"Gorgeous sound system," Onyx had damn near cooed when Jagger showed her his basement flat a month or so ago, "just...cherry, really."
Mark it up to the drinks they'd been sharing, but the gracious host had glowed at the comment. He'd played some tracks on it for her, poured them both a few more glasses from his private reserve—and it was good stuff, Onyx had to admit, imported—and then sent her on her way upstairs with an absent-minded wave and some comment about closing up. Man was a master of mixed-messages.
Well now Jagger Maxwell and the bipolar sister of his that had started hanging around were gone (escorting another wayward sibling home, he'd confided when Onyx asked,) and he'd left her in charge of the Coffin Club. Surprised and flattered though she might be, Onyx was not above taking advantage of this situation.
When the cat was away, a few clever mice were bound to play.
Presently, that very-cherry sound system was spilling out mixes of Sky Fereira and Charli XCX while Onyx and Scarlet ran roughshod through the Maxwell apartment.
"Think he'll notice if I keep this baby?" Scarlet demanded, hugging in the sides of a leather jacket she'd seized from Jagger's closet, wholly enamored with its blood red hue and wicked, silver-spiked shoulder pads. She'd also commandeered a pair of slinky black snakeskin pants and a bullet studded belt to secure them with. Now she was prowling along a black lacquered dresser, sniffing each of Luna's many expensive-looking perfume bottles.
"Probably," Onyx was loathe to admit as she tugged the creamy white leather of Luna's dress to make it lie flat over her hips. It was such a fine dress, material supple and lovely with lines of swishy black fringe hanging at regular intervals. Onyx wouldn't mind owning it, though she suspected it was one of a kind and that Luna would pitch a monumental fit should she realize it was missing. Same went for the sexy-librarian-esque shoes she'd snatched from the same wardrobe.
Ah, well.
As she took up Scarlet's place browsing Jagger's outerwear collection, Onyx found herself in another world entirely. So many, many fantastic choices. She surveyed each jacket—every one dyed, studded, ripped in the most distinctive of ways—and found herself wanting them all. Not just to wear, right now, in this impromptu dress-up session, but to keep forever. Eventually, she selected one, and not at all the one she'd imagined grabbing from the start. It was the oldest probably, the worst worn for certain, and, Onyx didn't doubt, the best loved.
She draped it around herself, inhaled the scent of good leather and the ghost of Jagger's distinctive cologne. Onyx had tried to pin down what it smelt like, but it was so unusual. Musky and dark, but also sharp, a little addictive, but not trying too hard to be overtly pleasant. Like smoked salt.
Onyx smiled.
No, there was no way Jagger wouldn't notice, but she didn't care. She was keeping the jacket.