TONIGHT IS THEIR NIGHT. she’d decided that on her own. promised it.
late nights, uppercuts, drug deals. her girls work hard. they hung like bats in the day, sleeping the light away to prepare for the long hours working the cartel underground. eyes on the walls. eyes on the corners. eyes on each and every one of their backs, night in, night out. they had bartrand to thank for the deep bags settling beneath their pretty eyes.
he was also to thank for the spurts of high income that kept their bellies full.
tonight was different, though. tonight hawke ensured their freedom. APOSTATES, every one of ‘em, yet nothing she couldn’t handle -------- they’d proven themselves loyal, kept her on her feet. the least she could do was lift some of the weight off their backs for one maker-damned night on the town.
the women dispersed almost immediately upon arrival. swept into the fray or otherwise occupied by the only sets of eyes that weren’t entirely unwelcome, each one of them wears a smile, however cocky, and she can only reflect the notion. she is at peace when they are.
HAWKE, herself, is a vision in the hug of her little black dress. it’s sleek, something slimming and simple, yet daring on the long length of her form. sleeveless, held only by the sheer, laced collar at her neck. just long enough to cover the curve of her rump. thin, dark stockings beneath it.
heels sharp enough to kill a man.
hell, her line of business? they probably have.
she towers over most of the crowd as she breezes through; not a single punch pulled in the metaphor, either, as the evening’s patrons only seem to part the way for her in her approach to the bar, some gawking, some whispering, some recognizing, some lost.
i’ve seen her somewhere, someone says over the music as she glides by. i think.
tinder? asks a friend, their tone a little too hopeful.
no, says the first. i definitely would’ve remembered that.
but the background and all its chatter fades behind her in her wake.
for as populated as the club is that night, the bar remains otherwise desolate, save for the few perched with long rows of stools between them. no one here is a friend. she picks her battles.
settling herself on a padded seat beside the pretty picture of a darling brunette, hawke keeps cool, steady in her own rhythm. she moves to pull some of the dark hair that cascades down her backside over her shoulder, exposing a clean neck. fingers forged in flame drum lightly along the counter. they’re adorned in several thin, silver rings that stop just short of her knuckles, some stacked upon others; the largest one clasps a smooth black gem, which she rubs against her lower lip in thought, contemplating her first drink.
she turns her gaze to her dark-haired compatriot. preying, some would call it.
❛ how’s the poison tonight? ❜ hawke asks on the curl of an impish smirk, resting her jaw along her knuckle delicately. ❛ spot-on for a migraine, or just enough to make a fool of you and me? ❜
------------------------ ( @mortedistelle. )
