Cute Little Heartbreaker (1/3)
She walks into the bar like a pantheress on the hunt, smooth her steps and elegant the moves of her limbs. And the sway of her hips? Nothing short of dangerous. The red dress she's wearing combined with the predatory look in her green eyes is a flashing warning signal and an irresistible lure at the same time. She sits down on a bar stool and orders a whisky, then turns around to scan the room for prey. The bar is not snobbish and not tacky either, and the customers are an interesting amalgamate of all sorts. Just her kind of bar.
While she takes a sip from her whisky, she lets her gaze sweep slowly across the men, but soon she thinks it might just not be her lucky night, because she sees nothing – no one – that tickles her fancy. That is, until she sees him.
He's sitting on a backless stool placed on a small pedestal across the room, a guitar resting on his left thigh, and his posture alone catches her attention. He holds himself upright, even though his head is bent down a little over the instrument so that the most part of his features is hidden from her scrutiny. His right foot secured on the floor, he taps the dark wood in the rhythm of his fingers moving over the strings as melodious accords are quietly pearling from his instrument. Her interest is definitely piqued. She takes another sip of her whisky and watches in fascination how concentrated he seems on his music, like he doesn't notice there's anyone else besides him in the room. His dark hair is falling over his forehead, mostly obstructing her view of his face which has her shifting on her seat impatiently, but then he raises his head to let his gaze wander over the crowd while his tunes get a bit louder.
His face is sharply cut with a strong jawline and a classic nose, and the slight dark ginger scruff peppering his cheeks and jaw matches the auburn highlights in his hair. His lips are full and gorgeously curved, but not looking too soft or feminine. That already would make him attractive enough to catch her attention, but what really slays her are his eyes. They are of a special shade of blue, reminding her of summer skies and forget-me-nots, and even from the distance she can see it's the type of eyes she could easily get lost in. Framed by scandalously long black lashes a few women she knows would murder for and with thick eyebrows sitting over them, these eyes have something intense about them, and he isn't even looking at her. She feels the little hairs at the back of her neck bristle and draws in a deep breath while her hormones are starting to take over and sing seductively into her ears what she already knows: there's her prey of choice for tonight.
If she's had any reservations about that, they're pulverized when he opens his mouth – and fuck, that is a kissable mouth if she ever saw one – and leans a little forward towards the mic positioned in front of him. She just knows his voice will be low and smooth and husky, and she isn't disappointed when the first lyrics tumble from his lips:
"You know you're a
Cute little heartbreaker – foxy"
His eyes are sweeping across the room while he breathes out the words in a suggestive voice, a little matching smirk curving his lips as he continues.
"You know you're a
Sweet little lovemaker – foxy"
Fuck, she thinks and isn't sure for a moment if she hasn't said the word out loud. Well, looks like her luck has just changed, and she's completely riled up already when he gets to the part that seems to speak to her baser nature.
"I'm gonna take you home
I won't do you no harm, no
You've got to be mine, all mine"
She's almost relieved when he gets to the part of the guitar solo, because hearing his voice sing those suggestive lyrics in that seductive timbre is almost too much – damn, she's all flustered, and she hasn't even spoken to him yet. Now, she can't wait for the song to end, hoping it's his last performance of the night. Well, at least with a guitar, that is.
Her prayers are answered, because after the song ends, he gets up from his stool and, after the cheers have subsided, makes his way through the people, smiling left and right. She notices the swagger in his step and that he's wearing really tight black jeans and that he fills them quite well, and this is just getting better and better. The dark grey henley he's wearing has two of its three top buttons casually undone, and a respectable, but not too abundant amount of chest hair peeks out. Subconsciously, she licks her lips and watches him walk to the side entrance to the counter where he disappears for a second when he bends down to retrieve the guitar case from behind the counter. His jeans tighten even a little more over his taut backside, and she grins to herself in appreciation, sliding off of her seat at the other end of the bar. The time for sneaking up on the prey has come.
He places the case down on two stools and tucks his guitar away carefully.
"Done for today?" the bartender asks.
"Yeah, I think," he replies and closes the case, bending down again to deposit it behind the counter. "Stow her away for me, will you?" Oh Lord help her, is that an English accent?
"Sure."
She has walked up to him and steps between the two stools, casually leaning against the counter and smirking a little in anticipation before she addresses him, "Beer or whisky?"
He turns around, surprise on his face, and eyes her up and down, his eyes widening appreciatively for a moment before he frowns and tilts his head in confusion. "Excuse me, love?"
God, from close up he's even more attractive... and really, love? She licks her lips. "Beer or whisky," she repeats slowly and enjoys the mesmerized way his gaze falls on her lips, like a moth drawn to the flame. "If I were to buy you a drink, which one would you prefer?"
"Oh..." It takes him a moment to snap out of it, obviously, but then he looks into her eyes, and she has problems concentrating on his words. Her earlier feeling was right – his eyes are indeed of the sort that make you weak in the knees just looking into them. "Rum, actually," he then says and adds with a raise of his eyebrow, "But normally, I'm the one to buy the drinks."
She waves her hand nonchalantly, in an unspoken invitation. "Whatever floats your boat."
"Hmm," he hums and tilts his head again, scrutinizing her closely for a moment, and his move gives her the opportunity to admire his neck, long and solid, strong cords smoothly moving beneath skin her fingers itch to touch. She feels delicious heat build up under his gaze. "A woman who uses nautical language," he comments, "that's always appealing."
She smirks. "I have many qualities."
"Do you, now?" he murmurs slowly, his voice dropped to a low timbre that makes her nerves vibrate. He turns to her, his interest obviously piqued, and rests his elbow on the top of the counter, fidgeting absentmindedly with his fingers. The gesture is very distracting and, honestly, quite hot. Obviously, he's not yet done scrutinizing her; in a very weird and intense way it's like he's ridding her of every layer she's covered herself with, but not in a physical way. He's not ogling her, and his eyes leave her face not even once to sweep over her figure, he doesn't even take a peek at her cleavage. This is not what she expected, and it makes her feel exposed, like he's looking right into her soul. And that's fucking not as it should be – no one's supposed to go there, to read her like she's an open book; and there's something about those blue eyes that makes her think he's way too good at doing exactly that. The impression makes her deeply nervous, because it should be the other way round: she should be the snake, and he the hypnotized prey.
She swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. "Why don't you see for yourself?" Deliberately, she gives her voice an extra cocky undertone, and it seems to be working, because he blinks, and that breaks a bit of the spell. She releases a relieved breath she doesn't even realize she's held.
"Have a rum with me?" he asks, and she knows he just rose to the bait.
Yet, she shakes her head once. "I don't do that Captain Morgan stuff, sorry," she tells him, "I'd prefer–"
"Neither do I," he interrupts in an amused voice and runs his tongue along the inside of his teeth, "I only do the good stuff." His eyes rest on hers again, and she isn't sure she heard right, because she'll be damned if that isn't flirting of the juiciest kind. Heat is coursing through her body now, her skin tingling in eager anticipation of what the night has in store.
"Bring it," she finally replies in a husky voice, and for a moment, there's an almost roguish glint in his eyes that promises dark, delicious things. Damn, if he lives up to only half of it, she's so screwed; she almost giggles at the thought, because that's exactly the point why she came to this place tonight, after all.
Then, her almost-giggle dies a quiet death in her throat before even having a chance to bubble up, because he turns to the bartender and raises two fingers of his right hand. Her mouth is still dry, and she has to swallow again, unable to pry her stare away from his hand. Always a sucker for beautiful hands on a man, she has been fascinated already earlier by the way his fingers danced over the strings of his guitar, so effortlessly and smoothly and barely touching them, until she gently wept. Meanwhile, his left held the guitar neck securely, fingers firmly pressing down on the chords in just the right way to set the tone. Now, seeing those hands from close up, she can't help but admire their bone structure – the fingers long, but not too slender, the hand broad enough to convey an impression of strength combined with sensuality. A fine dusting of dark hair on the back adds to the masculinity, and she'll be damned if she isn't going to have those fingers on – better yet, inside of – her tonight.
His voice makes her snap out of her desire-filled haze, but only for exactly one second, before things get even worse. "Barceló," he orders, and she shivers at the foreign sound of the word, the way he rolls the 'r' lazily over his tongue; it makes her think what other things he could do with that tongue, and fuck, she really needs that drink now. She's so distracted by him that she doesn't even notice when the bartender puts two tumblers with a liquid of warm brown color on the counter.
When she does, she reaches hastily for hers but he stops her from gulping the drink down by getting hold of her glass, laying his fingers on hers. A bolt of electricity shoots from where he touches her right to her core, and well, that escalated quickly. She looks up at him questioningly, and he explains, "You have to... savor it." There's something about the way he pops the 't' that sounds like a dirty invitation, and she starts to wonder who's the predator here.
In short words, she's mesmerized by now and, yes, aroused as fuck. "Nice and slow, that's how you do it?" she asks breathlessly.
He tilts his head, not taking his eyes off of her, and she's delighted to see a devilish spark lurking in the blue depths. "Whenever it's required." And she knows, she just knows, he's not talking about drinks. Then, much to her surprise and chagrin, he slows indeed down a bit and lets go of her drink and her fingers. "Killian Jones," he introduces himself, "pleased to meet you." He smiles and raises his glass.
She almost giggles because it sounds so ridiculously formal, but also somehow hot, but whom is she kidding, at this point everything that man could say or do is hot to her. She hesitates just for the blink of an eye before she raises her glass, too, touching it to his with a soft, clinking sound, and replies, "I'm... Ruby. Ruby Lucas." It's a lie, of course, the name of an old friend, the first name that came to her mind. Her brain may be fogged by her lust and eagerness to get laid by this glorious man, but she surely still has the presence of mind not to give her real name to a one-night-stand-to-be.
"Ruby," he echoes slowly, thoughtfully. "Don't think I've ever seen you around?" He brings his tumbler slowly to his mouth to take a sip, his eyes again fixed on her in that unnervingly intense way, an unspoken question lingering in his voice and his look.
"You haven't," she replies smoothly, determined not to reveal anything unnecessary. He doesn't need to know anything about her that goes beyond her erogenous zones. "But you're here more often?" She shifts the focus away from herself and motions to the small podium near the bar where he just sat and caressed his guitar.
If he notices her evasiveness – and something tells her he does – he chooses to ignore it. "Two or three times a week," he answers without hesitation, "depends on my mood."
"Ah." She throws another flirty smile his way. "I sure hope your mood is good tonight."
"Indeed, it is." He returns the smile, a little less lewd than she hoped. "And the night is young." He motions to her glass. "Don't you want to try it?" he prompts.
She raises the glass to her lips and takes a careful, curious sip, letting the liquid roll over her tongue for a moment before she swallows. She's surprised at the warm, smooth taste that is nothing like she expected. It doesn't burn, bears almost a trace of sweetness, and after a few seconds a little burst of warmth explodes in her stomach. "It's good," she tells him with surprise in her voice, and even though she doesn't want to, she finds his pleased little smile at her admission nothing short of adorable.
He tilts his head and raises his eyebrow – he seems to do that a lot, she notices, both of it – while he takes another sip. "See," he comments, "maybe you should try something new more often."
"I guess." In spite of his little frown, she downs the rest of her rum and puts the glass back on the counter with a determined sound. "I'd like another one."
"Already acquired a taste for it?" he asks in an amused voice and finishes his own drink, motioning to the bartender to give them two more.
"You're very convincing," she comments and takes a step closer, right into his personal space. She's close enough to catch his scent, and fuck, he smells so good it makes her dizzy. There's a faint whiff of some spicy body wash that seems vaguely familiar, a trace of fresh sweat and a heady note of what must be his very own individual scent. Whatever it is, she can't seem to get enough of it, and she feels the urge to leave the bar and be alone with him.
"So I've been told," he replies smoothly, and a mischievous little smile curls his perfect lips and creases the skin around his blue eyes.
The bartender puts two fresh drinks on the counter, and she doesn't take her eyes off of his when she reaches for her glass and raises it to him in an inviting gesture. "Nice and slow," she almost purrs and enjoys the way his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows before he touches his glass to hers with a soft, almost intimate clinking sound. They both take a sip, and when he swipes his tongue across his bottom lip to catch a wayward droplet of liquid, she exhales audibly and closes her eyes, contemplating for a second to drag him to the restrooms, but then quickly dismisses the idea. She has a feeling that this guy – Killian Jones, she remembers and is surprised at herself, because normally she forgets their names as soon as she hears them – has more in store than is required for just a bathroom quickie. She assumes he's good for at least three orgasms, if his intense eye fucking is any indication, and yes, she needs him to put that wayward tongue to good use. And now, her impatience kicks in.
She finishes her drink and puts her empty glass on the counter with a determined move. "Let's leave," she suggests without further ado.
His eyebrows twitch, and an inexplicable hint of confusion flickers over his face, but he nods and beckons the bartender near to pay for their drinks. It gives her the opportunity to study his profile, and she has to curl her fingers into a fist to stop herself from running them across his jawline; she can't wait to find out how the auburn scruff feels between her fingers... or between her thighs. The thought of getting a good scruff burn has never been so appealing. Without another word, she grabs her purse and walks towards the exit of the bar, and she doesn't have to throw a glance back over her shoulder to know that he's following.
Between the main room and the actual exit is a little vestibule to keep out the chilly Boston night air, separated from the bar by a thick curtain. As soon as the heavy folds of the black curtain have fallen closed behind them, she assaults him, launching herself at him, swallowing his surprised gasp with her own mouth when he's pushed against the wall. She just can't help herself, she has to – needs to – take a sample of those lips that have taunted her since she saw them move to that song, and she isn't disappointed. His lips are soft, yet firm, and even though he acts like he's surprised, after a second he responds, and that doesn't disappoint either. He doesn't open up right away, but after she demands access by sweeping her tongue across his upper lip, he grants it, and she finds he tastes like heaven – not a smoker, she thinks appreciatively – and that impression is not only due to the aroma of the rum she can still taste in his mouth.
His demeanor is a little passive, but she feels her hand cup the back of her head while he kisses her back, and she's always been a sucker for a man doing that. Although she has the impression that he tries to keep his composure, at some point – somewhere between her sliding her hands around his waist and pressing her breasts against his chest – she feels a growl rumble deep in his chest, and that sound is probably the sexiest thing she's ever heard. She slants her mouth across his once more and then pulls back slowly, tugging at his bottom lip with her teeth for a moment.
When she releases it she notices he's breathing as heavily as she does, and he looks all disheveled and wrecked, and she wants more of this. His mouth is slightly open as he's staring at her lips, blinking rapidly, before he murmurs breathlessly, "That was..."
She smirks and sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. "Just an appetizer," she replies huskily and lets her hands glide slowly over his waist before taking a step back and motioning her head to the exit. "Come on," she urges, "lead the way!"
"Where are we going?" he asks, quirking a confused eyebrow, and she shrugs nonchalantly.
"Wherever you car's parked," she says, and he looks even more confused.
"But I thought... you wanted to go home?"
She shakes her head once. "Your place, not mine. Sorry, but I never take anybody home."
"My place?" he echoes, and this time it's evident that he isn't just playing the part of the surprised gentleman or whatever this is supposed to be; he's clearly startled, which surprises her, because his earlier flirting didn't give her the impression that he wasn't up to turning rhetoric into action. She sees his blue, blue eyes widen when it dawns on him, almost adorable in his cluelessness. "You mean you intend to–"
"Well, what do you think we were doing?" she interrupts in an amused voice. Normally, it doesn't do anything for her when a guy is adorable, but that combination of drop-dead sexy and adorable... oh, the things it does to her.
He tilts his head. "Having a few drinks and a good time?" he suggests dryly.
She snorts a pleased little laugh. "The good time's yet to come, trust me."
And then he surprises her when he tells her, "I thought I'd pick you up tomorrow."
She's taken aback. "What for?" she asks bluntly.
He motions his hand vaguely between them. "Dinner. Or drinks, whatever you prefer."
What the hell is he even talking about? Slowly, a feeling of discomfort crawls under her skin. "We just had drinks," she retorts casually, "isn't that enough foreplay for you?"
There's the eyebrow raise again, combined with a determined crinkling of his nose, like the slightest trace of annoyance brushes him. "Just so you know," he tells her pointedly, "I do appreciate an extended foreplay." And there it is again for the blink of an eye, that devilish glint in the corner of his eyes, like he's recovered from his shock and pulling his wits together again. "But I prefer to date first."
She crosses her arms. "Well, I don't," she replies firmly. "Date, I mean."
His head drops to the side again. "You don't date? But didn't you come here to...", again, the vague motioning with the hand, "to meet someone interesting?"
"I came here to hook up," she clarifies and feels anger bubble up in her stomach. Why the hell is he trying to kill the mood?
"What's wrong with dating?" he inquires, and she doesn't believe her ears. Really? What's this, an interrogation?
"Dating comes always with baggage," she hears herself answer, and that upsets her even more, because she really didn't mean to share any personal thought with him. Way too intimate. "I have enough of my own."
He takes half a step in her direction, suddenly standing in her personal space again. "Well, it doesn't have to," he argues in a calm, almost soothing voice, as if he's trying to convince her of something that isn't any of his fucking business. "Why don't you – "
She holds up a hand to interrupt him. "Listen," she interjects impatiently, "you seem nice enough. I don't want to be rude, but take it from me – I'm not dating material." She's so busy talking and avoiding looking at him that she doesn't notice the intense way his eyes try to read what lies beyond her rash words that are tumbling out of her mouth faster and faster. "I'm not gonna waste my time pretending to you that I am, only to get my itch scratched in a week because you think you have to behave like with some... weird kind of gentleman code." She takes a deep breath and looks at him again, willing to give it one more try. "So, this is your last chance – take me home, or kindly make room for someone who will," she challenges, calmer again now, and adds, "But I would really prefer you over anybody else here."
He scrutinizes her for a few moments in silence, and a muscle in his jaw twitches. Just when she's about to get nervous again, he nods his head slowly, once. "If you put it that way..." she smirks already, thinking now she got him, "I'm afraid I have to decline, love," he finishes in a unexpectedly gentle voice, and her jaw drops in surprise. "Scratching itches is not for me." He leans a little forward and looks deep into her eyes, all flirty demeanor gone now. "And... I'm always a gentleman," he adds, as if it's especially important to him to make that point.
She shrugs, feigning indifference with just the right hint of mockery. "Your loss then," she tosses at him.
One last time, he tilts his head. "Perhaps it's yours, lass," he replies quietly, with a hint of regret in his low voice. "Be careful." And with one final glance at her lips, he opens the door, letting the chilly night air blow inside, and leaves.
For a few seconds she stares at the closed door in disbelief; it can't possibly be that she was just turned down by a guy she offered good fun with no strings attached, because he'd have preferred to date her? Who did he think he was? The anger that has been simmering in her belly for the last few minutes starts to boil. For a moment, she contemplates to go back inside and have another drink, pick out another guy, but she knows for tonight that ship has sailed. She won't find anyone else to her liking now – her mood is ruined. Ruined by some stupid, random, blue-eyed guitar picker.
By the time she gets home, she's worked herself into a fury. She's tired, frustrated and tense, the sweet taste of rum still lingering on her tongue, mixed with the taste of that bastard and the bitter flavor of rejection. Be careful, really? What an asshole. Oh, she will take care. She will take very good care of herself, and she doesn't need some stupid, self-righteous idiot for that who obviously cannot handle a woman making the first move. She doesn't need his dreamy eyes, sensuous lips or his skilled fingers; her own fingers will do just fine, just like they always do.
When she does take care of herself, her moves are angry and hasty, not nice and slow, and by no means does she have images of a tall, dark and blue-eyed man with elegant, but strong fingers in her head that sneak between her own, intertwining with them while she brings herself to completion with an angry huff. She falls asleep with a bit of her tension released, but she's more frustrated than before, and her last thought is, I only do the good stuff. Not good enough. Dismissed.
Emma Swan is a vagabond.
Having grown up as an orphan in the foster system she never had a true home until it finally seemed to be her turn to have a bit of luck when she got adopted by the Blanchards at the mature age of sixteen. She wouldn't have been Emma Swan, of course, if her luck had lasted longer than two years – that was exactly the time granted her to live a normal family life. Before she even truly settled in, her adoptive parents died, and she was left alone again. Although luckily, not completely alone – there was her adoptive sister Mary Margaret, two years older than her, and even though they had been sisters only for two years, they felt a deep connection and stuck together. Mary Margaret was Emma's family.
While the older one always knew what she wanted to do in life – become a teacher – Emma always felt restless and went through several jobs, never actually feeling like she'd found something she really wanted to do. Just when her sister thought the wild child had found a job she liked and would settle down, Emma had to live through a messed-up relationship with a coworker who cheated on her and made her the joke of the office. That was when she, much to Mary Margaret's chagrin, decided to run and left Boston where they had been living. Putting as much distance as possible between her and the bad memories, she found a job on the other side of the country. Stayed for six months and ran again. And that became a pattern with her: she never stayed anywhere for longer than six months. She saw her sister every year for a few days, but then she disappeared into a new version of the same lonely life again, and nothing Mary Margaret could ever say or do would change her mind, so she always let her go, hoping one day she would come home for good. But that never happened.
Emma Swan's love life is non-existent; she doesn't do relationships, she doesn't date, and she doesn't even have affairs. One-night-stands are her thing, because hey, from time to time she needs her itch to be scratched. As for the rest? Who needs that fuckery anyway; it's only a waste of time bringing nothing but torment, and she doesn't need that. She knows that her sister wants her to come home with every fiber of her pure and hopeful heart, but she doesn't feel like she really has a home, even if she loves Mary Margaret dearly. So, she's always traveling with light baggage, literally: she doesn't own more than she can fit into her old and battered yellow bug. The flats she rents are always furnished – the uglier, the better, because she's not interested in creating a place worth staying. She can't even imagine that such a place exists at all.
Having finally discovered her special gift – she is good at finding people, and her instincts usually tell her if someone's lying – she works as an investigator for various companies and offices and eventually as a bailbondsperson. It gives her a certain satisfaction to see wrongdoers being punished. When it's time to leave her current occupation again, coincidence has it that she gets a good job offer in Boston – the company profile somehow touched a nerve in her: Lost And Found is a small company which is specialized in finding missing persons: families that have been separated, friends that have lost each other due to circumstances, life and bad decisions. Emma likes the thought of helping people find what she can never have – or so she thinks. She knows that Mary Margaret is secretly hoping that this time she will stay, so she puts big effort in pointing out that this is just a limited job contract to begin with – only three months. After that, she is going to move on, as always.
Mary Margaret accepts that silently and helps her sister to find a little apartment, secretly convinced that finally what she's hoping for will become true, because Mary Margaret Blanchard – Mary Margaret Nolan for a year now – never has lost hope and never will. And above all, she has never lost faith in her sister: one day, she will see the truth and accept that there are people who are not going to leave her. And she believes in fate. She believes – no, she knows – that it can't be mere coincidence that a job brought her little sister back to Boston.
It's the night before her first day at the new job when Emma Swan feels the need to release some of her tension, and so she walks to that bar in the neighborhood that's only a couple of blocks away to find someone that tickles her fancy to have a bit of good, dirty fun with. Well, that went fine. She has the dreadful feeling that nothing about her stay in Boston will be as she expects it to be. But she can't even begin to understand yet how true that is.
When Emma shows up at her new job the next morning, her head is slightly dull, on the verge of throbbing. Her sleep wasn't very refreshing, but she brews her coffee extra strong and picks from her vast collection of leather jackets the old, red one she feels most comfortable in. No costume or suit required, her new boss has told her, after all. Even though Regina Mills herself is a very elegant, distinguished woman, she doesn't believe in overrating exterior. Her motto for her employees is: don't dress for the job, do the job. She's sharp and has no chill for nonsense or wasting of time, therefore the little tour of introduction she gives Emma seems to end before it's begun, but Emma is used to getting the hang of new things all by herself, so she's fine with it.
"And now," Regina finally says and opens a glass door with dash, "your office." She beckons Emma in, and she secretly takes a relieved breath – she likes to be by herself and hasn't been looking forward to working in the buzz of a bullpen. Then she notices there are two desks in the spacious room; one of them is scarcely equipped and obviously vacant, the other one shows every sign of being in use, although it's very tidy.
She turns to Regina. "And whose desk is this?" she asks casually.
The dark-haired woman frowns instead of a response. "Normally he should be..." Then suddenly the door swings open again, and a guy strides in with long, confident steps, and something about his walk seems vaguely familiar. Emma quickly scans the lean figure from feet to face, and when her eyes reach his face, her expression freezes and her body goes rigid, because this just turns out to be easily in her top five list of days she's better have stayed in bed. She knows this face. She knows these eyes. She wishes she was in Alaska. "Ah, here you are," Regina's voice bursts into her bubble of shock. "Miss Swan, meet your new partner," she continues to Emma's horror and waves her hand in the man's direction. "This is Killian Jones."
Well, holy shit.