obsessive

Blue eyes peeked from behind her magazine. Fresh meat, and he didn’t look like a tourist either, interesting. It became  a little bit of a special hobby of hers, guessing the kind of people that entered into her place of business. Just for shits and giggles of course, he looked relaxed here. As if this was his element, but then again. there were chameleon among men. Those that seemed to move and blend into their surroundings with little to no effort. She imagined this guy was that, because otherwise he seemed to stick out like a sore thumb. The chime of the bell sounds off as Bernie pushed another barrel in.  Down the aisles of albums and cds, before disappearing behind the red door. Ren ignores this, instead keeping her gaze on the man in front of her.

“Birthday present huh?” she posed rising from her stool. “How much you looking to spend?”

“What ever says I’m sorry for totalling your car in senior year,” he chuckled, slipping off his coat to drape over his forearm. “No real price limit.” He’d learned a while ago to not flaunt his wealth after some nasty run-ins with some of the people his brother’s made dealings with. They were from a well-known family, and even with the initial surname change the only way out of that hole was a relocation. He couldn’t really trust anyone nowadays--- even seemingly harmless record-shopkeepers. “Think I owe him a new car to be honest, but he also really loves his oldies.”

𝑶𝑷𝑬𝑵 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹;;

𝑮𝑹𝑨𝒀𝑺𝑶𝑵 𝑾𝑨𝑺 at The Pint, he’d had a long day. Oddly enough, planning a move to Chicago and confronting the ex-fiancé that left you on your wedding day took it out of you. This was the first half-decent place he’d come across – Chicago truly was not New York (couldn’t Roman had chosen a better place to run away to?) and he already missed his regular spot and regular bartender back home. 

“What’s good here– and God, please tell me they have an alcohol of higher quality than Tito’s,” the disgust was clear in his voice. He was born privileged and spoiled, things he’d never tried to overcome, the quality of his education not helping his refined palate but merely magnifying it (he wasn’t just an alcohol snob, he was a culture snob too). 

“Tito’s?” Enzo mused with a strong grin, leaning against the bar as the familiar face of his brother’s ex-fiance came into view. The two had only met on a few family-related occasions. Long before they’d even met, the turmoil of the Guerra household had already split them off into separate directions, but Grayson had been a family-favourite from the moment he entered their lives. He didn’t care about Roman or their failed attempted-marriage all that much, but he did know that Grayson was too good for him. “None of the shit here gets better than that,” he hinted, glancing over. He probably didn’t remember him. “Come to Kobra next time. Get you some of my personal reserve. Shit’s usually sent over from Italy by my zia.”

There were few things in life Vasilisa loved more than a night out and a new dress to go with it, perhaps a well made French 75 but she didn’t make enough to buy herself those anymore, those treats were reserved for the rare occasions she went home for a big social event. Instead, she had come to Kobra, not a frequently visited club but the change of pace from dive bars was needed, the music a better choice than the former. She hadn’t been sat at the bar long, a few minutes at most, sharp fingernail running over the cocktail menu twice before the voice interrupted, making V take a second to blink and refocus, head-turning to see who was speaking to her, “Well that would help if I had been here before, huh?” She gave a smirk, half playful half full of sass, before her eyes flicked back to the choices in front of her, “I was debating whether it’s worth ordering some fancy cocktail, club bartenders are always hit or miss, yknow?”

“Week days are good for elaborate drinks. They won’t acknowledge them on the weekends--- depending on the volume,” he insisted, rounding the bar. Turning away business was one of his biggest pet peeves. He didn’t classify his bartenders as anything more than to do exactly what they were paid to do. Some got soft, relying on his charm and friendliness to exploit, but there wasn’t any pride in being a dick to potential customers. The amount of times he had to reiterate and fire those who opposed that idea was one too many. “What can I get ya?”

angel knew well enough that he’d be annoyed with the hold up and indecisiveness. he was one of the most decisive people she knew. but since there were other places for the other girl to be, angel didn’t feel too bad about shooing her away. she smiled genuinely, leaning into him and giving him a hug. 

“well that’s probably because people in general are stupid. especially the drunk ones. i know that all too well,” she chuckled playfully. she scrunched her face up when he reached to ruffle her hair. “watch it there, blackshaw. i’m trying to find someone worth my time here,” she teased. she rolled her eyes. “never. trouble’s my middle name you know.” she glowered at the mention of his brother. it alway blew her mind that they were even related. “trying. though he did offer to add to the brand the other day, so that’s delightful.” he’d been the only she told about the brand. she wasn’t always comfortable talking about it. and she had been worried that oliver might start something over hers and roman’s ever going rivalry.

Angel hadn’t been one of his closest friends initially. Her involvement with his brother at one point made it virtually impossible to trust her--- until he’d branded her. He’d done so with half of their family. All Guerras were branded with a large ‘G’ seared into their rib-cages. Roman had gone a step further, ensuring she’d never forget who she belonged to. Who he permitted to breathe. He worried most about Lucien. Since his switchover to follow that part of their family, it was only a few months until he’d get the same scar that Lucille carried. What JJ had to fight tooth-and-nail to avoid getting before Roman pinned him down and did it with a lighter and a wire hanger--- while he slept. After that, he was surprised JJ stayed so close to him. It didn’t make any sense to him.

“If you ever need a place to hideout for a bit, you’re more than welcome to utilize the second-floor,” he offered, a small warm smile welcoming the thought. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

Mathias didn’t need ice, he was fine to just walk home and let his night end. The man offered though, and for some reason, Mathias followed. Perhaps it was because he was bored or there was a possibility that his hands could get dirty once again. He followed the stranger quietly, keeping his head down even when they entered the loud building. Places like this made his skin crawl. Too many people, too loud, too much.

“Go ahead”. Mathias wasn’t too bothered by the stranger, and he felt calm enough to manage some conversation (even if it was short and quiet). He pressed his finger to the cut on his lip, and pressed down. The stinging pain made him wince, but Mathias didn’t remove his hand. It was a habit to see how much pain he could endure just so he could figure out his own limits. He eyed the man who offered him help (a thing he wasn’t used to) and tilted his head to the side, “Where’s the ice?”

“Wait here,” he answered, tucking the cigarette between parted lips and lighting up, making his way through the small labyrinth of Kobra’s back rooms. He caught the attention of one of his guys, exchanged looks before Enzo was down and out without another word. Small bucket in hand, he returned, cigarette smoke trailing behind and upwards as he offered both the bucket and dry bar mop that seemingly materialized from thin air.

“Drink?” He offered, his stifling hospitality dragging this interaction out longer than it had to be. He kept his gaze neutral. Not mean, not necessarily compassionate— just neutral. He feared if he showed anything other than complete indifference to the other’s presence he’d lose something during it. Not quite the others trust. Maybe an eye. He settled into the grey linen couch backed against the wall, puffing on the half-gone smoke hanging from his lips. Stressed. Uncertain. Anxious as the pounding music from the main floor reverberated through the walls. Even from a distance, he still felt the claustrophobic pull of Kobra’s dance floor. His attention drifted back and another wave of uncertainty bit into him.

“You want me to clean that up for you?” He meant the other’s lip. Was it a step too far? Something that could have threatened to topple the intricately woven system these families made for each other. Was he involved? Perhaps fighting for his own life. Caught in the crossfire of a feud that ran so deep, he couldn’t even help a complete stranger without fearing for his own life? He but the inside of his cheek. Perhaps he thought too much. “You can take that with you.” He motioned somewhere between the bucket and the jacket. He stood, a standard six-foot-three that still appeared to be less intimidating that this guy. Stubbing our his cigarette into an ashtray, he ran that same stark gaze back to try to meet his. “Rain will be coming down harder in the next hour. You’re welcome to stay--- or leave. If you’ll excuse me, I have a body in my alley I need to take care of.”

Mathias brought the back of his hand up to his mouth and smeared the blood across his cheek. His blood blended in with the blood of the poor sap he beat with his hands. A tongue flicked out and prod at the busted lip. Just another injury to add to his scrapbook. “Don’t have any ice”, he mumbled, still keeping his head down. He kept a wall between him and any stranger he met. The distance provided them with safety, and kept Mathias in check. The last thing he needed was someone recognizing him from his past. “Do you have ice?” he asked. There was no way the guy didn’t notice the beaten up man in the alley, and there was no way of hiding what Mathias had done. Not that he wanted to hide of course. 

When the other hadn’t moved, Enzo’s gaze panned from ahead back to him. Fat droplets of rain began dotting the ground, offering some ease from the slight tension hanging in the air all the while coating the delicate fabric of his favourite suit as he removed his jacket, draping it over the other’s shoulders. Cocking his head back the way he’d came, he tucked his hands away, leading the way. He had to be crazy, but he was also compassionate. The two went hand-in-hand some days. Some nights--- he was soft. Tender and understanding. He should’ve been checking out the damage he’d caused, but here he was, taking care of him to some degree. He wouldn’t say anything. Wouldn’t ask for a story. His only goal was to help to the best of his abilities at this very moment.

The back door to the club opened and the thudding music from inside was pleasingly distant, muffled--- much too loud to have heard any commotion out here, if there had been any. He stood aside, wordlessly ushering the other inside, gaze trailing back down the alley to see if they’d caught any attention. A flash of lightning and the rolling of thunder the only noise to greet him, making the microscopic cochlear hairs in his ears stand on end. 

“Mind if I smoke?”

angel liked the atmosphere of kobra. some sort of music always thrumming through her veins. it was exclusive enough that there weren’t the typical annoying people at the open clubs and she liked that it made her feel important. she’d made friends with the bouncers early on when she’d gotten to know enzo a little better. 

and of course, as if on cue, the owner of the club breezed in in his typical dramatic fashion. she rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips as her tight dress moved with her hips. she moved through the crowd, her bright hair noticeable as she wormed her way through. 

she heard him talking to someone about the menu and rolled her eyes again. “or you could decide somewhere else,” she quipped at the girl who instantly moved away from them. “question. do you ever come into this club low key?” she asked playfully, a good natured smile on her face. 

Even he, a stoic king, couldn’t hide his satisfaction as the all-too-familiar face came into view. He wasn’t a fan of turning down business, but there was two other bars in the place. The club-goer couldn’t have chosen the worst one to hold up the line at. He was patient to some degree, hence the tone he’d taken, but he appreciated what he couldn’t vocalize. He rounded the bar once again, arms stretched out to welcome her into an embrace.

“You’d be surprised--- I usually come in through the back and hang out up on the second floor ‘til everyone’s gone,” he mused, ruffling the girl’s hair. “How’s it hangin’, Angel-face? Stayin’ outta trouble?” He knew the answer to that. “Stayin’ outta Roman’s way, I mean.” They could both vouch for his younger brother being a complete dick for no other reason than to fuck with them. Still, he remembered how brazen this one had been with him. He respected her. His only worry was that he’d eventually toe over the line.

Open to: ALL

       Lorenzo usually swept in like an unseen tsunami on nights like these. Italian leather shoes clacking against grey-brown linoleum on their way to join the rest of the cesspool in front of him in ordering a drink at his very own K o b r a  N i g h t c l u b . His entourage carrying themselves across the foyer to an unmarked table on the second floor as they waited for him to join them and a pack of bodyguards and bouncers making their rounds into the anarchic crowd— nothing out of the ordinary for a typical Saturday night.

Enzo Blackshaw enjoyed making an entrance. It was usually on-brand for him to make his presence known. Dazzling suits tailored to his every dip and curve of his muscular torso; icy hues so sharp one could cut themselves merely looking at him, and always paired with the alluring scent of Guilty by Gucci. Daring, mildly audacious, and absolutely dramatic, he enjoyed being gawked at.

Kobra held the deepest secrets of Chicago’s underbelly. It was a classic kind of place complete with vintage light fixtures and music that ranged from jazz-like ambience during the weekdays to full EDM on the weekends. It housed his famliy (among most)--- a neutral space where security was tighter than the strap of his beloved dancers’ six-inch heels--- and only a select few knew of the terrors in the basement. He liked to keep himself above ground, tending to his patrons as business-as-usual went on downstairs. The loud, populous crowd and heart-pounding music made it virtually impossible to hear the screams down below. Even if they were heard, he doubted anyone would ever question it. Kobra was his sanctuary where the worst of the worst could do as they pleased.

After chatting with the usual patrons he often rubbed elbows with on their way in, he promptly excused himself to a bar, a desperate need for something that wasn’t entirely thought-numbing as the mindless, drunk chit-chat of the Real Housewives of Chicago. He’d often busy himself here during the weekends; always hitting their quota before last call, a line wrapping around the block and a thick wall of patrons throwing their cash at the bartenders for a shot of over-priced, watered-down alcohol. Business was good. 

“Menu hasn’ changed since the ribbon was cut, darlin’. Make your choice.”  

Location: Reckless Records Open: to all @crimsonstarters​

“ Hey, careful with that shit or it’s coming out of your pay Bernie.” The loud pop of her gum sounded off as she leaned back in her chair at the register. It was mid afternoon aka the slowest time of the day for the record store. Which meant it was perfect for her deliveries of food and alcohol to get taken down to the speakeasy bellow. Most people who were in the know knew not to come until Bernie was outside on his stool. Stragglers  that wandered in off the streets— the tourist of Chicago came in to browse. Oh an ah at the collection of vintage and prime collection of music on hand. Before walking out without a thing. It was good her income came from her secret club and not the actual store. She had sent her two employees out for lunch, so she could oversee the deliverers- the less they know the better right. Bright baby blues eyed the Rolling-Stone magazine in her hand as the chime of the front door went off.  She didn’t bother looking up, reciting her greeting from heart as she looked at the top albums of the rock charts- all trash if you asked her. 

“Welcome to Reckless Records, Vinyls towards the back, trash-pile top 40 in the front. Collectibles behind the counter.”

The shop did a remarkable job of replicating his teenage years. Days spent lounging around at the record store across the street from his school, clear cassette of Pink Floyd in his Walk-Man on loop as he laid upon the duplicate records strewn across the backroom. Smoke drifting upwards towards the ceiling and permanently imprinting the scent into the carpet and the walls. It even smelled the same, but the siting and layout was different. He suspected all record shops had the same nostalgic scent in a way. It was sort of comforting. Navigating his way through the store, hands tucked behind his back to wordlessly reassure he wasn’t about to defile any of the vinyl on his way through. 

“You got anything by Fleetwood Mac? Searchin’ for a birthday present.”

@crimsonstarters​

Bloody knuckles throbbed in pain, making Mathias aware of the impending bruises. It felt nice to feel the stinging pain though. It was just as nice of a feeling when he punched the drunk asshole at the bar. He was smart to pull the guy into the alleyway, and he was smart enough not to kill him. It was all about restraint now, restraint meant safety, and safety kept things calm. Of course, all that restraint couldn’t prevent Mathias for fulfilling his desires (even if he had to cut the fun short most of the time). He left the guy in the alleyway, breathing but in pain. He had managed to get couple of punches in though, as shown by the bruising on Mathias’ cheek and his busted lip. A good fight, a rewarding one. 

The walk home would be long, since it was well past the operating hours for the bus. At least he could enjoy a brisk walk as he recounted everything that had happened recently. With his hood up, and his head down, he paid no mind to anyone else out. It was inevitable that he ended up bumping into someone. He didn’t bother saying sorry, and just looked up at the person, “Is there something wrong?”

“You’re bleeding.” Came the obvious, simple-toned answer. Would it trouble him not to get himself involved, he wondered if that could ever be the case. He worried too much for someone who didn’t have any business being there in the first place. Still, he was having issues deciding if that worry was directed towards the man in front of him bleeding from the soft, swollen addition to his lip or the abandoned body in the alley beside his club. His hand was tempted to rise. Tempted to settle under his chin to bring his head up into the light. No. Not his business. He withdrew, standing aside to let the other pass. “Should get some ice on that.”

( chris evans, 37, cismale, he/him ) Was that LORENZO BLACKSHAW ? I heard a rumor they work for the FAUST family, but who knows for sure ? They can be a bit CALCULATING & ALOOF, but I also heard they can be APPROACHABLE & METICULOUS. You’ll usually find them at THE DEN in their spare time, when they’re not being a CLUB OWNER. You may want to keep an eye on that one !

here’s this f*ck—