Title: Hierarchy
Rating: FRT
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Just the idea.
Spoilers: Um, Victor/Victrola
Summary: No one, not even a blonde 20 something upstages The Queen. Future fic. CB. First, and probably only, attempt at GG. Be nice.
Ugh! After much struggle and toil, my first GG is finished. And ewwww! I don't write GG well, at all. I'm not a manipulative, spoiled brat so I really had a hard time getting their characters down pat. I'm pretty sure this will be my only GG, thank heavens. There are so many other people who are way better at this than I am.
It's short; suck it up.
Hussy.
It was the tamest word I could think of when the blonde sauntered her way into the conversation.
I had watched from where I stood at the bar, having concluded my discussion of the latest 'have yous' and 'what nots' with a few inner circle woman, who had sipped their drinks and eyed the younger men before journeying on their way, when she, and a herd of others, approached the most central table in the joint.
It was that table that attracted the most attention, yet at the same time remained the most elusive. The table where the best wheelers and dealers, management and government this city had to offer discussed everything from mergers and trades, to what they had for dinner, and family life.
It was a table that all the pretty girls flocked to like bees to honey, and the men enviously, greedily eyed, praying that they looked important enough, or sounded arrogant enough, to join those elite nine, sipping spirits, smoking cigars, and casually running their hands over their embroidered pockets and fiddling with their golden cufflinks.
But as was the routine on a Saturday night with the prudish youth merging with the Upper East Side socialites; mingling with the wealthy and getting connected with the heir's, moguls and entrepreneurs littering the New York districts from all exclusive walks of life.
I briefly though back to when I was that age; young, rich and painfully oblivious to the harsh realities that becoming an adult would bring. I remembered my best friend and I doing the same thing; flirting with those we shouldn't, drinking as much as we could, tip-toeing on the line of what we felt was right, and what we knew was right.
To be adolescent again.
"Is there anything I can get for you, ma'am?"
Turning to the waitress beside me, I shook my head and handed her my empty flute.
"No, thank you Abigail, I think I've had enough."
"If you need anything else, ma'am, I'll be around," I smiled as polite as I could, which I think came out as a grimace, as she left, leaving me blissfully alone again. I hated being called ma'am. Made me feel so old; then again, when I was young, 34 always did seem a little aged to me, but now being it, it wasn't so old after all.
Turning my attention back to 'the round table', as it was called by staff due to the societies that occupied it, I watched that same blonde bimbo stand beside the club's owner; her eyes moving up and down appraising him where he sat.
Though I don't blame her; she had good reason to.
He looked divine, tailored to the nines in a custom-made suit combination with flashy oxford and silk handkerchief, tied around his neck, completing a signature look that only he could pull off. Dark, neatly combed hair complimented the dark suit, and everything about him just said to bask in his glory. Everything from the smug tug of his smirking lips, to the aristocratic angle of his jaw, and the ostentatious tinge in his-
Oh.
Those dark, beady eyes were gazing mischievously at me from across the room.
He caught me, and I couldn't help but match his smirk.
I watched him as his eyes roamed over my figure. From my dark hair done in loose curls, past the maroon cocktail dress that fit snuggly and hugged my curves, to the pumps encasing my small feet, then back up; smirking to beat all, just as he usually did whenever he mentally undressed me.
He liked eyeing me in crowds, unashamedly imagining all the things he could do to me in said public places; enjoying the way I would subconsciously squeeze my legs together; pretending that I was still the naive 17 year old who had never lost her virginity in the back of his limousine.
Averting my eyes from the gaze that to this day still made me blush like some sort of ironic innocent; I surveyed the other inebriated patrons.
Many were roughly my own age, as this particular club catered to that of the high elite and their even higher account balances, though some were younger, scrounging for a sugar daddy or momma to hang onto and make an impression with.
That blonde sure had the hang of it; approaching His Excellence with those intentions in mind.
Poor thing.
I made a mental note to ban her from any further visits; after all, I was part-owner of this establishment, a club he had so unimaginatively called 'The Queen'.
It had been a birthday present, oh, let's see, four years ago, in my 30th year. While some people received diamonds and expensive trinkets, he had to buy me my own piece of reality in the Upper East Side.
I was excited.
He had said that even though he bought it and named it, I was free to do what I wished, from entrainment to decor. I spent a good six months sifting through fabric samples, paint swatches, tile blocks, glassware, and lighting fixtures, and then another month scouting just the right entertainers before it opened.
The night of opening he had said he was proud of me, and that I deserved all the praised that was undoubtedly to come my way.
And four years later, 'The Queen' is the Victrola of it's time.
I did a damn fine job.
Returning my attention to the table of East Side royalty, I stifled a laugh into the fabric of my clutch at the hilarity of the scene. The Barbie was throwing her hair back like a bad shampoo commercial; fluttering eyelashes that were too long to be real, and licking her lips as if the action would draw attention to the collagenated beings that were large enough to be named their own continent.
The owner, swirling the contents of his glass, paid no heed to the life-sized Barbie looking for a Ken.
Poor unfortunate soul.
Doesn't she know that even though the Big Daddy Kingfish (rest his soul) liked blondes with blue eyes, that the junior liked anything but, with a passion for brunettes with equally dark irises?
Still watching, I laughed as the younger woman pouted when God Himself glanced at her, and then turned to me, raised index and middle finger and beckoned me over.
I cocked my head to the side, raised an eyebrow and smiled saccharine sweet. Maneuvering my way through the crowds, which wasn't hard because they parted like the Red Sea, I gradually made my way to him.
He stood when I arrived, moving a hand hanging at his side to the small of my back, pulling me against him.
Turning to the blonde, then back to me, he titled his head in her direction.
"Let me introduce to you, Tammy."
"Annie," the Barbie corrected, sneering slightly.
"Whatever."
The blonde looked me up and down then threw her hair over her shoulder in some misplaced superior fashion.
"And who are you?" she had the audacity to look affronted as he left a lingering kiss just along my jaw line.
"Me?" I asked before extending my hand and delivered the phrase that the man beside me had made infamous, explaining everything in three simple words.
"I'm Blair Bass."
Author's Note: First, and I'm almost positive only, GG I will ever write. Don't scold me for my failed attempt, please.