ain't no rest for the wicked

"Well I'll drink to that then," she says with a teasing tone before she laughed at his own commentary. "I can't say that in the two years now that I've been back here that I have been asked about a lighter." Rachel feels like maybe in college she could have been asked, although at that point in time she did have a lighter, although it wasn't for the type of cigarettes that Nolan put behind his ear. She looks down at the axe and then gives a shrug. "Or it could ward off anyone who wants to ask me for a lighter." Grinning at her remark she felt like he knew her well enough to know she was just teasing him. She tapped her chin with her fake axe trying to come up with other TV shows. "Well there is that show called Suits I think they are lawyers in that show? Or you could say How to Get Away with Murder since I mean that is part of your job. If you weren't partial to the suit, I could put my bloody handprint on it and you could be Christian Bale from American Psycho." Offering a few suggestions for alternatives to Don Draper, though it was just as good.

"Mmh, it's really been two years, huh? Feeling like home again, finally?" Nolan mused, thinking about how much had happened since then, how it somehow felt like both so long ago and just yesterday. He supposed that's what happened when you didn't take regular days off, often times finding himself on the clock every day of the week until the subsequent crash. Crazy, how far they'd come from their college days. A humorous scoff fell from his lips. "Careful, you get picked up first degree murderin' my ass and you'll be hard pressed to find anyone else who could get those charges dropped." Perhaps Nolan thought a bit too highly of himself and his skillset, but it wasn't exactly unwarranted. "Oh, is it? Last time I checked, I was helpin' out the innocent and wrongly accused," Nolan gave his friend a pointed look, the slightest of smirks pulling at the corner of his lips. Little did she know how true that was. "American Psycho would work if I wasn't Irish, but I like the way you think. Guess that's why one of us is a writer," he remarked, adding then, "though, if you get any of that fake blood on my suit, I'll be sending you my dry cleaning bill. Can use all the fuckin' pennies I can get at this point."

"Oh, that amex." The words came with an exaggerated lilt, blue eyes rolling to her peripheral before flicking back to meet his. "You're telling me that you can't make back what I spent in what - a week?" Maybe he could, maybe he couldn't. That wasn't her problem. She was just spewing first thoughts that came to mind. Truthfully, asking forgiveness was usually easier than asking permission, in her books. Until then, however, deflection would do. "Why are you yelling at me?"

"That's not -- that's not the point." Not completely, and honestly he didn't want to answer that question truthfully for fear he'd sink into his own deep-seated feelings of inadequacy that Alix always seemed to be able to pull out of him. "Yelling? I'm not --" his voice started to rise as he attempted to counter her, stopping himself short in an effort not to prove her point. "You wanna steal and run up some asshole's credit card, that's fine by me. Hell, I'll be the fuckiin' distraction while you swipe his pockets -- you know that. I mean, Jesus, Alix, this is me." He stressed, hoping -- perhaps foolishly -- that he could appeal to whatever small part of her had some inkling of love or affection for him, the part that, he assumed, kept her coming back to him over and over again over the years. "Do you just like makin' an ass out of me? Is that it? "

𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 clues about the mood behind his expression. unlike the tipsy crowd around them with their easy smiles and loose gestures, he looked like someone who'd rather be anywhere else. "i don’t even know the couple this whole thing’s for," she admitted, giving a small shrug. "beats me what charity they picked. guess it’s nice, though. somethin' good comin' out of the night. real casinos are built on losers, y'know? house always wins. at least tonight's money might actually help somebody." she drummed her fingernail against the rim of her glass, still studying him. "but you don’t really seem like you’re exactly havin' a hoot, truth be told." she smiled faintly at his suspicion, the corner of her mouth curling in quiet amusement. "won’t cost you a thing," she said, head tilted, eyes catching the light. "you believe in superstition?" she asked. "good luck charms, bad omens, the whole deal? anyway, i know a lot of those. and i've been pretty lucky tonight, so i figure they work."

He couldn't help the slight scoff that left his lips, unable to help how bitter he sounded. "I'll believe it when I see it, frankly." It was easy to take the moral high ground when it was him that felt screwed over, but really Nolan was just as bad as the rest of them -- he had no room to talk. Brow raised at her observation, and he brought the drink up to his lips once more for a long sip as he thought about how to answer that. Usually, he wasn't keen to pull his clients into the orbits of his personal life -- especially considering where most of them sat on the elite hierarchy -- but Romy? Well, with the very out there legal issues he'd helped her sort out in the past, he knew she was definitely not part of his usual clientele. "Let's just say, I'd advise double checking your wallet after spending any time with crazy exes." Nolan said by way of explanation. Head tilted towards Romy as she started in on those tricks she'd mentioned, listening intently before the word superstition was dropped. Oh, so she wasn't going to teach him how to actually rig a damn machine, was she?? A short breath escaped him, and he stood up a bit straighter. "No, I'm Catholic. Eternal suffering is a lot more my speed." Sarcasm was evident from his tone, but he decided he might as well bite. "You're gonna need to be more specific than that What kinda voodoo shit we talkin' here?"

"I think, technically, to tell a soul you first have to have one of your own," Milena mused, the haphazard nonchalance of her voice paired rather timely with the overly judgemental curvature of her brow. "Something something can't cross wires," settling in beside him she returned to surveying the room times over, trying to pinpoint whatever it might be that would send the celebratory night askew. "But between you and me, the only charity any of this is going to is obviously whatever security they're going to need when the Hollow decides to dig up whatever this union is a scape for. Or, you know, cancer or whatever."

"Ouch, so the guy spendin' his day in, day out defending innocent people taken advantage by the criminal justice system is soulless to you?" He tossed back wryly, knowing that his reputation proceeded him in these circles -- as he hoped it would. "I dunno, I think the Hollow probably has bigger fish to fry with two chummy criminal organizations than a fake fuckin' charity. Not exactly groundbreaking in the grand scheme of things." Not when you consider all the murder, the drugs and whatever else these gangs had up their sleeves. "Never took you as the paranoid type," Nolan added then, surveying her as her eyes darted around the room. "Or are you just lookin' for one of those waiters that are passin' around the bacon-wrapped shrimp?"

it had been long known, the short fuse that was kian fitzpatrick. it had never taken much to spark that match. to ignite the fuse that would eventually have his hands curled into fists. it was almost a night and day appearance, of how easily the irishman could be joking one moment, then beating a man half to death the next. the lad had been lucky, that kian had fortunately left the brass knuckles within the bag of his bike. or else he'd be suffering from more than a broken nose and busted teeth. then again, that would also mean that it wouldn't have been that easy for nolan to get him out of the jail cell he'd been waiting in for the last several hours. then again, maybe it would have. though kian would've suspected he'd have to buy another set once he'd been released.

"Especially since I'd hope you have some fuckin' lackeys to do that shite for you," a smirk, and he leaned against the wall as he watched his brother initial the document, "bad look for the so-called president, doing all the dirty work." That would be like him filing his own paperwork or doing research when he had a paralegal to do that for him. At a much smaller scale, at least -- Nolan had never been responsible for so many people the way that Kian was, a facet that he didn't exactly envy for multiple reasons. He'd always been fiercely independent when it came to his work, not exactly a shining example of someone who embodied teamwork. Loyal to only himself, able to take and give where he needed, which was part of the reason why he'd not been on board with Kian joining the Outlaws in the first place, concerned it would ruin his credibility, close down opportunities for the both of them. Whether or not that was true still remained to be seen, but keeping his distance professionally had been the right call.

She knew that expression, the one that watched every minute change in her posture or expression for a sign or tell of a motive, and it was a game she could play as easy as breathing. Hell, he'd learned some of it from her in his time working under her. "Easiest is the wrong word," she amended after a moment, then shrugged gently before she continued. "Direct is more accurate." This much was true--her title as mayor opened a lot of doors, and though Nolan was certainly the most painless route to get a meeting with the leader of the Outlaws, a chain of who-knows-who would eventually land her with a phone number or a place to meet.

He couldn't help the laugh that blurted from his lips, and he shook his head. "It doesn't work like that, Breslin," he remarked, perhaps a bit too boldly -- reminiscent of many of his years working under her, challenging every perceived flaw in either her management style or the system at large that prevented him from being effective. Since he'd opened up his own practice and she'd gone down the rabbit hole of a political career, their diverging paths had rendered their day to day relationship (as infrequent as that was) much smoother, aside from loaded banter or quips, but he was still that rebellious, headstrong and impulsive young man at heart no matter what he'd molded himself into since then.

Imani's new office with Nolan Fitzpatrick @nolanfitz

He gave a low whistle as he walked through the door to Imani's new office, eyes shamelessly looming over everything from the furnishings to the decor. "Nice digs. Really went all out and fast, huh?" Typically opted to act indifferent towards displays of wealth, figuring that added to the credibility he'd been building up over the years -- after all, Los Angeles' elite wasn't interested in being represented by a man who went slack-jawed at the sight of anything shiny and expensive. They wanted one of their own. Still, there were times when he figured a compliment or two was harmless enough to let slip by. After a moment of looking around, he turned his attention back to Imani, meeting her halfway for a firm handshake. "Yeah, 'course. Call it morbid curiosity." He couldn't help but tease, placing his briefcase down beside the chair she'd gestured to before taking a seat himself.

Mid sip from a fruity drink - one she'd specifically requested be poured a triple - was where he'd caught her. The familiar voice hitting her ear as she shuffled forward with him. And with a slow shift of her gaze, she stole a glance to her peripheral to gauge how much trouble she was actually in this time. Its when she follows his eyes that the corners of her mouth nearly betrayed her. Too easy. If this was what he’d chosen to confront her in, her luck had yet to run out after all. Once they'd paused, she'd turned to face him, letting out a quick, "missed me so soon" with a bright grin. Fleeting, however, once its dislodged upon situating the straw of her drink between her lips once again as her features contorted into a look of feigned confusion. "What amex?"

He chose to brush past her comment, as well as the bright smile that would undoubtably have enraptured him were he even a single degree less pissed off. Jaw clenched, he stepped closer, trying to keep heated words quiet so that he couldn't be accused of making a scene. "The one that's been cleaning out Rodeo Drive on a designer fuckin' shopping spree," he bit back, searching her gaze for anything genuine, anything sincere. "Do you seriously think I'm that stupid? Or is this just all fucking fun for you, Alix?"

Rachel raised her brows at the absolute grumpiness Nolan was exhibiting. "Uh oh. Lose a bit of money?" She asked as she watched him get increasingly agitated with the lighter. "I can't say I'm the lighter carrier type, unfortunately." Hoping that he wouldn't be too disappointed with her lack of cool factor. She looked down at the axe in her hand and fake blood stained hands briefly at his question before seeing in as serious of a tone she could, "Just trying out a new look." She chose in the spirit of chaos that she loved about Halloween. "What about you?"

He couldn't help the laugh that blurted out from his lips, though it was anything but joyful. "Little bit." He admitted somewhat, tuckin the cigarette behind his ear for the time being. "Should start. Never know when some poor motherfucker is gonna need it. You ain't learned that lesson living in LA this long?" Nolan teased, figuring he'd stop at a corner store or something when he finally peeled himself away from this event. After a few drinks, of course. "'Course. The axe really pulls it all together -- might get annoying to carry around during the day, though. Weird looks and whatnot." A smirk tugged at his lips, and he looked down at his own outfit - his normal suit attire. "Ah -- I call this look, didn't change before I left the office. Thinking I might just lie and say I'm Don Draper or somethin', though. Or if there's any better motherfuckers out there that wear a suit that I can say."

"Maybe you should get your ears checked." Amber liquid was brought to his lips once more, giving a noncommittal groan at the mention of his little brother before another sip was taken. "Want to test that theory with him?" He averted his gaze then at the mention of a familiar blonde relative of his, squaring his shoulders with a forced air of nonchalance that wasn't fooling anybody. "Don't think you need to. She's fuckin' crazy.." It was par for the course for the two of them, anyway -- apparently everyone except him could see the red flags coming from a mile away. "You wouldn't happen to know how to rig one of these slot machines, would you?"

who: @nolanfitz where: casino night

At this point he was ready to go home, head spinning from the discovery amount of money suddenly drained from his bank account -- and he couldn't even blame the setting, the various blackjack tables and slot machines, tempting as they were. Though he'd say his continued presence was due to the networking opportunities, which is usually the reason he came to these things, this time around it was solely for the alcohol. "Ain't no way," he answered once the long sip of Jameson he took was down, a low cough emitting from his chest in response to the burn. "Not unless he's fuckin' Santa Claus. Or maybe he sits on the board of one of 'em -- did they even say which charity this all was goin' to?" Otherwise he was hard pressed to believe that was the case, given the company. A scoff fell from his lips in response to her question -- Romy, was it? He wasn't one forget a face. -- and the glass was brought to his lips once more. "Hopefully not better than yours." His brow raised, though, at her next words, though. "Tricks?"" That made his ears ring. "Alright, I'll bite. What do you mean by tricks? And how much is this information gonna cost me?"

The look that Nolan gave Francis could have cut right through glass, not bothering to temper his expression for the sake of appearances. There was only so much he was willing to put on a show for, and the bad mood he'd already been put in wasn't helping the circumstance. "You sound like a right fuckin' moron, Francis." That was putting it kindly, in his mind. "I think if my brother doesn't knock your teeth in for that, I'll be next in line."