Soul's spent the last day or so trying to get his brain around the mystery of Kitten. The more he thinks about her, the more off and strange she seems. She doesn't fit in with Chupa Cabra's aesthetic, and not just in the physical sense - she's certainly attractive enough. It's her demeanor.

The girls who work at Chupa Cabra's are universally more...mild. Sure, they play like Ginger or Cherry - coy and flirty, but when it boils down to it, they're a group of women who've had the misfortune to work in a strip joint that's under the purview of the mob. It's not exactly a secret.

But Kitten - Soul recalls the flirty woman who slipped into his VIP room and the saucy waitress with the fiery, challenging look in her eyes. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that Kitten doesn't like him, or that women like her don't last long in a place like this.

Wednesday night, he manages to snag one of the dancers, making her rounds after a set. He recognizes her honey blond hair and gives her a winning smile.

"Hey, Bambi." She smiles and stops, all attentive congeniality. This, he thinks, this is the difference.

"Hey there, baby. What can I do for you?"

For a moment, Soul considers asking her back to one of the VIP rooms, but he doubts there would really be much to gain by it. Instead, he spreads his knees in an invitation.

"Thought you might enjoy a rest."

Bambi laughs, and it's throaty and real - not some artificial giggle. She perches on his knee and drapes an arm across his shoulder. "Oh, always. That all you want, baby? Can I order you a drink? Maybe give you a little private session?" Her other hand rests on his chest, one finger tracing the collar of his shirt.

"Mm. Maybe later. Those are some impressive moves you've got there, sweetheart." She laughs again, and brushes her thigh against his crotch. He manages to not flinch, but it's a very near thing.

"Couldn't have been that impressive, but you're such a sweet flatterer. You know," she says, and her thigh brushes against him again. It's a more difficult to remain impassive this time, but he smiles, even if it is a little tense. "My friend was right when she said what a charmer you are." That catches his attention. He runs a hand along Bambi's thigh.

"Oh, I see how it is. Talking about me behind my back with your friends. Who's the clever girl spreading all these wonderful rumors about me?"

Bambi looks over him for a moment, and Soul gets the impression that perhaps he was mistaken about the women of Chupa Cabra's. There is nothing subservient or mild in Bambi's gaze; this is the look of a woman who has seen her fair share of life and has come out the victor. Almost as soon as he's processed it, the look is gone, and her fingers are playing with his collar again.

"Oh, I think you know her. She's taken quite a liking to you."

His breath hitches a little. This could be just the opportunity he's been waiting for. "Mm. Does her name happen to be Kitten?"

"How did you know?"

Soul notes that, despite her words, she doesn't really seem that surprised by his guess. "I'm just a perceptive kinda fellow. Where is Kitten, by the way? If she's taken such a liking to me, maybe I could get to ah, know her a little better?" He tries for nonchalant and arrogant - he's with Arachnophobia, used to getting what he wants, smug and confident in his question. This is what he tells himself at least.

"Oh she's interested. But you gotta know...big, strong man like you? You intimidate her." She flicks a bit of his hair. He smiles, and lets his teeth show. He very much doubts Bambi's assertion; he saw defiance and strength in Kitten's eyes before, not fear. He leans close and keeps eye contact.

"Would you me a favor, Bambi? Let her know there's nothing to be scared of. I've taken quite a liking to her, too." Perhaps it will be easier than he thinks to draw Kitten out. He's not betting on it, though.

"That all I can do for you, tiger?"

He smiles at her and gives her a pat on the ass. "Yeah, I think so."

She extracts herself gracefully, and bends down, giving Soul a nice show. She taps one long nail against his cheek. "She'll be in tomorrow night," Bambi offers, and then she's gone, swirling away through the tables and toward the bar.

He watches her go and hangs around long enough to convince Black*Star that what he really wants is greasy diner food and not ass.

Black*Star gives him shit when he mentions heading back to the club Thursday night, and though he knows that his boss is teasing him, Soul doesn't bother hiding his irritation and calls him a hypocrite.

Black*Star just shrugs and gives him a ridiculously smug grin. "I got somewhere else to be tonight, you know? You have fun for me, though."

"Whatever," Soul says, eyes rolling. He's glad that he's not going to have to keep an eye on Black*Star for a night. For all his ridiculous posturing, the mobster is surprisingly perceptive, and it will be easier to grab Kitten's attention without Black*Star breathing down his neck.

He's at Chupa Cabra's before the night shift is scheduled to come on duty, and while he doesn't want to seem like a creeper, he'd rather not miss making sure that Kitten comes in. And boy, does she.

Now that Soul is looking for it, Kitten is a beacon of wrongness in the club. Her smiles are a shade too brittle, her responses are a half a second too late when she interacts with patrons. They're genuine sounding enough, but all together, it's enough for Soul. Fortunately for Kitten, Chupa Cabra's clientele isn't looking for something amiss with their waitress, and even if they were, Soul's reasonably sure that her skirt's short enough and her legs long enough that just about anyone would remain distracted enough to make it a moot point.

Soul contemplates calling her over, or even going to her. He's pretty sure that Blair wouldn't mind if he snags one of her girls, even one of her waitresses, for a little one-on-one time as long as she's compensated properly. Kitten still looks like she's poised to run at the slightest hint of challenge, though and he holds back, keeping his hat on and to the shadows. He loses her for a little bit, distracted by his beer and Roxy's set on the main stage, but picks her up again after a second. Except she's not alone anymore.

Soul isn't sure why Blair's on the floor, but it's hard to miss her. It's hard for anyone to ignore the buxom woman, even when she isn't hellbent on turning on the charm. He hasn't had much chance to interact with her - as far as Soul can tell, she manages the club and reports to Medusa directly. Still, he hasn't found any evidence that she has anything to do with the actual mob operation.

Blair's got one hand wrapped casually around Kitten's arm, and the waitress looks vaguely alarmed as her boss begins to tow her through the club. She doesn't resist, but Soul isn't an FBI agent for nothing. Kitten's confused and hesitant, but trying to cover it up. He watches Blair lead the blonde woman back towards the VIP rooms, and his heart thumps. Could this be the opportunity that he's been looking for?

Could Kitten be about to make the upgrade from waitress to dancer? Were they missing a dancer tonight that she might have to fill in for? But no, he dimly recalls that the offices and backstage dressing rooms are behind the same door as the VIP rooms, so it's just possible that she's somehow gotten into trouble. There's really no way to tell.

Blair emerges a few minutes later without Kitten, leaving him antsy and curious all at once. He pushes back from his table and winds his way through the tables and conversations on the main floor. As he does, he takes a moment to scan the usuals' tables and raised booths. All of the Thursday regulars are in, he's pretty sure. He catches Blair near the bar, and sidles up to her smooth as he can.

"What's your pleasure, Miss Blair?"

Her eyes dart over to him, and she smiles, giving him a blatant up-down. "Scotch on the rocks," she says, and the bartender hustles to pour for her. Soul smiles languidly, and tries not to think about how the purple-haired madam is eyeing him like a choice piece of meat.

"I don't see you a lot out here," he leads.

She takes her scotch (he's sure it's top-shelf, too) and gives him a coy smirk. "Running this place takes up so much of my time. I don't get to walk the tables as much as I'd like."

"Special occasion tonight?"

She sips, bracing herself against the bar in a way that draws attention to her generous assets. She's gorgeous, and what's more, she's fully aware of her affect on anything with a dick in a fifteen foot radius.

"Somewhat. Sometimes though, it's just nice to get out of my stuffy old office and visit with my girls."

He nods. "I bet. It's a shame you spend so much time cooped up. It's much more entertaining when you're out here."

She quirks her mouth at him and giggles. "You are a shameless flatterer, and I like your style."

"I try. Say," he starts, and he can see Blair's warm eyes go a little cold. She's knows what the buttering was for now, and she's expecting him to ask for a personal favor. Soul doesn't disappoint. "I know you're busy, but I have a favor to ask for - there's this girl."

Blair smiles and pats him on the cheeks lightly. "Oh, pumpkin, isn't there always."

He gives her a toothy little grin. "There is, isn't there? She's a sassy little thing, and I can't stop staring at her. Is there anyway you could, ah...maybe arrange a meeting?"

Blair's flat out smirking at him now. She drags one manicured nail along his cheek; takes another sip of her whiskey. "You know, I never realized when I hired that little kitty that she'd become so popular. The way I see it, she is completely wasted as a waitress."

Soul's heart thuds in his chest. He keeps his voice even; there's no logical reason for him to be feeling antsy, even if his brain is making leaps of conjecture. "So...she's, ah...taken?"

Blair brushes a little bit of hair behind his ear and pats his cheek. "For the moment, yes, but I may have to rethink Kitten's working arrangements if this keeps up."

"Do I get to ask who I'm competing with for her time?" He gives her his best rakish grin as he says it, and she chuckles lowly.

"You can ask all you want, pumpkin, but I don't like the idea of jealous clients around my girls, waitresses or not."

He returns her laugh. "I think she's a pretty piece of work, but jealousy isn't really my thing."

"Oh, pumpkin, it's not you I'm worried about." She gives him one last pat, and turns, dismissing him. Soul gives her another of his winning smiles and throws down a twenty on the bar.

As he makes his way back across the floor, his eyes light on an empty table. He stops and his brain catches on fire. He knows who's missing from his Thursday night lineup, and why Blair is concerned with jealous clients.

His touch is oily on her skin, like he's been eating potato chips or movie theater popcorn and is wiping his greasy fingerprints on a napkin. She's never wanted a shower as much as she does when Giriko slides his palms over her stomach. Maka doesn't shudder, but it's a near thing, and she calls on years of stone-faced policing to keep her expression fixed on "ditzily pleasant."

Fortunately for her, Giriko doesn't seem to give a shit. He's got a permanent leer on his face and ever since she walked in the door, his eyes have been trained on her body.

"I want a drink," he states, and she nods, disentangling herself from his hands.

"Jack and Coke?"

His lips twist, and he runs his tongue over his teeth. His eyes never leave her. "You got it, baby."

She's worried that the residue left by his gaze is something that she won't be able to wash away, but she figures that she'll cross that bridge when she comes to it. She hands him the drink, and he kicks it back, heedless of the way the excess spills down his chin and chest. He thunks the glass down, and then his hands are back, and she concentrates on listening to the low thump of the music and not on the way he's gripping her hips. His hands are unfortunately steady, despite the way he reeks of booze and the way his legs are shaking - like he's got too much energy, like he's about to rocket to his feet any second.

She doesn't want to talk to him or be anywhere near him, but she's alone in the room with a notorious, known member of Arachnophobia, and regardless of the fact that all she wants to do is break every bone in the man's body, she's a cop, and she's got a job to do.

"You like what you see, handsome?" She twists in his grasp, spins a little and smiles. She tries for youthful, for innocent but sexy. The way his eyes darken, she suspects it's working. She hasn't forgotten what he said to her a couple of days ago, and wonders if Giriko isn't hiding more just than a cocaine habit.

"Take off your top." It's not a request, and she tries not to grind her teeth as she smiles. Her bra, frilly as it is, is still at least as covering as a bikini. She keeps swaying her hips to the music as her fingers fumble with the buttons.

"Sorry," she titters nervously. "I...I've never done this before," she admits with just the right amount of blushing and eye-contact. He smiles, baring sharpened teeth. He's got her shirt in his hand before she can react and he's fast, so much faster than she would have thought. He yank, ripping the flimsy material easily.

He's not smiling anymore. "Stop fuckin' around."

She wants to deck that asshole in the face, but instead she gives a muffled shriek, and tries to look shocked and panicked. Her blood burns at the thought of how many women he's tried this intimidation tactic on. "I ain't in the mood for you playin' coy like you're some virtuous fuckin' bitch."

Her hands itch, and she tries not to clench them into fists. She wants information from this guy, but at what price? She's seconds away from snapping, even as her hands go for the flimsy buttons on her skirt, and if she takes him down like she wants, her cover will be completely blown.

Her skirt drops to the floor and he's reaching for her again, greasy fingers clawing at her thigh highs and she's going to slug him in the goddamned face - maybe if she's lucky, he'll be too coked out of his mind to remember who punched him - when the door slams open.

Giriko freezes, and she watches his eyes widen and narrow in the space of a heartbeat. "The fuck do you want? Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Sorry to interrupt, but there's someone out here looking for you. Said it was urgent? From you know."

Any thankfulness she feels for the distraction drains away as soon as the intruder speaks. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. After Tuesday night, Eater's voice is hard to mistake for anyone else. She doesn't turn, but watches Giriko as closely as she dares.

"Fuckin' punk, fuckin' bullshit." He shoves her away and stands, swaying on his feet slightly. She stumbles back but, despite her heels, doesn't lose her balance. He's up in Eater's face before she can blink, growling. "I am not to fuckin' be disturbed when I'm back here. You got me, you little shit? I don't care if the goddamned queen fucking bee herself is out there asking for me."

Eater looks bored. He shrugs, leaning against the door frame. "I'm just following orders, man."

Giriko growls again, and shoves past Eater. He stumbles a little, which fills Maka with a small amount of satisfaction.

And then there were two. Eater doesn't remain in the door frame for long. He closes the door carefully and in two strides, he crosses to where she's standing. Stupidly, she wants to cover herself, but her work clothes are still on the floor by her feet, and it isn't as though he hasn't seen everything already.

Giriko's left her feeling exposed and twitchy, though, and Eater has a way of looking at her that makes her feel like he can see straight into her soul. But she doesn't cross her arms over her chest. She doesn't stand up straight and defiantly either, because here, now, that's more than she can reveal.

"You ok?" It's not what she's expecting at all - not the warm tone, not what sounds like genuine concern. Her eyes flick up to meet his, and she finds it difficult to reconcile the man she had walked in on - all suave, collected, entitled - to the one who bent down and is trying to hand her her skirt. "This isn't right," he says when she doesn't reply, and she barely manages to not roll her eyes into the back of her head.

"It's the way things are," she says, and she hates herself a little for it. But she knows it's true. She understands the note Pattie slipped her now, and why Cherry, Giriko's regular girl, is going to be out for at least a week. Maka also knows that even if she could go to the dancer and get her to admit what happened, the odds that she'll press charges are slim to none. Instead, she buttons her skirt and doesn't look him in the eyes again, afraid he'll see her loathing.

"That doesn't make it ok."

That does make her look up, startled. He looks serious, not like he's trying to play her. She shrugs into her tattered shirt and ties it over her bra.

"No," she agrees after a moment, and once more fixes him with her gaze. "But it isn't going to change."

"Are you going to wait for him to come back?" It's a strange question she thinks, but then again, maybe not. Wouldn't most girls be afraid of leaving without permission? Fuck it, she thinks.

"No."

She doesn't thank him, though she kind of wants to. If he hadn't stepped in, she's not sure what might have happened, other than her cover surely would have been blown. But owing him doesn't really sit well with her either, and she can't trust the idea that he might not be the kind of man who would hold that over her. He might still prove useful, though.

Maka pauses on her way out the door and stands close to him. She can smell him, even over the lingering scent of liquor and sweat and other bodily smells that come par for the course in a club like this. He doesn't smell like any of the aftershave or colognes that most men use, and for a second it disorients her because it isn't what she's expecting.

"Look. Meet me - meet me after I get off work. You know that little alley between Delilah's and New Hope?"

"On 34th?"

She nods and leans in just a little more. Her hand brushes against his belt, fingertips light. Eater blinks slowly and exhales through his nose heavily. She channels Blair and smiles, licking her lips. "That's the place."

She doesn't bother to step back, just brushes past him and leaves. She doesn't look back, though her heart is pounding. If that doesn't get him to show up, then nothing will.

The alley is the kind of dark that encourages liaisons. Soul's familiar with the place, familiar with the type of things that go down in dim alleys. He wonders briefly if it's a set up - a trap by Kitten and Giriko? But Soul can take care of himself, and what better chance is he going to have to get Kitten alone and easily interrogated? He reaches the alley first, despite the fact that he had taken an excessively meandering route. As far as he can tell, no one followed him from the club, and a thorough check of the alley doesn't reveal any hidden menaces. Soul tugs at his collar and leans back against a reasonably clean portion of brick wall to wait.

He doesn't have to wait for long. He hears her coming before he sees her, and for a moment, he's in the perfect position to observe her. She does a careful scan of the street around her, looking but not making it obvious to the casual observer. Soul is increasingly aware of how...unassumingly cute she is. Out of her work pigtails, her ashy blonde hair bounces around her shoulders as she walks, and he's hard pressed to ignore that the skirt she's wearing just barely peeks out underneath her short trench coat. She spots him a moment later, and her lips curl into a small smile.

"I wasn't sure you'd show," she says.

Soul matches her smile and pushes off of the wall to meet her. "Hard to refuse a request like that from a pretty thing like you."

She laughs lightly and brushes her hand just under the collar of his overcoat, not quite touching the skin of his neck. She's close - as close as she had been in the club - and the dim light does something funny to the green of her eyes.

"Flatterer." Her hand continues to brush against his collar, and he swears that he can almost feel her fingertips against his skin.

"So I've been told." One finger evades the open collar of his shirt entirely, nail scraping lightly along his collarbone, and he has to pull on every ounce of willpower he's developed to not jump at the sensation.

Kitten smiles again, and doesn't take her eyes off of his. "I'm sure. I wanted to thank you, you know. Giriko is not a patient or nice man."

"I had noticed," he says wryly, resisting the urge to brush back an errant lock of her hair. "If he's such a creep, why do you go to him?"

"Why do you assume we have a choice?" He doesn't have to be observant to know that he's struck a nerve. He knows Giriko is a big-wig in Arachnophobia, but even so, Blair doesn't seem like the type to let him mess with her employees. Which means that he must wield even more power than the FBI had originally thought. Interesting.

He does brush her hair back now and is rewarded with a startled look. "You're right, that's a stupid assumption."

She shakes her head briefly, as if she's trying to reconcile his words with her expectations. "You can see maybe why I'd like to thank you?"

He grins at her, sharp and rakish. "It was my pleasure."

She laughs again, and it's low and sensuous in his ears. "I'd like it to be," Kitten rejoins, and Soul is immediately aware of pressure against his belt buckle and the heat of her palm against his chest where she's managed to completely bypass the barrier of his shirt.

She arches against him, and he thumps back against the brick wall. Her hands are fast, nimble, and a moment later, she's sliding her other hand into his pants, clever fingers tracing the waistband of his boxers, knuckles brushing against the noticeable bulge of his cock. He exhales noisily.

This is...not what he was anticipating when he agreed to meet with the dangerous waitress and Soul is having a hard time concentrating on just what he wanted to accomplish. It's not that he isn't used to advances...he spends a truly disproportionate amount of time in Chupa Cabra's, and he's propositioned fairly frequently. He's never felt quite so tempted before.

Kitten's trench coat is open now, and he can't quite recall when she might have unbuttoned it. Of course, he also doesn't remember her unbuttoning half of his shirt, but there's a brisk breeze across his bare chest that's clashing with the way her palm burns against his skin.

A stranger must be in control of his hand because it would be more than foolish to grab her hip where the waistband of her skirt rides low. But there's soft flesh under his fingertips, and he can feel the curve of her hipbone. She's breathing heavily, and Soul wonders if she's genuinely as affected by this whole ordeal as he is, or if that wide-eyed wanton stare she keeps giving him is something she learned for just this purpose. That thought brings him around just long enough for him to pull back slightly.

"Is this business or pleasure?" he asks in her ear. Her breath ghosts along his throat and he swears that he can feel her smile against his skin.

"Is there any reason it can't be a little of both?" she teases, brushing her palm against his erection, and in retaliation, he tightens his grip on her hip and drags her against him. His thumb scrapes across the slick pink skin of her scar and she stiffens against him. He rubs the skin, rolls his hips, and traps her hand effectively between them.

"Sounds good to me," Soul agrees, and tries to ignore the warning bell in his head because this woman is dangerous, if not in the way he originally thought. There's something about her that makes him want to forget that he's Special Agent Soul Evans, that he's undercover and on a mission.

"I was hoping that you'd say that," she murmurs, and suddenly there's a cold click and a weight around his left wrist.

Startled, he draws back. "Hey Kitten, I don't mind the kinky stuff, but this isn't really the place, you know?" He says it jokingly, but his mind is racing. This could mean he's in deep shit, and he glances around, certain he's been played and discovered.

The last thing he expects to hear is, "'Eater,' you're under arrest for solicitation. You have the right to remain silent. Anything that you do or say can be used against you in a court of law..."

He's more than familiar with his Miranda rights, he's read them out enough. "Are you shitting me? You're a cop?"

The situation is too ridiculous to comprehend, but Kitten is stronger than she looks and he's too startled to resist when she spins him around and presses him into the brick wall. He hisses as his dick, still painfully aroused, bumps against the brick. The pieces that his brain has been collecting and ruminating on for the past few days are starting to fall into place.

"Does it look like I'm shitting you?" she retorts, wrenching his other arm behind him. He feels the cold metal cuffs against his other wrist and struggles a little.

"Look, Officer 'Kitten,' or whoever you are - you've got this all wrong. I'm not some john, I'm Special Agent Soul Evans with the FBI."

She ignores him, doing a quick pat-down and never releasing her grip on his cuffs. Soul grimaces. He knows his wallet isn't going to reveal anything, and he had always felt it was courting disaster to even think about keeping his badge in a hidden pocket. Until now, he'd never had a chance to regret it.

"I've got it wrong? Really? Cause it sounded to me like you were trying to buy some quality pleasure time with someone you thought was a prostitute, and I'm not seeing any kind of ID, Agent." Irritated doesn't really cover the fact that he's just been arrested for being propositioned, and that despite everything, he's still got an urgent boner problem, but it's a good place to start.

"Quality? You certainly think highly of yourself, don't you?" He glances over his shoulder as he says it, and she smiles nastily at him, teeth clenched.

"Quality enough to fool your dumb ass," she spits.

"Even if I weren't an agent, you'd never have enough to hold me for more than a day or so, and if I were Arachnophobia, the minute they found out you had me, your cover would be blown, and I'd be out on bail."

"That," she says into his ear, "is where you're wrong. Let's go, lover boy."