Angela's a social butterfly. She flits from person to person at the nightclub, dropping quips, tips, hints and flirts. She always has the right words, be they a sly sideways remark when the opportunity presents itself or a firm reprimand when things get out of hand. She checks on the tables, all smiles, making sure everyone is having a good time. She relishes the compliments, soaks in the smiles throw her way. She has a knack for putting things together, laying things out; she swoops down on a table as soon as it's cleared, rearranging the condiments, table decorations, and coasters into an eclectic and pleasing display.

She's been at the nightclub for years now. She's asserted herself among her co-workers; often, she's the one they go to for advice. Though it can sometimes be flattering—like when Bren seeks out her insight, or Wendell takes her aside to confer with her on particular patrons—other times it's annoying, like when Vincent seeks feedback on his outfits or Zack sneaks over to her to ask for the meaning behind a particular idiom. There are other, more extreme cases as well. When Daisy was hired as something of a glorified waitress, Bren had presented her to Angela with the expectation that she act as the younger woman's mentor. Angela was not thrilled. She preferred working alone; though she enjoyed the company of others, she was most definitely not a team player. Besides, Daisy was, well, Daisy. An over-sharing, oblivious, flighty, immature creature. Angela didn't know how to handle her except to show her around, explain the basic workings of the place, then kick her out of the nest and hope that she found her wings on the way down.

Angela is used to getting hit on. It's part of the package that comes along with being a hostess. As with everything else, there is a balance. Some people are purely complimentary. Some are altogether too forward. Some she allows to take her home for a night. Some she points out to Wendell to ban from the premises.

So when this guy approached her that night, she didn't think much of it.

He sidled up to her as she sat at the bar sipping a cream soda (she was, unfortunately, not allowed to drink on the job—though some nights she desperately wished she could). He cleared his throat to be noticed. She was taking a break, so she gave him some attention. She cast a smile his way, using that moment to scope him out. He was fairly ordinary-looking. Not too tall, not too broad, not too hairy. He was wearing a nice suit, and when he put his hand up on the bar, she noticed a gold ring on his finger. Fancy.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked after meeting her gaze for a moment.

"I'd say yes," Angela replied, "but I'm on the job right now."

He quirked an eyebrow. "You work here?"

"I do." She preened a little. "I basically run the place."

He turned his body to face her, resting his left arm on the bar. "Is that so?"

"Practically. I'm the hostess. Mr. B and Bren are the real owners, though."

He cocked his head. "Mr. B?"

"Mr. Booth. Have you heard of him?" He shook his head. "Booth's a pretty big cheese around here, but you wouldn't know it meeting him. He takes great care of this place—and all of us."

"Sounds like a great guy."

"Oh, he is."

"So, you like working here?"

Angela nodded, taking another sip of her soda. "It's like a second home. We all look out for each other."

"Sounds like the terrific atmosphere doesn't limit itself to the dance floor."

Angela grinned; men were cute when they tried to be clever.

"So what do you do, exactly?" he asked. Sweets swept by to spin a frosted glass in his direction; the man caught it and brought it to his lips. It was one of those weirdly synchronized moments that can only happen in a misty club close to midnight.

"I'm the hostess," Angela said. "I take care of the people that come in, make sure everyone's having a good time."

"Are you good at it?"

She cast him her best side smile. "Depends on your definition of good."

He chuckled into his cup.

"I'd say I'm the life of the party almost every night," Angela said. "I know this place inside and out. Though, if I completely had my way," she cast a brief glance around the place, taking in the setting past the crush of dancing, drinking patrons—"I'd lay it out a little differently."

"Really? Why?"

"I have an eye for placement. I set out to be an interior decorator."

"Interior decorator?" He leaned a little closer. "Do you have any experience with it?"

"Not much," Angela admitted. "I have a lot of ideas, though."

"Well, I'm setting up my own nightclub across town. I'm not sure what to do with it, though, with the layout and such. Do you think you could help me out?"

Angela clasped her hands, delighted. "Um, yes!"

He grinned. "Great! I wouldn't be able to pay you much—I'm just getting started—but we could help each other out, yeah? You help me set up my business—I'll help you with your passion."

"Sounds like a great deal to me." She lifted her glass, and he copied her to clink the two together. They each took a swig.

"Ahh." He wiped his mouth. "Could you show me some of your ideas?"

"What would you like?" Angela asked.

"Well." He glanced around the place. "You said you'd rearrange things in here if you could? Why not draw me up a map of this place and show me what you've got."

"Totally." Angela pursed her lips and looked for a drawing medium. She grabbed a napkin from the bar and some lipstick from her purse, and drew an outline of the Lab.

She was pulling out her mascara to brush in some details when a familiar voice intoned, "Angela."

Angela sighed internally and looked up. "Yes, Jared?"

He stood on the other side of her, leaning against the bar coolly in his trying-to-be-macho-but-failing-because-of-his-baby-face way. He cast a smoky smile her way before narrowing his eyes at the man on her other side.

"Am I interrupting?" he asked.

"Actually, yeah, you kind of are." Angela decided not to hide her annoyance. "Is there something in particular you want?"

Jared's words were directed at her, but his eyes seemed oddly focused on the other man. "I was wondering if you were free this Friday night."

"Sorry. Working. You know how busy Fridays are. They can't spare me."

Usually Jared took this as his cue to say "Well, maybe I'll see you then anyway" with what he thought was a sly wink (that was one problem with working at a nightclub—snubbed dates knew exactly where to find you. Hence the growing no-entry list with Wendell).

This time, however, he seemed fixed on the other guy. Angela vaguely questioned his sexuality before returning to her drawing. "Anything else, Jared?"

"What are you drawing?" Finally his attention was back on her, which was both flattering and frustrating. She turned to him again.

"You know, I just got commissioned to help decorate a new place across town. I was showing my new friend here some ideas I had for the Lab." She looked to where the man had been sitting—but he was gone, a few bills crumpled next to his empty cup.

"Sorry, did I scare away your date?" Jared asked.

Angela downed the last of her cream soda. "You just have that affect on people." She set the glass on the bar and rose from her stool. "I have to get back to work. See you later, Jared."

She turned with a flounce. As annoyed as she was, she couldn't help treating him to a choice view of the ass he'd never have.

"Hey, you didn't pay!" called Sweets from behind the bar.

"I work here," she barked, and slipped into the crowd to work her magic. She was miffed at Jared for interrupting her conversation with the other man, but in the long run it wasn't a big deal. She'd probably never see the guy again.