Bar Scenes, Part Two
Title: Martini
Characters: M/K
Rating: PG/PG13 for mentions of adult situations
Summary: Kenneth Westerberg isn't who and what he seems...
The lounge is all gilt-edged glamour, with its marble mosaic floor and the golden accents on the tables and walls, picked up like a sunlit reflection on tawny bottles of cognac and pearlescent flutes of champagne. There is no crush of bodies, no flashing lights. It is expansive and lush as a Californian sunset, and the few who do mill about are all impeccably dressed and turned out. Men in French cologne and Italian suits whisper lies and sweet nothings to women in diamonds worth a well-off annual salary and plastic surgery worth twice that. And yet, he spots his mark the moment he walks in.
She's standing by herself, languidly holding a champagne flute as her cornsilk hair shimmers under the lamplight. She blends in perfectly-- black silk couture cocktail dress, studiously casual expression of polite boredom, fabulous chandelier earrings. Of course, he has a full dossier on her, complete with driver's license photo. But still, there's something about her that sets her apart from all the rest of the beautiful, indolent corrupt in the room. He approaches, but with as much understated indifference as she.
"Gin martini, dry."
At that, she cocks her head to the side, chuckles, and the sound feels like champagne bubbles as it vibrates close to his ear. "Isn't that what James Bond drinks?"
"I think he drinks it with vodka." He gives her a carefully-rehearsed smile. "Kenneth Westerberg. And you are?"
"Marlene Abel. It's nice to meet you. Are you new to Los Angeles?"
He would be, to her world, even though he's lived in the City of Fallen Angels for as long as he can remember. "Yeah, moved here from Chicago last year. Helluva improvement in the weather, that's for damn sure."
The champagne bubble laughter tinkles again, closer this time. "We get that a lot. What do you do, Mr. Moved-Here-From-Chicago?"
"Commercial Real Estate. God, that sounds boring," he answers, and he spends a few minutes sharing bits and pieces of the life that has been carefully created for him with meticulous nonchalance. Kenneth Westerberg grew up in an affluent home in Connecticut, went to Yale, then worked in Chicago for five years before relocating to the West Coast. He enjoys tennis and watching football, speaks three languages, and has impeccable taste in alcohol and women alike. "Anyway, call me Ken."
"All right. Ken." She clinks her glass against his, and her smile almost looks genuine. "To the start of a beautiful friendship."
He watches her out of the corner of his eye as he sips his martini. It would be simple to express interest, strike up a friendship, get close to her. It would be necessary. He is the best at what he did, and she wouldn't ever find out a thing about Kenneth Westerberg to contradict what he told her.
All of the sudden, her eyes meet his, unguarded and blue as the Pacific ocean on a sunny day. And the regret is colder and sharper than the gin in his glass. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn't involved in any of it.
He discreetly takes a step back when a movie-star-handsome blond struts up to her and kisses her full on the lips, giving her butt a squeeze with one hand even as he snags a flute of champagne for himself with the other. Ken knows who he is, of course. Adrian Brigham, codename Ace, one of the biggest drug kingpins on the Los Angeles narcotics scene. But he waits for an introduction.
"Darling, this is Ken from Chicago. Ken, my fiance, Adrian."
Ken drains the rest of the martini and allows the enemy to take his hand as he sizes up his quarry and talks about the Superbowl. Handsome in a smooth golden-boy way, perfect teeth and tan. No one would expect that such a harmless package hid such dark secrets. The last raid of one of Ace's operations turned up half a million in cocaine and five people dead in the shootout, including a cop with two school-aged children and a female bystander, aged seventeen. Ace does not know, yet, that his days are numbered.
But irrationally, Ken wishes that Marlene's weren't, too.
And even more irrationally, he wishes that he could tell her that his name isn't really Kenneth Westerberg, and actually mean it when he clinks his glass against hers.
Characters: M/K
Rating: PG/PG13 for mentions of adult situations
Summary: Kenneth Westerberg isn't who and what he seems...
The lounge is all gilt-edged glamour, with its marble mosaic floor and the golden accents on the tables and walls, picked up like a sunlit reflection on tawny bottles of cognac and pearlescent flutes of champagne. There is no crush of bodies, no flashing lights. It is expansive and lush as a Californian sunset, and the few who do mill about are all impeccably dressed and turned out. Men in French cologne and Italian suits whisper lies and sweet nothings to women in diamonds worth a well-off annual salary and plastic surgery worth twice that. And yet, he spots his mark the moment he walks in.
She's standing by herself, languidly holding a champagne flute as her cornsilk hair shimmers under the lamplight. She blends in perfectly-- black silk couture cocktail dress, studiously casual expression of polite boredom, fabulous chandelier earrings. Of course, he has a full dossier on her, complete with driver's license photo. But still, there's something about her that sets her apart from all the rest of the beautiful, indolent corrupt in the room. He approaches, but with as much understated indifference as she.
"Gin martini, dry."
At that, she cocks her head to the side, chuckles, and the sound feels like champagne bubbles as it vibrates close to his ear. "Isn't that what James Bond drinks?"
"I think he drinks it with vodka." He gives her a carefully-rehearsed smile. "Kenneth Westerberg. And you are?"
"Marlene Abel. It's nice to meet you. Are you new to Los Angeles?"
He would be, to her world, even though he's lived in the City of Fallen Angels for as long as he can remember. "Yeah, moved here from Chicago last year. Helluva improvement in the weather, that's for damn sure."
The champagne bubble laughter tinkles again, closer this time. "We get that a lot. What do you do, Mr. Moved-Here-From-Chicago?"
"Commercial Real Estate. God, that sounds boring," he answers, and he spends a few minutes sharing bits and pieces of the life that has been carefully created for him with meticulous nonchalance. Kenneth Westerberg grew up in an affluent home in Connecticut, went to Yale, then worked in Chicago for five years before relocating to the West Coast. He enjoys tennis and watching football, speaks three languages, and has impeccable taste in alcohol and women alike. "Anyway, call me Ken."
"All right. Ken." She clinks her glass against his, and her smile almost looks genuine. "To the start of a beautiful friendship."
He watches her out of the corner of his eye as he sips his martini. It would be simple to express interest, strike up a friendship, get close to her. It would be necessary. He is the best at what he did, and she wouldn't ever find out a thing about Kenneth Westerberg to contradict what he told her.
All of the sudden, her eyes meet his, unguarded and blue as the Pacific ocean on a sunny day. And the regret is colder and sharper than the gin in his glass. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn't involved in any of it.
He discreetly takes a step back when a movie-star-handsome blond struts up to her and kisses her full on the lips, giving her butt a squeeze with one hand even as he snags a flute of champagne for himself with the other. Ken knows who he is, of course. Adrian Brigham, codename Ace, one of the biggest drug kingpins on the Los Angeles narcotics scene. But he waits for an introduction.
"Darling, this is Ken from Chicago. Ken, my fiance, Adrian."
Ken drains the rest of the martini and allows the enemy to take his hand as he sizes up his quarry and talks about the Superbowl. Handsome in a smooth golden-boy way, perfect teeth and tan. No one would expect that such a harmless package hid such dark secrets. The last raid of one of Ace's operations turned up half a million in cocaine and five people dead in the shootout, including a cop with two school-aged children and a female bystander, aged seventeen. Ace does not know, yet, that his days are numbered.
But irrationally, Ken wishes that Marlene's weren't, too.
And even more irrationally, he wishes that he could tell her that his name isn't really Kenneth Westerberg, and actually mean it when he clinks his glass against hers.