gets a nickname of some sort, and most people get some variation of sweetness or doll face or baby, something diminutive. He doesn’t mean any harm by it, and he’d more than willingly stop using the names if someone told him it bothered them. It’s nothing personal to the blonde, but when she says her ‘name’ he scoffs.

“Right, and Tommy is short for Tomothy.” He rolls his eyes, spits a little because the taste of a freshly lit cigarette always makes him want to do that. “Why’d you ask me for my name if you were just gonna give me a fake one in return?”

-

Laughing a bit, she flicks ash to the side and gives him a brief once over. “I was under the impression my name didn’t matter.” Betrice takes a slow pull of her cigarette, turning on her heel and walking closer to him. “Sweetness,” she croons low, heels clicking upon the asphalt as she tilts her head. There’s cold venom in her voice beneath the saccharine purr to the words. “Doll face.” Blue eyes narrow and she stands looking over his face, taking one last pull of her cigarette with a crooked smirk. “Now why wouldn’t I name myself Medusa just to see if a name really mattered to a man for once in history?”

Reaching up, Betrice snubs the cigarette on the bricks next to his head. Smoke lingers between them and she clicks her tongue against her teeth. It’s nothing personal, her hatred of men, just a product of her life. Noah was precisely the kind of guy this Tommy was and on the anniversary of his death well, she toyed with chewing him up just to spit him out.

𝕥𝕜~

It does really happen too often – Tommy running out of cigarettes. Usually on nights when he hits up the clubs rather than the bars; always offering pretty girls and pretty boys and pretty somewhere-in-betweens a cigarette and a charming smile. He runs out quick that way, never brings more than one pack, never pays attention to when it runs out, either – probably because he’s too high or too drunk or too apathetic to care.

“You’re a real life saver, sweetness.” He says as he reaches for the pack, taking the cigarette but not the lighter. He’s got his Zippo – always refills that one. He’s had it for years. Something like a lucky charm. He flips it open, lights the end of the cigarette and looks over at the blonde through the haze of smoke and the glow of ember. “That’s not much of a price, doll face.” He says, exhaling a plume of smoke with a crooked grin. “Name’s Tommy – what’s yours?”

-

Sweetness. It takes small effort to keep from rolling her eyes at the comment and the following doll face. Tommy at least seems mostly harmless and she could do with someone like that right now. If it was Stella, well, she’s almost hoping the other woman doesn’t return her texts or come here tonight. Knowing herself meant knowing how quickly she would unravel. Tommy was familiar in his demeanor. Just like her old dealer back in Seattle.

Of course she had broken Chuckles’ two fingers just for calling her doll.