Friday night, a company Town Car came to my apartment to pick me up. Somewhat to my surprise, they drove me down the 405 to the
Getty Center, as I had requested. I had half expected a quick trip to an abandoned building for a fun execution-style bullet to the back of the head.
My failures were still secret, it seemed. Or possibly the Senior
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But he wasn't the fearsome apparition my all-too-experienced mind had called up in that one instant. Just a tall man, thin, with a fine set of bruises on his face, and the sort of tweedy jacket I instantly associated with elderly professors in obscure fields. And, from the sound of his voice, british. "The Titian? To be honest, no. I'm not too fond of the period in general, and this subject's a bit overdone. There's another penitence of Mary Magdalene over there in the corner."
I sipped my scotch and looked at the stranger more closely. "You're not with the firm, are you? I don't think I recognize you... and as a group we're not too big on the art appreciation."
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"I don't mind you asking at all. It's just a style thing. We know we look our best against an elegant background. And we're an LA law firm..."
Wolfram and Hart has two images... one in the so-called "Underground", and one in the straight world. When we get mentioned in "People" or "US Weekly" it's in the context of a pack of expensive divorce-court shysters. This guy struck me as the straightest of the straight. so I simply switched into that mode.
"Let's just say our Senior Partners are appearance-focused. And it looks good to support the arts. So we do." I smiled into my drink, and fluttered my lashes at the stranger. "You must not have been in LA long if this is your first fake-connoisseur party."
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"Well, so far it's offered me a job," I shrug again. "Other then that I've found it rather...boring. Apart from the...mugging that is. I could do without that bit." Giving her a polite smile, I glance at her. It's almost as if she's putting me on a weighing-scale.
The scale tips to one side or the other. Worthy to play with or only amusing for a little while. Of course in my case it usually skips all the way to, 'not worth the attention'. But she's still talking to me, so I guess I'm still amusing her for now. "So why are you hiding from the party...Miss? I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't know your name." Why is she hiding anyway? If indeed she's hiding. Considering how nervous she was when I bumped into her I'd have to say she was.
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Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I didn't like it. I'm not too fond of conversations getting out of my control.
"I'm hiding, as you put it," I said, bristling a bit, "Because I needed to clear my head. It's been a rough week and I'd rather not be here tonight. And it's Morgan. Lilah Morgan. Who are you?"
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Raising an eyebrow, I duck my head and clear my throat. "I'm sorry, that was terribly rude of me, Miss Morgan. I apologize." Clear her head? She should've gone for a walk. Well no, that would be rather foolish too in this town. Then again she looks as though she can handle herself perfectly well.
"I'm...Wesley Wyndam-Pryce," I nod at her. "And I've already told you who I am, or rather what I do," which is mostly a lie. Rogue Demon Hunter my arse. "I had just forgotten to mention my name. I'm terribly sorry to have interrupted your...errr....meditational time. I'll leave you to it then? I shant disturb you any further."
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It was a strange feeling, looking up at him. I almost thought he was... well, it's hard to explain. He reminded me of dysfunctional relationships and love affairs combined of equal parts lust and self-loathing. Which was stupid. Wesley Wyndham-Pryce was obviously a quiet, nervous academic, who would let me walk all over him and would probably get off on it.
Ah hell. Maybe I could use an evening with a quiet normal. "Tell you what... did you drive here?"
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