*When the blonde bumps into him, Bo saw it coming. The moment before it happened, he knew she would, and in his mind questioned her audacity to. Back home, he knew if a white person bumped into you, it was never innocent, always with a purpose, to stir up something. And if it was a white girl, you knew she wanted to con you, cry rape just because she could, or have an excuse to touch you, the forbidden Black Male Body that was secretly desired and feared. He fought the automatic urge to push her off, check his pockets, then spit at the insult of whatever motivated her to bump into him. In fact, he swallowed the bit of saliva that had built in his mouth and cleared his throat. This ain't home, buddy, remember. He told himself. It's dark. Maybe it was innocent after all. She does look a little ditzy or drunk...The people here aren't like the people at home. Stay cool...*He smirks a little as she switches to English, noting her English accent, more than a little relieved. Having been looking down on her, he cocks his head to the side a
( ... )
*his right eyebrow raises slightly and the corner of his mouth twitches in an almost-smirk at her question* Ahhh, no...didn't seem 'im. If I do I'll tell 'him ya lookin...your name?
*Bo guesses it's a busy night. That must explain why no one was working the bar. But he was the impatient type, especially when it came to food or drink. So, looking around inconspicuously a couple times, he fetched himself a glass of bourbon-- straight up-- and threw a couple dollars down, so as not to be seen the complete thief. Licking his lips and readying himself to savor the long-awaited drink, he spun around on his stool, leaning back and propping himself against the bar. Then, with an accomplished grin, took a healthy swallow, having first debated taking it all ot the head or savoring it, deciding on the latter as he didn't know how long until he'd get another and he didn't want to risk getting his own a second time.
The drink slipping down his throat, he noded to himself, murmering an "Aww, yeah" and chuckled...*
*The voice breaking into his reverie and first attempt to relax since he'd left New York-- and, if he was honest, probably since before-- was initially surprising, but warm and sexy as hell, thus, completely welcome. The eyes, however, weren't so welcoming. There was something in them, some fire, some sharpness that reminded him of street girls. He liked it; it was somewhat familiar, though her accent certainly wasn't. After the eyes he took in face, sharp and pale...pale in a way he could tell wasn't "white"...She was something else. Something else in a face nicely framed by her dark bob and fitting on an elegant neck attached to a body that seemed rippling with seduction.
One of them girls...yeah. Definitely one of them, he thought, approving but not allowing himself to get sucked in. This girl was a hustler, a fighting spirit somewhere beneath that almost deceptively innocent face with those street-fire eyes. An immediate respect he hoped to transmit to her through his own glance, though not a trust-- after all he'd just laid
( ... )
"That's nice to know." Her shining red lips smirk.
"I haven't seen you around here before." She decides against adding 'trust me, I'd remember.'
Testing the waters, Dolores lifts her burgundy dress a little to better slip onto the barstool next to him, crossing her fish-net covered legs at the knee.
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"Oh! Es tut mir Leid!"
When he looks at her oddly she repeats in English. "I said, I'm so sorry, darling."
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"Not everyone."
She looks around as if she had lost something. "You wouldn't happen to have seen a boy in a red dress at all? Little twit stole my boa."
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The drink slipping down his throat, he noded to himself, murmering an "Aww, yeah" and chuckled...*
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When he notices her, Dolores runs her hand through her bobbed dark hair and smiles sweetly, nodding toward the dollars on the bar.
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One of them girls...yeah. Definitely one of them, he thought, approving but not allowing himself to get sucked in. This girl was a hustler, a fighting spirit somewhere beneath that almost deceptively innocent face with those street-fire eyes. An immediate respect he hoped to transmit to her through his own glance, though not a trust-- after all he'd just laid ( ... )
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"I haven't seen you around here before." She decides against adding 'trust me, I'd remember.'
Testing the waters, Dolores lifts her burgundy dress a little to better slip onto the barstool next to him, crossing her fish-net covered legs at the knee.
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