NICOLETTE VAN ARSDALE

And then he's shaking his head once, quick, out of his stupor. He's supposed to be working, but this woman's doing his job for him with the heat of a thousand fucking suns as she reels her leg back and kicks the man, hard. There's eyes being drawn from around the bar and, rightfully, they seem to be looking expectantly at Jasper to do something. "Blue steel?" His face scrunches up. He's at least Magnum.

She's made her point, though, Jasper doesn't really have much else to do here but walk her out. He glances around, locks eyes with the other guard in this section, and gives a quick motion to come and get the man on the floor. Jasper guides her away while the poor bastard on the floor wheezes dramatically, her arm looped through his like they're headed to brunch instead of the exit, Jasper snorts. He doesn't pull away; if she's gonna play it like a date, he can at least commit to the bit.

Outside, the cooler air hits them both, and Jasper lets go. He's not technically supposed to be on break right now, but he's fishing out the pack of cigs from his pocket anyway and offers her one, lights it with an ease that says this is not his first rodeo escorting chaos into the night. He's also technically not supposed to be smoking outside with the people he kicks out, but here he is, pretending he isn't like, a little into whatever that was. He lights his own, smoke and nicotine soothing his lungs. "You should look into security," he teases, squinting at her through a smile, smoke blowing from his lips. "You probably got more of a future in it than I do. Shit. I think you made him cry."

She runs her gaze across his body, a little tilt of her head as she pulls on the cigarette. Honestly, he's too pretty for security too, only a matter of time before someone breaks that cute little nose of his and fucks up the whole look he has going. Such a shame. "Really, you should've thrown him out for being a cunt, not me. I was being a perfect lady until he opened up his nasty fucking mouth, he's lucky his balls are all I went for. The last thing this city needs is him repopulating."

Naomie pressed her naked thighs inward as she adjusted her sitting position on Nicki’s lap. It always felt warmer in her current outfit when she had a warm body underneath her, there was a lot of skin and not a lot left to the imagination. Lexie’s outfit of the night was a chrome coloured g-string with a matching bikini-top that crossed over above her breast and tied at the back of her neck.

A lean forward and Naomie pressed her glitter-streaked forehead to Nicki’s. From here, Nicki was all vanilla and nicotine and Naomie wanted to eat her up. She met the woman’s dilated eyes and then leaned back, feigned shock on her face. “Oh you sly dog, have you been having fun without me?” This was something that needed to be rectified immediately but that definitely needed and deserved privacy offered only by the finest dressing rooms the glitter gulch had to offer. Naomie disentangled herself from Nicki and stood, gave the girl a spin and stuck out her ass so Nicki could slap it. 

“Come on, baby girl, it’s time for my break.” Naomie threw a look over her shoulder, adding, "and I've been dying for your hand with something new."

Naomie gets up, Nicki's hands following her until she begrudgingly lets go, giving her the complimentary slap she's cued up for and standing herself, brushing her hands down her skirt to smooth it, flipping her hair over her shoulder, the whole nine yards. A wicked smile, pretty glossed lips and she trails Naomie, the clacking of heels, holding hands and winding through the crowd. Her ears perk like a dog, an excited raising of her brows. "Something new, you say? Oh honey, you have my thighs quaking already."

"Well that's why I wonder. I don't do have the hip movement, and I know many a retired investigator and police chief with hip dysplasia."

He leans against the counter too, abandoning his pity corner for better company. The cigarette is mostly finished between his fingers and he takes one last puff before stubbing it out in the nearby ashtray. "On my tab- with another lemondrop, babes, please?" Avi asks the bartender with his own dangerous grin.

"Avi. Nice to meet you."

"It's all in the stretches, baby, gotta keep those hips nice and loose. You should try yoga and do more squats." Nicki's handed her drink and she rounds the space where he sits, perching herself on the end of a chair nears his, well postured, a cross of one leg over the other. She extends a hand, ever so polite when prompted. "Nicki."

It's not an unusual scene for the two of them; he's sure half of Manor Suites is used to their antics by now. It might be a mistake to allow them to reside within the same 5 miles of each other, let alone the same condominium. Maxim Crane has a plethora of friends but none he could count as particularly close -- his own doing, of course, the man wore far too many masks, a social chameleon, a mirror of what you want to see. Fortunately for him, when he looks at Nicolette Van Arsdale, the mirror image is almost exact. No performance needed.

Which might be the exact reason they're inside tonight rather than out, though he hasn't decided yet if he'd rather be out -- Nicki's got a sixth fucking sense for his moods. Shit talking and gossip might be the next best thing, really, especially when it's with the one other person he thinks rivals his own need for it.

Then her eyes open again, a sort of narrowed look up at his chin from where she's laying, a very slight broach of topic that she doesn't even know if it's worth pursuing. Max is known as a far more... flight than fight kind of person, and backing him into a corner turns him into a hungry, scared little racoon. Delicacy is an art she's only half mastered, it’s a gamble. Fuck it.

"Riiighttt." Okay, so not sly or delicate at all, who fucking cares. She thinks for a moment, shifting to her side to face him better, cheek pressed to his thighs. “Okay so, you know how I love Keanu Reeves, he’s my baby daddy, right? So Keanu and I, we have something special, but if Brad Pitt calls and he’s all, “Nicki I need you, come hit, girl,” l’m not gunna say no. Unless, of course, my heart and soul, Mr. Reeves, who I’m sure has a massive cock, was like “please, baby, don’t fuck Pitt.” I just simply wouldn’t do it, ‘cause then I lose Keanu and I’m just left with Brad who is hot but he just doesn’t give me the same tingly feeling inside.” Is this a convoluted? She may have lost him, she kinda lost the plot herself at this point. Whatever. “I’m just trying to say that not every new offer is necessarily a better offer.”

"Absolutely fuckin' lush," he gushes, sincere and warm and fighting a crooked grin as he looks at her in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. She didn't ask how she looked, but the words fell from his mouth anyway. Maybe because he's antsy to get to the fucking club already. Maybe because he knows she likes to hear it. Definitely because he likes to see the reaction he gets when he means it every time.

He's out of place, but what else is new; a boxy graphic tee that he's cut the hem off himself, left raw and unfinished and exposing his navel, his hips, the obnoxious carving of taut skin and dimples at the small of his back. Above the waistband of light denim that cast down to worn converse.

He's resigned to stand in the doorway after daring to open just about anything that had a clasp, or would make a satisfying pop when air released from a tube. Fidgeting with things until she snarked at him, and he squeezed at her hips with large hands, tapped the pads of long fingers against her ass in a polite hurry up. It's a far stretch, she's fucking tiny, but his hand lands soft and shameless.

Thank fuck he told the cabbie not to wait.

He knows better than to rush her by now—at least out loud—so he's carved an uncomfortable nook between his shoulder blades with the frame of the door. Has hands folded over his chest, a temple leaning against the doorframe, pursing lips, unpursing them, drumming fingertips against his forearm, pivoting on his shoulder forward and back. Restless energy and occasional glances at her through the mirror, concentrating on the outline of her lips, the swift brush of mascara through lashes, the pop of lipstick from a bullet. And there's something mesmerising about it all. Calming almost, made obvious in the way he settles; wears that stupid grin with a tilt of his head like a dog waiting for a command. Has that glimmer in his eyes that says he could watch her trace her lips with lipstick all damn day.

Knows, though, that this is the end of her routine and the beginning of his.

“And you look big and hunky as always. I like these pants.” Always too fucking tight, she grabs a handful of his ass with a purr. Incredible. It’s a shame she’ll never get a piece of that but at least she can sleep well at night knowing it goes to good use. “Shirt could use work though, I might have something for you, if you want. Stretch it out reaaal nice.” Forever a critic, and it’s not her fault Wyatt dresses like shit most of the time, between her and Max she’s sure they’ll be able to get him in line soon, new wardrobe, throw out all his ugly fucking shorts he likes wearing. So much potential, it’s a sin.

She doesn’t even have the time to get into the semantics of the shoes and why she hates them but she does give them a disapproving look. She couldn’t help with that, his feet are way too fucking big to slip into any of her sexy little strapped heels. “Baby, why do you fuck all these rich men if they don’t buy you things? You need new shoes, mention it to one of your little boyfriends next time they try to steal you away from me in the night.”

He’s sugar baby material and then some, Nicki would do it herself, sugar mommy down that big, sexy man, but he’d have to let her strap up. Now that’s an idea. She puts a pin in that, will return to it later.

The Gulch got a second wind whenever Nicki came in, strolling through the front doors all hair, nails, and attitude that commanded the space with practiced ease. Nicki wasn’t a dancer, but when she entered the Gulch, she performed. It was how Nicki had drawn Naomie into her orbit in the first place all those years ago at a shitty dive bar off the strip. Her boyfriend at the time had been there to sell. Nicki had gotten a bump off him, then looked at Naomie, grabbed her hand and said I’m stealing your girl for a dance to which her boyfriend had said that’s going to cost you. Nicki had turned, a kind of wild rage in her eyes, and said I don’t remember asking for your fucking permission. He had laughed at that, but Naomie remembered thinking that was the hottest thing ever. She also remembered thinking, damn, can I do that too?

They had danced all night. Nicki had written her phone number on the back of Naomie’s hand after and then kissed a lipstick mark below it. If you don’t call me, I’ll kill him. She hadn’t called, but then he’d wrapped his motorbike around a tree a few weeks later and Naomie eventually ran into her again. She had always wondered if somehow Nicki had manifested as a pothole out of revenge. Afterwards, Nicki was the one to tell 19 year old Naomie that she should work at the Gulch. Your body is to die for, men would go to war for you, Lexie. The rest was history.  

In many ways, Naomie was jealous of Nicki, of how easy it was for the girl to live a lifestyle that felt almost performative. Nicki made drug use look hot and sexy, and Naomie felt less disgusting about it whenever she was with her. But Nicki had money and friends and party invitations and Naomie was almost certain she’d been educated at some point. Naomie had dropped out of high school and was working as a sex worker and yet Nicki never made her feel like they were on uneven footing. If anything, Nicki hyped Naomie’s lifestyle to the point where Naomie felt a little better about it all. I wish men paid to fuck me, Nicki had said once, mid-straddling Naomie as she helped apply lipstick, I bet that feels so hot. People wanted Nicki around, and soon enough they wanted Naomie around too. They became inseparable, the kind of friendship that TVs would run Say No To Drugs campaigns about and that historians would probably later study as a a toxic cesspool of femininity. 

So when Nicki came to the Gulch, Naomie got a second wind too. “Hi baby,” she crooned as she came over and straddled her girl, “you bring me anything special?”

As soon as she passes the threshold the pounding of the music makes her tingle, well, that and the bump she did from the curve of her nail in the back of the cab, locking eyes with the driver with a sickly sweet smile and wave. Nicki had a tendency to get away with these things, maybe because she was so charming, but more likely because she had a push-up bra and mini skirt on, all glittery eyeshadow and plumped lips; just try to tell her no.

She moves through the club with the same familiarity she has in her own house, a wink at the bartender, hugs for a couple of the girls, a shimmy for the fucking DJ. Strip club royalty. She's craning around, looking for her sweet little doll face, leaning into one of the security guards ears to shout a demanding, "Where is she?" In return for a no further questions point in a general direction. She followed, she spotted, and wolf whistled like a man, wasting no time moving to lounge in the nearby booth, a cheeky little pat of her lap.

OPEN STARTER for jasper kang. ( 6 / 4 ) MAXED @boneyardstarters riviera casino, late.

Jasper had been working security at the Riviera for exactly seven days, and already he was tired. It wasn't the hours - those were nothing. It wasn't even the drunks; Vegas drunks were predictable, sloppy, and loud about their sins, no amount of time away could get rid of that. It was the pretending, the uniform, all a part of the hunt. A thousand other things were going on in the underbelly of this city, but Jasper had no choice in the sacrifices he'd make to obtain it. This job wasn't just a paycheck, it was a vantage point, and being watched while you watched back was its own special kind of layer.

Which meant, of course, someone had to make it his problem.

He's was posted near the main floor, neon bleeding into everything, bass from the lounge vibrating through his bones. The disturbance was small at first; too close to a dealer's space and a voice pitched just loud enough to draw eyes. Jasper clocked it immediately, the tension in the shoulders, the off-kilter energy, the way the crowd subtly leaned away. Could've been drunk, could've been so much worse. Either way, it was happening on his shift, which meant he had no choice. He stepped in with a practiced ease, all relaxed posture and professional calm, one hand lifting in a casual, disarming gesture, but ready to escalate if need be.

Yeah, that's the one. She veered her leg back, ready to swing between the mans legs when a smooth voice comes over her shoulder, a tight, pinched expression as she looks over at the new man in her orbit, "Fuck you, Pierce Brosnan." And swings before he can grab her, the man at the bar doubling down on the floor, straight fetal position, bitching and whining. She swings her hair over her shoulder, a sigh, recollecting herself, veins pumping with adrenaline.

To say that Ava was out of her element among the more macabre curios in Alchemy & Co. would have been the understatement of the decade (at least, according to Ava, but she had a penchant for being overly dramatic). In her bright red leather jacket and light pink plaid skirt, the blonde seemed to stick out among the darker and more bohemian offerings of the establishment. But with her anniversary coming up, she was determined to find the perfect gift for her girlfriend, whose style skewed considerably more in the direction of "The Craft," rather than Ava's "Clueless" inspired aesthetics. Needless to say that every piece of decor that was black and gothic in the trailer they both shared was courtesy of Nadine, while Ava contributed the colorful and frilly touches to their home.

"Ah, excuse me!" she chirped to the first person to cross her path. Ever the social butterfly, Ava aimed her best beaming grin at them, lips glittering with a fresh layer of gloss. "So sorry to bother you. I just need a little advice. Which one do you think is better for an anniversary gift: this coffin-shaped picture frame ooor this pair of butterflies in a shadow box?" she wondered, presenting both options in either hand, holding them out for her companion to see. "My girlfriend loves this kind of stuff. I'm just not sure which is more romantic, you know? I don't usually shop here, so if you have recommendations, I'm all ears."

Hot girls like dead things and pretty blondes, she could vouch for that. "Oh, you know what? I saw this piece over here that would be perfect for an anniversary, follow me." She turns with a little flourish, simply trusting and expecting the girl to follow her down an aisle full of trinkets and jewelry, reaching over and picking up a chain, a heart locket in tarnished silver dangling from the end, engraved with a red heart in the center. It was stunning, she'd marveled it herself for a moment, debated the purchase but had to come to terms with the fact that she had far too many necklaces as it is. "Put a picture of your pretty little self in here, any pets you might have; you'll have her purring."

Smoke plumes from behind his teeth as the 70 year old CSI lead lays somewhat supine on a chaise. A canary yellow martini sits half-finished on the closest table, and Aviel lets the cigarette dangle from ring-adorned fingers as he idly watches one of the dancers shift very low, swing her hips in a way that looks actually a bit uncomfortable.

He's not really there to watch the bodies gyrate - he's there to wallow. Easy enough at the end of a very long day. "Wonder if there's a correlation between people who've been strippers and people who ended up needing new hips, aye?" Avi fishes through the pockets of his nice blazer to find a few bills. "You want a drink, babes? Think there's enough there for a glass of something. My tab's open, too. Go on."

"I've tried pole dancing, those sexy bitches have washboard abs. They'll be in better shape than Olympians in their old age if they lay off the oxys." She finally glances at him to take in his demeanor, sad and old. Yikes, weird place to mope but Nicolette's never turned down a free drink and won't start now. "Aren't you sweet?" She says with only half the enthusiasm, the bartender arriving and she gives a dangerously sharp smile, all fake but still so pretty, "Vodka martini with three olives. Shake it hard for me, baby, I want it real cold."