Soul watches the young woman's spine stiffen. She's...not what he anticipated. Blair's girls tend toward the busty and voluptuous, but this girl is on the skinny side, more athletic. She's also got mile-long legs and a pert ass that he's really having a hard dragging his eyes away from, but he reminds himself that he's not here for pleasure and he's got other things to focus on.
The girl turns slowly, stiffly, and he's confronted with the biggest pair of green eyes he's ever seen, and a brief flash of something unknowable before she smiles slyly.
"Hey there, handsome." There's a nervousness in her eyes, but it's not the first time that he's seen that particular look, and Soul's pretty positive that this is Blair's newest girl.
His mouth pulls into a slow smile; he wants reassuring, not intimidating this time. "Hey there, sweetheart. I don't think I've seen you around here before."
She smiles faintly and shakes her head, pigtails bouncing merrily. "Mm. You wouldn't've, I'm new~" She saunters over to where he's seated, and he doesn't even bother to hide his smirk or the fact that he's staring at her hips. He spreads his knees, and she sits delicately on one thigh, legs crossed.
"Thought so. I would have remembered a face like yours." His hand is warm on the small of her back. "What's your name?" It's been nearly three months since Chupa Cabra's had any new blood, and he's planning out just how this is going to go down when there's a rap on the door, and she slides off his lap.
"Oopsie. Looks like I got the wrong room. Maybe someone else can help you with that little problem, handsome," she grins, opening the door. "He's all yours," she says, slipping out of the room.
Soul blinks, and she's gone, replaced by Ginger, the dancer he'd been expecting originally. He wants to frown at the bemused expression on her face, but it's gone almost immediately and Ginger's already right there, all red lips and seductive hips, and Soul's still got a job to do.
"Sorry about that, sugar," she whispers, leaning forward in a way he knows is calculated to show off her generous assets. "Just a little mix up, but don't worry, I'll take good care of you."
He smiles again. "I know you will. C'mere and tell the bad man how you're going to make it all better."
He's tired as hell by the time he slams the door on his shitty efficiency apartment. His shoes are the first thing to go, kicked off violently in the vague vicinity of his futon/couch/almost living room. His covert interrogation of Ginger did nothing but leave him frustrated in several regards, not the least of which was because he couldn't seem to get his brain to fucking focus on the task at hand. His whole mojo had been thrown off by Blair's new girl.
The fact that he hadn't even managed to get her name was still bothering him. By the time he'd finished with Ginger, she'd long since disappeared into the pulsing music and low lights of the club, and he had other business to take care of. He had at least managed to pry it out of Ginger that the new hire hadn't been there terribly long, but the dancer was pretty tight-lipped past that, and Soul can't help but be unsettled by the whole ordeal.
Soul stares balefully at the little hot plate on what passes for his kitchen counter, glances at the mini fridge, and tries to recall if there's anything in there that hasn't potentially gained sentience. Nothing immediately springs to mind, so he flops onto the futon and dials the local Vietnamese joint from memory.
He wakes up to the sound of pounding on his door, and Soul rolls off the futon, gun in hand and safety off before his brain catches up and he realizes that it's probably just his take out. Still, better safe than sorry, and he creeps silently up to the door and eyeballs the peephole.
It's his usual delivery guy, and Soul takes a second to conceal his weapon before undoing the three deadbolts. He hands over a twenty for the bag of food, exchanges meaningless pleasantries with Sam, bringer of pho, then locks himself back in. Soul knows what his problem is, and while it may be related to the leggy blonde in the naughty school girl outfit, it's not really her fault.
Soul's stuck. His investigation is at a complete standstill, and nothing is getting him any further. He's already walking a fine fucking line between being an agent and infiltrating Arachnophobia. He's deep undercover and feels like he's losing his mind the deeper he goes and the more shit he sees. When it boils down to it, though, he's still stuck.
He can't advance much further in the organization or with his inquiries without drawing a lot of undue suspicion down on his head. At the same time, his superior is pressing him for more. Arachnophobia is already a huge organization, and HQ is convinced that now's the time to take them down. It's been made abundantly clear that this operation is the key to making it happen.
It's a lot of pressure, but this isn't his first undercover rodeo. Soul sighs, cracking open the styrofoam container and inhaling the smell of pho. He flicks on the TV, cracks open a beer, and gets to work.
"Yo, Eater. What's the hold up? Your god is waiting, asshole!" The yell is accompanied by a tinny, obnoxious rendition of Mars, Bringer of War as rendered by Black*Star's custom horn.
It's Tuesday and they're due to make the local business rounds. It took months for Soul to be included on these little excursions, and as much as he doesn't want to admit it, if it weren't for meeting Black*Star, he might not have gotten so far so fast. But the rambunctious mobster had taken a shine to Soul almost immediately.
"You're cool," he'd stated. "I like your style. An upcoming star like me can use guys like you." Soul had raised one white eyebrow, but grinned nonetheless. If this kid wanted to offer him a way into his goal, then who was Soul to stop him? He hadn't counted on Black*Star being so incredibly vain and abrasive, and had counted even less on getting along with the little shit.
Soul throws open his tiny bedroom window long enough to shout back, "Hold the fuck on!"
He slams it shut and throws on his coat. Black*Star won't be quiet for long, and he really doesn't want his landlady riding his ass again about the noise level. He clatters down the stairs and slows long enough to exit his building at a normal human rate. Black*Star's waiting, grinning at him with one elbow draped out the window of his eye-searing Escalade.
"Took you long enough. We got shit to do, man."
Soul shrugs and wishes for the hundredth time that Black*Star would let him drive for once. Anything to avoid the electric blue monstrosity. "Keep your pants on. I'm here now, yeah?"
He climbs into the monstrous car, and longs in vain for his motorcycle. Really, he would settle for anything that wasn't this flashy piece of crap, but he doesn't have a suitable alternative, and Soul's pretty sure that Black*Star wouldn't settle for riding in anything not his baby, much less for riding bitch on the back of a bike. Soul settles his sunglasses down on his nose and tugs down his cap.
Making the rounds isn't his favorite job. It's a struggle not to flinch at every pair of terrified eyes and every defeated, hunched back as they collect the week's tithe. But he's a professional, and as much as picking up the protection collection skeeves him, there are much worse jobs that he's had to do to worm his way into Arachnophobia. He can't do anything now, but down the line...Soul keeps track of who pays, who doesn't, and how much, and one day either he'll fix the damage they're doing, or he'll find someone who can.
Tuesdays they take care of the Green District. It's an easy take. The shopkeepers are understandably resentful, but they pay up without fuss. Not long ago, this area wasn't so easy; he recalls the local cops talking about a series of fires (probably arson, but unproven) and a rash of break-ins that shook up the whole neighborhood. When he'd first been given this assignment, the higher-ups had an inkling of the depth of this particular organization, but even a few months in, Soul had quickly been disabused of the notion that Arachnophobia was anything but a colossal network. Together, he and Black*Star take care of the Green, White, Blue, and Red districts.
When it comes down to it, they don't actually have that much area to cover, and Soul knows there are at least twenty other sections in the city with district bosses always keen to have their mob fingers in as many pies as possible. They're all on standing orders to scope out new businesses and to keep eyes on the profitability of their current charges. If there's one crucial detail he's learned, it's that Arachnophobia is equally more ambitious and more cautious than the other mafia syndicates that Soul's had experience with, and that makes them infinitely more dangerous.
It's dark by the time he and Black*Star finish. Soul's got a set of bloody knuckles that he's trying desperately to not think about. When he does, all he can see is the defiant face of one Clay Sizemore, and the way that he stood boldly in front of his aging mother, the bright splatter of blood on the convenience store floor, the sharp scream. He knows it's a scene that's going to haunt him later that night, wonders if that means he's going soft, or if maybe, just maybe, it's a good thing. He closes his eyes, as though it will help.
They're already halfway to Chupa Cabra's before Soul realizes where Black*Star's taking him.
"Dude, again?" It comes out way more petulant than Soul wants to admit, and Black*Star shoots him a look.
"What? You don't wanna go to Chupa Cabra's? The fuck, man?"
Soul shrugs. He hadn't really meant to say that out loud, but he's more concerned with going home and cleaning his busted knuckles and staring at the TV until he can turn his brain off. He doesn't generally mind going to the club as often as they do. It's been a good source of information - lots of mobsters drinking, loose tongues, and eager dancers. Especially in the past year or so, Chupa Cabra's has been a hotspot for the organization, and Soul's been focusing more of his energy into figuring out what makes the club such a beacon for Arachnophobia activity.
Even still, his mind is roiling, and it would be nice to have a goddamned night off from the fucking club, but Black*Star is still staring at him, so instead he says, "It's cool." Black*Star's still got this offended look on his face, as if he can't conceive of a being who wouldn't jump at the chance to stare at tits and asses all night. "I'm just fuckin' tired, man." Soul grins, small and sly, and Black*Star takes the bait.
"Haaaahahaha! Oh, man, I fuckin' knew it! Did you have another wild night with ah, man. What's her name...Ginger?"
Soul keeps smiling and lets his comrade's imagination run wild. "I dunno. It might have been Trixie."
Black*Star punches Soul in the shoulder, teeth flashing. "Just take it easy tonight, bro. Bitches are always going to be ready to go." He laughs heartily, and Soul's not sure if he's laughing because he thinks he just made some kind of joke, or if he's just being Black*Star. Soul's learned to just go ahead and assume the latter.
He rolls his eyes and hopes it looks fond. One hand casually on the wheel, Black*Star continues to chuckle.
By all rights, Chupa Cabra's should be dead as a fucking doorknob on a Tuesday night. Soul supposes that there are certain perks for a club whose clientele largely draws from the local mob operation. For the dancers and staff, it means a lot of long ass hours all week long. For Soul, that's meant a lot of turnover between dancers - his brain drifts back to the new girl from last night. He hadn't really thought about how long it had been since the last really new dancer had shown up.
He's wasted a lot of nights in the club just to determine who might be able to give him some tidbits of information, fresh blood is always of note. But it also means being extra cautious. In a club full of people whose livelihood is dicking over other people illegally, there's a lot of suspicious eyes everywhere.
The music hasn't quite been upgraded to the prime time bump-thumping pounding noise that it usually is, which makes Soul eternally grateful. He's pretty sure that his painkiller consumption has gone up a whole fucking order of magnitude to combat the headaches he gets coming here night after night.
Black*Star finds them a table right off, and as usual, it's smack dab in the middle of the club. Soul doesn't like the feeling of having his back exposed, but there's not much that can be done about it, and at least he's got a good view of most of the rest of the place and the stage. Black*Star imperiously raises a hand, and snaps his fingers a couple of times. Soul tries not to cringe. He doesn't know how Black*Star manages to be such a dick and yet still hasn't had someone poison his drink. Moreover, Soul can't fathom how, without fail, a waitress manages to bustle over with speed. Soul shakes his head, and continues his scan of the club. There's a decent crowd, but it's still pretty early by club standards, and Soul can still easily discern individual faces.
He manages a quick headcount of the mobsters he knows, of those, how many are Tuesday regulars, how many aren't, who's all ready several drinks deep...he's just about got it squared away when he's interrupted by the waitress.
"What can I get for you boys?" Soul turns, and is blindsided by creamy bare thighs and a suspiciously familiar pair of legs. Short skirt, flimsy white button down, tight stomach, two ashy blond pigtails, and a pair of mossy green eyes. He registers the moment of surprise in her eyes before she clamps down on it. It seems off, somehow, given where she works, but he pushes the thought away.
"Tom Collins," he murmurs, eyes never leaving hers. Black*Star orders a pint of something, and Soul watches as the waitress starts to flush under his gaze. "Can I get your name this time, sweetheart?" he asks after a long moment.
She titters, and the sound is a little bit fake, and a lot irritating to his ears, but he can clearly see the fellows at the tables around them respond favorably to the sound of her voice.
"You can call me Kitten," she drawls, and stalks off with their order. Soul watches her go, equal parts intrigued and perturbed. There is just something about that girl. At least he knows the mystery of why she had bowed out to Ginger the other night. Kitten is definitely not a dancer. He's shaken out of his reverie by a hearty punch on the shoulder.
"You dog," Black*Star grins, and it takes Soul's brain a moment to catch up. "I told you man, take a break for a night. Even your dick needs a rest day." Soul shrugs, smirking. He'd be lying if he said that Kitten wasn't smoking hot, but ultimately that isn't the source of his interest. There's something about that woman that sets off warning alarms in the back of his head, and he's spent too many years dodging bullets to ignore that warning sign.
There's a plan forming in the back of his head now, slowly but surely. Soul turns back, eyes scanning the room once again. He lets the thought sit, doesn't poke or prod it, just lets his brain provide the pertinent details - more than anything, he doesn't want to let whatever his instincts are trying to tell him slip through his fingers. So he waits.
Kitten comes back with their drinks in short order, and Soul doesn't bother to hide the fact that he's watching her every movement. If she notices - and really, how could she not - she manages to take it all in stride pretty well.
She's a little unsteady on her feet with a tray full of drinks and the appetizers Black*Star had ordered. Now that he's noticed, it's easier to see the slight tremors in her ankles. He tries not to think too much about those mile-long legs as his eyes slowly pan up her body. Even through the dimmed lights and occasional flash of the stage lights, Soul's sharp eyes pick out a deep pink scar skimming her hip. He squints a little because if he were asked, he'd want to say that it looks suspiciously like a bullet wound, but she shifts the tray and he can't make it out anymore.
"Can I get anything else for you gentlemen?" She's got a hip cocked, and she's smiling prettily at the both of them. But Soul's really looking at her now, and her eyes, while crinkled in a smile, are just as observative as his own. In fact, the more he drinks in her appearance, the more wrong she seems for this setting, this job. Part of it he chalks up to being relatively new. She's obviously worked as a waitress before, but it's barely 10pm and she's subtly shifting from foot to foot as though her heels are already bothering her.
He's very literally nudged out of his reverie by Black*Star.
"Nothing for me, Kitten, but maybe my friend here is looking for a little something more, eh?" Black*Star isn't really known for his subtly, but even this is a little over the top. Soul just manages to hide his wince by turning it into just about the smarmiest expression he can muster. He exaggerates the up-down he's already giving her. He meets her gaze with his own, and really isn't all that surprised to see the layer of steel under those soft green eyes.
"Maybe later," Soul drawls, never breaking her gaze. He can see her shoulders begin to tense underneath the flimsy oxford, even as she smirks right back at him.
"Maybe never," she retorts. "Maybe I can call Ginger over for you?" The steel in her eyes belies her flirty tone. Black*Star begins to snicker. Soul shoots him a dirty look, and he bursts into raucous guffaws.
"Maybe," he finally replies, as Black*Star's laughter fades. "But I think I've got my sights on something else." Kitten's lips twist into something that can only be described as pleasant in the loosest of terms.
"Keep dreaming, tiger," she shoots back, and Soul's surprised that her eyes could get less friendly. She takes her tray and stalks off, back towards the bar. Soul's not sure what he's done to get underneath the waitress's skin, but he likes it. That niggling little hunch in the back of his brain is screaming again; if he can get under her skin, then that means there's something under there to get.
"Ow, shit. What the fuck was that for?"
Next to him, Black*Star grins, pulling back his fist. "Jesus man, you just got fuckin' iceburned by a stripper,' he chortles. "That was amazing."
Soul holds his arm gingerly. "She's not a stripper, she's a waitress. And I did not."
"You totally did. Face it, bro. You just got told by a waitress."
Soul glowers. He can already feel a bruise beginning to form on his arm. He watches Kitten making her way to another table loaded down with drinks. She smiles, and from here it looks genuine, she tosses her hair over her shoulder and laughs. He can't hear her from where he's sitting, but there's not a trace of the irritated woman who had just left their table.
The mitigating factor then, his brain pipes up, is you. And Soul is going to find out why.