You Chute, You Score
"Good morning Picasso," her father greeted when Isla stumbled her way to the coffee pot after crawling out of her bed. She grunted a "morning" back before pouring a ridiculous amount of dark liquid into a mug. Her father snorted, before rising from the chair he was sat in and crossing the room to drop a kiss on top of her bird nest style bed head. Isla, while still lethargic and just barley functioning with her little sleep, leaned into her father's warm side, letting out a breathy giggle and furrowing up her nose when he raised his thumb to wipe a smudge of black charcoal off of her rosy cheek.
"I take it you didn't sleep well," Will muttered against his daughters head, chin jostling when she shook her head in disagreement, before sighing, "You'll get used to the new room and the hotel soon," he soothed before running the hand holding her against his side up the skin of her arm. Isla grunted slightly in acknowledgement, drifting off into a doze against the warmth of her father's body, before she felt the mug of life sustaining liquid being plucked from her fingers.
Her whiskey eyes flew open and met the mess of curls that belonged to her brother, his small hands wrapped around the pale blue mug as he took a sip of the drink for himself. Isla grinned, bouncing at the deep rumble of her father's laugh before he reached forward to snatch the mug out of Lachlan's hands and deposited it back into his daughter's charcoal smudged hands. He released Isla from his grip, striding forward to ruffle Lachlan's hair before moving back to his seat and picking up the newspaper he'd abandoned there.
Isla grinned again as he perched his glasses on his face before turning to Lachlan. Her brother smiled up at her, eyes still half closed in sleepiness before yawning wide. As if contagious, Isla yawned to, mouth stretching, dry lips cracking slightly at the too wide pull of her mouth, before she raised the coffee mug to the chapped flesh and took a long pull of the hot liquid, the bitter taste warming her from the inside, waking her slightly.
"Did you sleep alright Lochness?" Isla questioned, hand reaching up to card her pale digits through the tangled mess of his feathery hair. He nodded against her hand, light hairs tickling the soft flesh of her palm.
"It felt strange at first," he answered quietly, eyes blinking up at her blearily, "And I felt weird when I woke up, like when you're at a sleepover and you wake up not knowing where you are." Lachlan admitted, a slight frown forming on his face. Isla frowned in unison, she hated the look on her brother's face, he was supposed to be happy, and it was her job to keep it that way.
Faking a small smile, Isla's hand glided down Lachlan's head to his shoulder, hooking to pull him forward so that she could place a light kiss against his forehead. He cringed under her touch, grumbling as he pulled away, the sleeve of his pyjama top wiping furiously at his forehead as to wipe the kiss away. Isla laughed, a genuine laugh at that.
"Don't worry," she said, tilting his chin with her hand so he would look up at her, "You'll get used to the hotel soon enough," she offered quietly, repeating her father's own words to her this morning. Lachlan smiled softly at her, long arms wrapping around Isla's waist to pull her into a tight hug, grinning when he released her and running off into the direction of his bedroom.
Glancing at her own bedroom door, Isla groaned, reaching up to card her fingers through the mess of curls on top off her head. She had better go get ready, she mused, after all she had her father's fashion show to prepare for.
The black flapper style dress clung to Isla like a second skin, the swinging beads stinging her skin lightly every time she moved, the beads hitting her wrist with a gentle smack. Her brown curls were pinned up in a simple French twist, gold flowered pins holding to up-do in place. The gold cream eyeshadow she had placed on her eyelids made her eyes shine like amber against her skin and the gold mary-janes on her feet clacked against the floor as she made her way over to her father, where he was greeting Claudia, an old friend.
Isla eyed Claudia happily, with dark skin draped in beige fur, black hair shiny like ink and glasses perched on her nose, Claudia was the closest female presence in Isla's life since her mother had left when Lachlan was born. She grinned when she reached the adults, accepting the hug from Claudia, practically melting into the older woman's warm embrace.
Once they were seated next to each other and the detective her father had been talking to earlier, who's name was John, did Isla notice them, white outfits shining in the dimmed lights of the lobby, they looked so ethereal that Isla could have mistaken them for angels. Vaguely she registered that it was the man from the other day, draped on the arm of a tall blonde woman with feathers in her hair. The woman's eyes met hers and she and her companion sat on two seats across the room, draping themselves across each other like they hadn't heard of the meaning of personal space.
Isla refused to look away from the woman's intense gaze, glaring as the woman smirked at her stubbornness before she turned away to watch the onslaught of models that had started to make their way down the catwalk. Isla's eyes scanned the room after her staring match with the white clad woman ended, before the connected with Lachlan's, he was sat across the room with the curly blonde haired daughter of the detective sat beside herself and Claudia, he rolled his doe eyes at her in mutual boredom of one of the events they had to participate in too often, grinning slightly, Isla winked at her brother as he nodded his head back and tiptoed away with the blonde girl hot on his heels, before turning her eyes at the commotion that had started on the catwalk.
Tristan Duffy had started a fight, Isla let out a breathy groan as she followed the man's movements back to the models room, eyes locked on the red streaks of his ridiculous messed up mullet, only shifting when her father's form hurried into the room behind him. Isla groaned louder this time before rising from her seat and following after the men as quickly as she could in her heels, eyes meeting the woman in white's once more before she slipped into the models room.
The sight of Tristan dragging a pair of silver scissors across his cheek, leaving behind a savage red cut against his face, is what greeted Isla when she entered the room. Her father's face was etched with shock as Tristan grunted lightly. "I'm done with modelling," he stated, eyes locked on her father's, before dropping the scissors from his hand and striding out of the room.
"Dad?" Isla uttered, watching from his side as her father's face morphed from shock into barley concealed rage.
"Not now LaLa," he growled, before shaking off the hand she had lain on his arm and storming out of the room himself.
Later, after the show had finished and her father and brother were in bed asleep, Isla raised from staring at her ceiling once again, she pulled a star littered silk blue robe over her black shorts and white tank top, shoved her feet into black slippers and left her family's penthouse, resigning herself to wandering around the hotel instead of attempting to sleep.
She strolled through similar halls and travelled up and down stairs, it was in one duplicate looking hall, where she was dragging her fingers lightly across the smooth painted wall that she heard the lilted voice of what sounded like a Gatsby impersonator.
"And what is a stunning creature like yourself doing wandering around at this time of night?" The man questioned and Isla whipped around to face him, loose strands of hair falling from her bun grazing he cheek as she did so.
The man stood in front of her was well dressed, in a suit that looked like it belonged in the roaring twenties. An Ascot of what looked like silk draped around the base of his throat, knotted despite the loosened buttons at the top of his pressed shirt. A small Howard Hughes moustache lay above thin lips, and his combed back dark hair suited his sharp features and striking dark eyes. He appeared to be in his early thirties, but something about him screamed of old age, and it terrified Isla.
"Couldn't sleep," Isla drawled, stepping back to press herself against the wall as the man shifted to lean against the one opposite her, smirking at the fear he was causing and every instinct Isla had was telling her to run.
"Perhaps a warm glass of milk would help with your predicament," the man lilted, eyes travelling the line of her shoulder, tracing up the curve of her throat, she bit her lips unconsciously when his gaze passed over them before he met her whiskey brown eyes and smiled at her patronizing.
"Perhaps," Isla answered back, gaze flickering from the man's eyes to stare at the wall behind him, eye contact had always made her uncomfortable, but the man before her had eyes that glinted like those of the devil. "I'll get right on that," she muttered, pushing herself off of the wall as the man before her copied her action, grinning almost sadistically at her as she brushed past him and went to move further into the corridor and as far away from the man as she could get.
She had almost been successful in her attempt when a large, icy hand gripped her elbow and spun her towards him. Isla hit his chest and the man gripped her other arm in a steel like grasp, forcing her to tilt her head up to meet his gaze. "I didn't get your name there little bird," he quipped, the tightening of his fingers against her arms, tight enough that Isla was sure purplish bruises would litter the peachy flesh in the morning, implied that she had no choice but to give the man her name.
"Isla, my name is Isla," she gasped as the man's grip tightened impossibly. He smiled, like a sadistic Cheshire Cat, Isla mused and his grip loosened, the steel bands encasing her arms falling, one hand to the man's side, the other sliding down her arm to grip her hand.
"A pleasure to meet you Isla," he answered silkily, her name rolling off of his tongue in that Brahmin like accent like the brush of a hand against velvet. He raised Isla's hand to his lips, cold flesh pressing a kiss against her knuckles, the hairs from his small moustache tickling her skin before her opened his lips and nipped at the skin covered bone. Isla gasped, and the man grinned impossibly wider as he pulled away but kept her hand in his grip.
"My name is James Patrick March," he replied to her gasp, "I'm sure I'll have the pleasure of your company again soon," he purred, accent thickening slightly before he released her hand and disappeared into thin air, leaving Isla to slump against the wall next to her, hand pressed to her heart as if gripping her chest would stop the fear filled thing from jack-rabbiting itself out of her ribcage.