Eames eyed the coffee table before him. The top was circular glass, on a base of driftwood that reached up toward him with grasping limbs. He debated whether or not he'd be able to get away with propping his feet up upon it.
The hotel lobby was quiet, but Eames was not the only guest making use of the bar. Distantly, he could hear the quiet murmur of the receptionist checking another guest in. Probably wasn't worth the risk of drawing attention, then.
Eames sighed and took a long drink of his pint. He leaned into the sofa he was sitting on and placed the glass on the table instead. Barely thirty seconds later, and the bartender had appeared.
"Good evening, sir," the bartender said. "I hope you don't mind if I offer you the use of a coaster?"
Without waiting for Eames's answer, the bartender wiped down the glass where Eames's pint had set, placed the coaster, and returned Eames's drink back upon it.
"Thanks," Eames said, and wondered if the sarcasm was as obvious as he'd felt it to be.
Either way, the bartender, a young, handsome man with an immense beard that was far too large for his face, disappeared back to his bar without a word. Undoubtedly he was off to mix some sort of chic cocktail for someone that would appreciate his sleeve of meaningless tattoos.
The click of heels on marble drew Eames's eye back to the reception. A woman strode toward the lifts in patent black heels with soles that flashed scarlet; and what a woman she was.
She was tall, slim, and carried herself confidently in a light grey three-piece suit that had obviously been tailored for her. Her dark hair brushed her shoulders and had just of a hint of a curl to it. It was the look in her eyes, however, that drew Eames to her. Her gaze was focused, but incredibly situationally aware. She narrowed her eyes when she caught him staring as she waited for the elevator.
Eames wiggled his eyebrows and toasted her with his drink. Her lips pursed as if she'd seen something particularly distasteful and Eames barely managed to hold back his laugh until after the lift doors had closed.
She was truly something. He sipped at his pint and continued to people watch, pushing her to the back of his mind. After all, he'd come here with a purpose. He was trying to suss out who Malorie Miles's new point was, before he took a job with them. All he had was a name: Ashley Arthur.
The point was meeting him in the hotel lobby. Eames had come down half an hour early, hoping to catch a glimpse of him unaware. This was a hotel for businessmen and tourists. Surely a point man would stand out like a sore thumb.
Alas, Eames was either off his game, or the point man hadn't entered by the time the clock struck five. He sighed, finishing the pint that he'd been nursing.
The click of heels once more drew his attention back to the woman who'd given him such a look of disgust. Eames grinned as she approached him and sprawled back into the sofa. She'd showered and changed into a little black dress, but had those same gorgeous heels on.
"Hello, luv," he said, turning on the British charm and accent.
"Good evening, Mr Eames," she said with a smirk, extending a hand for him to shake. "You can call me Arthur."
Eames shook the hand on automatic, running his gaze over Arthur as the pieces fell into place. Well, he could only blame himself for his subconscious sexism. Ashley Arthur was a distinctly gender-ambiguous name.
"Arthur," he echoed. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"I'm sure," Arthur said. She perched on the sofa, her posture impeccable—military, Eames realised. From a briefcase he'd not even noticed she was carrying, Arthur withdrew a folder.
"Malorie has a job for you. Apparently, you're the best Forger this side of the pond. Here's a preliminary work-up on your target. A briefing on the job is enclosed within."
"Efficient," Eames managed, staring down at the paperwork in his lap.
"Efficient is my middle name," Arthur said dryly.
Eames swallowed, pulling himself together.
"How is Mal, these days? Still breaking hearts?"
"Only one. Our architect fancies himself in love with her. She still trying to decide if he's pretty enough for her."
"No one's pretty enough for our Mal. Who's the unlucky sod?"
"Dominic Cobb."
Eames blinked. "Cobb?"
Arthur pursed her lips. "I see you've heard of him."
Cobb was a minor celebrity within the dream sharing business. He'd been the first to discover that dreams could be layered and was the best architect Eames had worked with.
He was also an intense, arrogant little twerp. If anyone could bring him to heel, it would be Mal Miles.
"Drink?" Eames offered, trying to catch the eye of the bartender. "Yeah, I've heard of him."
Arthur raised her hand and gestured casually. The man hurried over, an ingratiating smile upon his face.
"Another pint," Eames said loudly. "Please."
He was ignored.
Arthur flashed him a smirk, tilting her head back to smile up at the tattooed, bearded prick.
"An espresso martini for me, and a pint for my… friend."
"Certainly, ma'am," the bartender said. "Is there anything else I can get you?"
"A glass of ice water."
"Coming right up," the bartender said, and winked. He hadn't once looked in Eames's direction. As he sauntered away, Eames huffed.
"Typical."
"You can't wear a shirt as garish as that and expect to get good service in a place like this," Arthur said.
Eames pouted, looking down at his shirt. "What's wrong with it?"
"What isn't?" Arthur muttered.
The shirt in question was a tasteful, powder blue, short-sleeved button-up. Admittedly, it was printed with several bright yellow and green pineapples. Eames had bought it in a tat market in Rio three months prior. It was the perfect solution to the Cuban weather. Paired with khaki cargo shorts and gold Ray Bans, Eames looked the perfect picture of the wealthy, if idiotic, tourist.
"I'm hurt, darling."
"No, you're not." A twitch of amusement crossed Arthur's lips. Her gaze flickered to the side and she straightened, accepting their drinks. The bartender didn't linger, but Eames noticed that there was something scrawled upon Arthur's napkin. Ponce.
"Well, we can't all be as sartorially proficient as you."
"That is quite evident," Arthur drawled. She sipped her martini, licked her lips, and leaned forward. Eames resolutely kept his eyes on her face, instead of the creamy flesh hinted at by the sweeping neckline of her dress.
"I'd rather like to cut those hideous clothes off you and tie you to my bed with the scraps."
A shiver ran down his spine. Eames blushed, to his surprise and delight.
Arthur leaned back, quirking a brow.
"Yes, please," Eames said. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a breath. That had been unexpected, to say the least. "Arthur, you saucy minx."
He smoothed down the files Arthur had handed him across his lap and shifted in his seat. Throbbing erection? Tick. This was not how he'd intended his meeting with a new potential point to go.
Arthur smirked.
"I'm in room three oh five," she said. "Take a look at the job. If you're interested, come on up."
She stood gracefully and strode away, the click of her heels beating in time with Eames's heart. He watched the sway of her hips and bit back a groan.
"You are a silly plonker," he told himself.
It didn't help.
Hogwarts Auction D23/4. Trait — Friendly [1279 words = 25 coins]