A very heartfelt thanks goes out to Scarlet Empress, She-Devil Red, Arwen17evenstar, Riona Winters, cneajna, darkandstormynight16, and RavenHuffle for reviewing over the weekend. And also a special thank you to the rest of you who are still quietly reading in the background. I truly do appreciate each and every one of you. Hope you're all doing well!
CW: this one's a little on the heavy side...
Copyright © 2021 TSM. All rights reserved.
Chapter 7
Baggage
"… And the search for Vladislaus Drăculea continues," the anchorman announced. "Authorities recently confirmed that the break-in a month ago now was indeed an attempted assassination of the king. Though the council has not yet released the identities of the perpetrators who committed this heinous crime, Lord Marcus Augustine remains firm in his assertions that this act of aggression was by none other than the terrorist organization more commonly known as the alliance. Augustine had this to say on the steps of the palace this evening…. "
A video of Augustine in front of the Imperial Palace appeared on the screen.
"We will not give up our search for our king. It is evident that his life, and quite possibly by extension our own frail existences, still lie under constant threat. But we should all continue to take comfort in the fact that while his whereabouts remain unknown, he is still alive. The individual who certain members of the media assumed was Dracula has recently been identified as Horatio, a notorious skin-changer for hire and rumored alliance supporter. The fact that Horatio had taken on our king's form gives us hope that our master, wherever he may be, is safe. If you have any news of his whereabouts, we implore you to please… come forward. Bring my brother home."
Frankie rolled her eyes, a look of disgust on her face.
Augustine wasn't hopeful that Dracula was still alive and well. If anything, he appeared to be suffering from an increasing anxiety as the man seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth without a word as to where he had gone. The reason for Dracula's disappearance had remained shrouded in mystery since the news first broke – and it was becoming evident that even Augustine was as in the dark as the rest of the city, a state of ignorance that the man was not accustomed to.
"Those were the words from our leader just hours ago during a press conference held on the steps of the Imperial Palace," the anchorman resumed, the video feed cutting back to him in one of the VNN newsrooms. "We will keep you updated on any developments regarding this tragic story. …In related news, law enforcement has continued to increase security in the city in the hopes of cracking down on the illegal extremist activity surrounding the alliance organization. Although the ring-leaders remain unidentified, we just received word that there was another skirmish in the east side this evening. The report coming in from the imperial law enforcement states that alliance sympathizers murdered several civilians tonight and authorities have confirmed that they have a number of the offenders now in custody. Council member, Lord Bartos, has assured all of us here at VNN that these apprehended members of the alliance will be punished to the full extent of the law. And now we go to Judy for our five-day weather forecast…."
Frankie became aware of a familiar presence as she overheard the deadbolt of the front door turn. The door was shut quietly, the sound followed by the turning of the lock and the placing of keys on a nearby table as boot-clad feet moved wearily across the hardwood floor. Frankie remained quiet as her brother walked into the living room, only speaking when she could hear him moving towards the kitchen.
"You and I have both had enough to drink tonight," she said, without even turning to glance at him. There was a defiant huff and then the closing of the cupboard. "Thank you."
Rémy continued in his silence, not that she could blame him. She had just assaulted his new friend and nearly murdered his girlfriend's best friend. The humiliation and disappointment he was experiencing was surely acute, and yet Frankie could conjure up very little sympathy. Yes, she had nearly lost control this evening – an occurrence that easily could have ended in disaster – but Morene had had it coming. Or at least, that was Frankie's private justification.
Her brother finally took a seat beside her.
"I don't know why you watch this garbage. The news is nothing but lies; has been for decades."
"Not all of it is false. There's a storm moving in. We'll have rain before the week is out."
"Well of course they aren't going to lie about the weather, Frank; they can't lie about everything."
"Just the important stuff, right?" she inquired knowingly, eyes still straight ahead.
"Exactly."
"So what about this tussle that supposedly happened in the east side this evening? Is that also a lie?"
Rémy went silent for a moment.
"That's kind of true."
"Kind of true…" she muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes a little before sending him a sidelong glance. "It shouldn't have happened in the first place."
"Nothing happened."
Frankie turned fully to look at him now, eyes narrowed. That look seemed to be enough to send him folding seconds later.
"It wasn't a skirmish."
"Oh really? Then what was it?"
When Rémy didn't answer, she interpreted the silence immediately.
"You were picking a fight with the Marx brothers again, weren't you? Those two council supporters?"
"I wouldn't necessarily call it picking a fight," he began, but she cut him off, sending him an incredulous glare.
"What happened to rule number one? No instigating violence. You do realize that your emotionally-induced tirades are going to get you into more trouble than you already are in. You keep this up, Rémy, the council will not only positively identify you; they will catch you."
"They won't catch me," he answered confidently. "And you're one to talk about emotionally-induced tirades, missy. Lily told me that Morene was damn near inconsolable after you left. Thank God for Leinhart. I don't know how he did it, but he managed to calm her down after just two minutes alone in a room with her."
"I can imagine his methods," Frankie muttered bitterly under her breath.
"So are you going to tell me what happened between the three of you?"
"What – Carmen and Danny's versions aren't good enough for you?"
"I want to hear your side of it."
"I'd prefer not to recount that, thank you," she insisted, preparing to stand, but he grabbed her arm, pulling her back down onto the sofa beside him.
"I don't care," he announced. "I get that Vlad was asking questions and probably said a few things he shouldn't have; and I also understand that Morene crossed a line, but your behavior was inexcusable. You know better."
Frankie already knew where this conversation was headed, and she didn't want to go there… not right now.
"I know – and I'm sorry," she answered calmly. "I'm usually better at keeping my cool, but listening her talk about Derek and Aunt Cece like that, and then the things she said about me, and about Carmen. I just… I snapped."
"You're not feeding as you should," he stated plainly. There it was. "You and I both know that if you would actually ingest something that wasn't hard liquor, you'd be in better shape right now – not just physically, but mentally as well. Emotionally."
"I know."
"You keep saying that, but you're not doing anything about it. You're a grown woman, Frankie. I'm not going to force you to feed, but if you don't start taking better care of yourself, next time we might not be able to talk you down and someone will get hurt… permanently."
"You think I don't know that?" she shot back impulsively, his words having hit her just right. "I'm not abstaining from blood because I enjoy starving myself. Do you know what happens every time I try to feed?"
"Frankie…"
"I can still taste him, Rémy. I can still taste Derek's blood in my mouth, can see it all over my hands and clothes as if it just happened. Do you have any idea what that's like? Logically, I understand that it's just the trauma, but the rest of my brain refuses to let me move past it."
"You'll get past it. You've gotten over worse."
"This is different."
"Hardly."
"I am broken, Rémy. Broken and tired of fighting the same fight night after night."
"You're not broken. We were all wounded by the loss, but not irreparably damaged."
"Please don't assume you know what this feels like."
"We all miss Derek, Frank."
"But you're not the one that killed him!"
"I lost him, too! He was my best friend."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"I didn't mean…" and he paused after taking a deliberate breath, trying to sort out his thoughts. "What I am trying to say is that you're not the only one suffering here. Christ, woman, get your head out of your own ass and have some goddamn perspective."
Frankie had to bite her tongue to keep from snapping at his baited remark. Instead, she chose to reply with a civil, "Look, I can give Leinhart a pass since he isn't privy to my sordid history, but I will not forgive Morene so easily. Not only did she bring up Derek after being told not to, she started calling me black widow like she used to. You used to beat the hell out of people who called me that, and now you don't even bat an eye! Honestly, is screwing Lily in a back alley suddenly more important?"
"I wasn't there when she said it. How was I supposed to know? What do you want me to do, Frank? Punish Morene then? Beat the hell out of her, as you say? Would that make you feel better?"
"Of course it wouldn't. You're missing the point… "
"Because I don't get what I'm supposed to do to make you happy," he continued, growing more agitated by the second. "I get you're hurting and the transition is hard since you're five years behind everyone else… but remember, that was your choice! I told you stasis was a bad idea, but you're so bloody stubborn. You never listen to anyone."
"You still don't get it, do you?" she shot, her frustration worsening. "When will you stop using your own limited understanding as a tool of measurement for me, Reynaund? We may share the same blood, but we are not the same person! I don't feel things, let alone deal with them, the same way you do."
"No fucking shit."
"And what happened that night left very different scars…"
"Oh, God, not this again."
"I'm the reason why Cecila was in the city. I'm the reason Derek was killed."
"Would it kill you to not be a martyr for once?"
"I am taking responsibility for what happened!"
"Right – because taking responsibility and masochistically torturing yourself over something you had absolutely no control over are synonymous in your book," he countered as he rolled his eyes.
"That's not true."
"Oh really? Well, exhibit A here says it is," and he waved his hand in her direction.
"I don't need your sarcasm right now."
"No, what you need is to move on like the rest of us."
"Do you think I enjoy this guilt? Do you think I take pleasure in being a nuisance, a burden to you?" she asked him plainly. "Maybe I'm more trouble to you than I'm worth."
"Oh, don't start on this again!"
"No, it makes perfect sense! I was on the mend after the incident with Augustine – you and I know that better than anyone. But you're afraid that what happened five years ago set me back decades and you don't want to deal with me. I get it. The PTSD, the nightmares, the emotional volatility, the fact that I can barely keep myself under control, let alone feed without wanting to vomit… it's just too much. I'm too much. Too much of an inconvenience, a distraction… not to mention a liability. I'm a danger to everyone and everything – to our friends, to what little is left of our family, not to mention the cause."
Rémy buried his face in his hands, groaning in frustration before muttering an oath in his native French.
"Francesca… stop putting words in my mouth."
"Am I though? You look me in the eye and convince me that there isn't some part of you that hates how screwed up your baby sister is… how much of an inconvenience it is for you."
The uncharacteristic chill in her tone immediately silenced him.
He had never cared for his younger sister's uncanny ability to hit him where it hurt with little to no effort, but several lifetimes of experience had taught him to look beyond the surgical precision of her verbal lashings and see the root cause.
It would have been clear to any bystander that Francesca Chase was suffering.
But it went far beyond that and Rémy knew it.
The de Chaciers had always been a powerful family, warriors by nature; a long line of proud, intelligent, resilient men and women that never shrank in the face of opposition. Those attributes had been ingrained into the very fiber of Frankie's being, and for her trauma and the consequences that came with it to serve as a constant reminder of her actual fallibility… it was a torment of the bitterest kind.
This wasn't the first time she had been met with such a trial – Rémy understood that better than most.
Ordinarily, his sister would do as she always did: push through it until the ordeal had been overcome. But something about the events five years ago had broken her in some new way… and her reaction to Morene's commentary this evening had proven that. Her confidence had been shaken and she had been struggling to find her footing again ever since.
"I know you tire of having to watch after me," she continued, eyes now welling with angry tears. "Lord knows I'm tired of it as well. Carmen told me how focused you had been while I was gone, how methodical and resolute you had become with the alliance. You were never that way before. Is that why you wanted me to have this assignment? So I can get you what you need while staying out of the way so you can focus again? We've already established that me interviewing each blood-bound child of Dracula will – in your mind – just speed along the inevitable. That's what you want, isn't it? To have your powerful, prophecy-bound sister finally join forces with his majesty, our king, thus furthering the cause and you wouldn't feel obligated to look after me anymore."
Rémy never shrank from his sister's gaze as he endured her stoically delivered accusations and the layers upon layers of self-deprecation that came with them. But it was that final line that brought him to his feet, his abrupt rise from the sofa startling her just slightly.
"That isn't fair and you know it!"
"But there's truth in it."
"It is anything but true," he stated. She opened her mouth to object, but he continued before she could get a word in. "You know I would never sell you out like that. I would never let him within an inch of you without your consent first." Frankie bit her tongue hard as she met her brother's stare, too proud to back down entirely. "I'm sorry for not standing up for you tonight. You're right, I should have said something and should have come to your rescue."
She groaned.
"I don't need you to rescue me. What I need is your support, your understanding – there's a difference."
"But sometimes you need protecting."
"I can handle myself!"
"If that were true, I wouldn't be wearing this."
Rémy paused in his speech after pulling up the short sleeve of his shirt, revealing the tattoo of a raven on his upper arm close to the shoulder. The bird was jet black and fierce looking, with wings out-stretched and claws poised and ready for attack. The mark was barely four inches in length, but the sight of it brought to Frankie's mind the reason why the symbol was there in the first place.
That fucking prophecy.
Everything in her life seemed to circle back to that, and every time she was reminded of her fate, she was left feeling helpless and resentful. Frankie had always prided herself in her ability to make her own decisions – even at a young age when being the young daughter of a Duke meant being seen and not heard. She was a champion of free will and that prophecy went against everything she so vehemently believed in.
But as much as she adored her elder brother, Rémy had always been more like their father – pragmatic and obedient to a fault.
"I chose to wear this for a reason and that reason was you," he reminded her. "I know you hate the prophecy and everything associated with it, but whether you like it or not, you are destined for something greater. I recognize the burden you carry, and I swore to you then and I swear to you now – you do not have to endure it alone. No one ever asked you to."
He rolled his sleeve back down and then took his sister's hand in his, his general demeanor calming significantly.
"I am still here for you. Just as Derek wore the same mark with soberness, so do Danny and Lyra and Carmen… and myself. We are here to protect you, to guard you – not out of obligation, but because we believe in what you're destined to become, because we actually give a damn about you. Derek would not want you to continue suffering the way you have been. He would not want you to torture yourself over something that was completely out of your control."
Frankie's caustic expression cracked and at the sound of Derek's name she could no longer bear to look into her brother's eyes. Her gaze fell to the floor as he continued, taking her arms with both of his hands, his voice hushed and composed.
"I know you're having a difficult time."
"You couldn't possibly know," she whispered, voice wavering.
Rémy took her chin in his hand, lifting her gaze back to his.
"Look at me," he implored softly. "You are not alone in this. Do you hear me? What happened to Derek was an accident. He knew it, all of us know it, even if Morene refuses to let it go – with his final breath Derek offered you absolution. I think now the time has come to forgive yourself."
"I don't know how," she breathed, tears spilling down her cheeks, her lip barely quivering. "Cece was in the city because of me. She's dead because of me… and Derek... There's too much blood on my hands, Rémy. There's just too much. I'm drowning in it. I feel stained from the inside out and I can't get clean… I can't wash them off of me."
Rémy pulled her into his arms, hugging her fiercely for her sake as well as his own.
"It's not your fault," he insisted. "This is on Augustine. All of it is Augustine," and as she silently wept into his shoulder, he held her fast throughout. "It's time to let it go, Frankie. I can't have you living in the past with the dead… I need my sister here in the present with me," and his sincerity had her returning his tight embrace.
"I'm so sorry, Rémy. I'm so, so sorry."
"I know you are… and I forgive you. I forgave you a long time ago."
They remained thus for several long moments until the last of the tears had been shed and by the end of them, Frankie felt notably lighter – not wholly herself, but better than before. Rémy's hands rested on her shoulders as he searched her face.
"And can you forgive me for being so pig-headed lately?" he asked with a degree of mirth, though his apology was heartfelt. "I should not have left you to your own devices these last weeks like I did. I should have been there for you and I should have come to your defense tonight. I probably would have dumped holy water on Morene, too, if Carmen hadn't already beaten me to it," and they both chuckled at the thought. "I will concede that Morene has grown too outspoken lately. I will talk to her tomorrow evening and hopefully that will put an end to her black widow comments."
"I'd appreciate that," Frankie said with a nod and a heavy exhale.
"And can you do something for me?"
She nodded warily and watched as he left her for a moment to make his way into the kitchen. He returned to the living room with a blood donation bag from the fridge in hand. Rémy then held it out for her to take.
"I need you to eat. I get that it'll take a while for you to grow accustomed to feeding properly again, and though cloned blood isn't ideal, it's better than starving yourself."
The hesitation was already on her face before he even finished.
"Rémy, I don't think I…"
"Please, Frankie… if not for yourself, at least do it for me."
Frankie eyed the blood pack with noted apprehension, chest tightening and stomach already curling with nausea.
It was true – she was starving – yet, she feared the memories that would resurface the moment the liquid crimson touched her tongue. But Rémy was right. She needed to feed and if she was going to move on from the past and allow herself to heal, she'd need to start somewhere.
Mustering what courage she could, Frankie reached with trembling hand to take the plastic bag from her brother, mentally preparing herself for what she was about to do. Returning to her seat on the sofa, she removed the stopper from the short tube that connected to the bag and after a deep breath, she raised the end of the conduit to her mouth and squeezed the center of the pouch.
The eruption of metallic sweetness in her mouth was almost heavenly, the familiar euphoria that swept through her body like a delicious hum of serenity. But with the first swallow came a dark shadow of fear and revulsion as the anticipated memories flashed before her mind's eye –
A scene of carnage in a darkened square, the mutilated corpses of deceased vampires strewn about in an assortment of bones, blood, and ash. The anguish of watching her aunt's swift and unexpected execution had turned into an inconsolable rage as her dark passenger fed from her strong emotions and stole control. With another swallow came the memory of Derek – his gentle eyes, the familiar charming ruggedness of his features.
Those eyes.
They had looked at her with such devotion just nights ago, his lips and hands finally given the liberty to worship after years of waiting. He had been so gentle with her, so attentive, giving all and expecting nothing in return simply because he couldn't bear to see her in pain anymore.
But he hadn't been Tristan.
No, her body and soul had still been aching in mourning of that loss, but Derek – he had tried so dutifully, so lovingly to pick up her fragmented pieces.
She watched the memory with waking eyes as those same hands, those tender, calloused hands, raised up in submission, the fear in his gaze evident, but still he remained calm.
"It's okay," he had kept saying. "It's over… it's okay. They're gone."
And though she heard and understood the words, she couldn't let it go – that demonic rage, the insatiable thirst. She felt possessed, a prisoner in her own body, and while she had desperately struggled to calm the fury that had hijacked her brain, or at least to climb out from the hellish abyss to warn him to stay away, her will had been effectively muzzled.
With another swallow of blood, tears began to stream down Frankie's cheeks as more memories came flooding back.
She had Derek in her hands and as the familiar voices on the fringes of the square begged her to stop, she couldn't stop. When he had offered her his forgiveness, she had then proceeded to bite down viciously on his neck only to bleed him dry, devouring every last drop until his body desiccated before her eyes.
Frankie felt Rémy sit down beside her on the sofa as she relived the events of that terrible night. She dutifully continued to feed as her brother told her over and over again "It's not your fault", but the memories persisted – her return to sanity, the grief and the guilt that had left her vomiting and sobbing and screaming almost simultaneously.
It was like opening an old wound that had been left to the mercy of infection for too long.
The pain was excruciating, yet she endured, quiet and uncomplaining as she fed, even as the tears continued to silently stream down her cheeks. The taste of the blood had left her a little less nauseated than it had in the past, but the recollection of what had happened all those years ago had her trembling by the time she was done. As she forced herself to breathe deeply, Rémy remained by her side, rubbing her back as he whispered in constant reassurance,
"Ce ñ'est pas ta faute… It's not your fault."
Eventually, the rising sun of a new day began to break over the horizon, and as Frankie fell into an uneasy sleep on the sofa, Rémy Chase remained seated in the chair opposite. He watched over her throughout the daylight hours with unwavering diligence, silently pleading to whatever deity would listen that the burdens his sister presently carried would – through some miracle – be lifted. He wasn't sure he had it in him to watch her suffer like this anymore. Not when he couldn't save her.
Five days later and the flat was empty once again. Rémy had left hours ago to meet with another contact of Aldrick Meino, the mob-boss who owned the private club Scarlet in downtown east-side Budapest, leaving the entire apartment to Frankie.
She was standing in front of the mirror in her bedroom, staring at herself as a tranquil instrumental piece played softly in the background. It had been a good many years since she had worn this dress. It had been one of her favorites until it had become associated with the heartbreak that had brought her Aunt Cece to Budapest in the first place.
With all that had happened recently, this was the first time Frankie's thoughts had really turned to her ex, her last paramour. It must have been the dress, she thought numbly, studying her reflection as she recalled the last time she had donned this particular number. It must have been about three and a half months before the fateful night her aunt had been murdered. Though the city had continued to suffer under Augustine's administration, at the time Frankie had been head-over-heels in love with a werewolf.
Tristan was the elder brother of the presently widowed queen of the werewolves, Isabella – and oh, how torrid their affair had been.
Isabella, Tristan, and their younger sister, Vivian, were some of the last of the Vetus Lupus – a strain of lycans with two-to-three times the lifespan of a typical werewolf. When Frankie and Rémy had moved to Budapest during the war in 2080, the Vetus siblings were some of the first people they had met, and through a fast and easy friendship on Frankie's side with the wolves, they had created a strong alliance. It wasn't until a couple decades later that Frankie and Tristan surrendered to what had been years of steadily mounting sexual tension, and for seven years, they had enjoyed an intensely passionate relationship.
Queen Isabella had even harbored a not-so-secret expectation that perhaps the two would solidify their union through marriage, but with the revelation of the prophecy and Frankie's role in it, all hopes for the future had quickly derailed. Though the split had been mutual and Tristan insisted on maintaining their friendship, the break had been difficult for both of them. But it was when she received word that he had embraced his inherent role as alpha – which meant he was duty bound to breed with other female wolves in the pack – Frankie's fate had felt more sealed in that moment than it ever had before.
She would never get to have a say in who she spent the rest of her eternity with. She was fated to be with Dracula and there was nothing she could do about it. Tristan would not be with another man's mate – let alone Dracula's future bride – and so Frankie had been left to grapple with the weight of the inevitable alone once more. It had been her increasing sense of self-destruction that had brought Aunt Cece to Budapest to try to help the woman cope and heal as Rémy had all but given up, and just when Frankie had been on the mend, everything had fallen apart.
Frankie sat down on the edge of her bed for a moment, lifting a bit of the dress up to her nose so she could breathe it in. With her preternatural senses, she could still smell Tristan on the fabric. Surrendering to his memory, she briefly closed her eyes and inhaled more deeply, trying to catch what remained of him. As soon as the faded cologne met her senses, a wave of reminiscences washed over her mind. She could feel his warm hands on her body, his nose in her freshly curled hair, his hot breath on her neck. She breathed in deeper, desperate to hold onto the dream, but the scent was fading as her senses became more accustomed to the smell.
No, her heart protested as she clenched her eyes shut even tighter. Don't leave me… Her will was strong and so the memory remained.
She tried as hard as she could to strengthen it, utterly focused, not even the music breaking her concentration. Her persistence was rewarded.
Yes, she sighed in her head, the memory becoming stronger.
She willed herself to feel the weight of his body over hers, hips cradled between her legs, his warm palm sliding up her front, feeling every delectable curve as his lips played over the delicate skin of her throat. Her lips longed to feel the caress of his kisses once again, to taste him on her tongue, to feel his heat soaking into her skin and thawing her, filling her, but before the fantasy could get too far, her mobile phone rang, shattering the moment and her eyes snapped open.
When Frankie looked into the mirror again, she met her own gaze and finally noticed the silent tears that had been streaming down her cheeks. She wasn't even aware that she had been crying.
This state of utter loneliness was becoming unbearable and had it not been for her ringing phone pulling her back into reality, she would have become lost to it. Quickly wiping the tears from her face, Frankie grabbed her now silent mobile, noticing a text from her brother, inquiring if she had left yet. Glancing briefly at the clock on the counter by the sink, she sighed, realizing she didn't have time to change out of this dress. She was stuck in it for the time being.
I'm on my way out, she replied back before pressing "send" and then she grabbed a light jacket and a bag she had prepped earlier by the front door, and then she was gone. Outside of the apartment, she found a sleek black car waiting for her, obviously her brother's idea.
"Frankie! Pleasure seeing you again," the driver called out. She recognized him as one of the guys Danny had introduced her to a couple weeks ago.
"Lorenzo, right?"
He nodded pleasantly as she made her way quickly down the walk toward the car. He opened the back door for her.
"I apologize for keeping you waiting."
"No worries," he insisted cheerfully. "I haven't been waiting long."
"I still don't understand why he is so insistent on my not walking anywhere," she said mostly to herself as she climbed in.
"You know your brother better than any of us," Lorenzo said with a shrug. "He'd hear nothing of the sort."
Frankie relaxed as best she could in her seat. As the car carried her deep into the east side of Budapest, her anxiety began to increase a little. She started to rehearse all the questions she had planned on asking in her head after taking a mental inventory of the equipment she had in her bag. Thirty minutes later, the car stopped in front of a seedy looking night club – one of many in this area. Frankie glanced at the address on the card her brother had given her before checking her phone for the time.
"Are you going to be waiting for me out here or would you like me to call you when I'm finished?" she asked Lorenzo when he opened her door for her, helping her out.
"I'll be parked right over there," and he motioned a few yards down the street.
"Very well," and she proceeded towards the line at the club's entrance. It took a good twenty minutes before she arrived at the front where she was then asked for her name and some form of id. After giving the bouncer her info, he glanced at the list on his tablet.
"You're not on here," he explained. "Please step aside."
"But…" and she opened her mouth, prepared to protest, when a handsome looking man, appearing to be in his late twenties appeared at the entrance. He was dressed in a style that could only be described as expensively-casual, with dark-wash jeans, a neutral colored button-up shirt, and a pricey looking leather jacket that at closer glanced appeared hand-tailored. The newcomer had a head of dark blonde hair, pulled back into a barely-there ponytail, his face shadowed in light-brown scruff.
"Don't worry about her, comrade," he explained, placing his hand on the man's shoulder before slipping him a small wad of cash. The deep blue of his eyes then met hers, and with a friendly, charismatic smile he offered his hand to her. "She's here to see me."