Cheap
Disclamation: I don't own anything that belongs to someone else. I did own the word
Disclamation, but then I found out that it is, in fact, a real word.
A/N: I wrote this while listening to The Last High and Tears from the Moon, both from the movie tomb raider: the cradle of life. That should explain why she is all "take the offer." You'd be amazed at my self-control. I didn't have her say, "Then I shall have to force you." It's a terrible movie, but I love Gerry. These are sad songs…the latter at least. Another note: this is mostly 2004 movie phantom, with a few extras. Last thing before the story—while I'm not incredibly proud of this story, as oppose to God on High for example, I've gotten three chapters so far today. Even if one is a prologue. Oh yeah, one thing more. Joliet is pronounced like Juliet. I know that's not how it really is. Just use your goddamned imagination. Sorry for that. It's late for me.
Joliet Destier stood straight and walked into another inn, stopping at the stocky bartender. "Monsieur, have two gentlemen entered by final names of Andre and Firmin entered?"
The man laughed. "Sweetheart, I don't know these bloody drunks' names unless they're shouted out by their friends."
She smiled. She hadn't liked how he'd called her sweetheart, but she didn't let it show. The daughter of a French merchant and American actress, she took after her mother in everything but face and looks. Even her accent had a hint of its origin from across the sea.
The man sighed, running his fingers through his wild hair. "Is it that important, sweetheart? A room full of roaring drunk—what did you call them? Gentlemen?—is not the nicest thing to see. Not for one like you."
Joliet forced uncertainty onto her blandly pretty face. The bartender sighed again. "I'm only helping you because you remind me of my daughter. Is he your husband sweetheart?"
Joliet made herself look slightly shy and abashed. "It's just an engagement. With the latter, of course. The former is my uncle."
He rolled his eyes slightly. "You'd better come all the way in then. Don't say I didn't warn you."
"Of course Monsieur," she told him reassuringly.
"After you sweetheart," he said holding the door for her. She wished he'd stop calling her that. Was it what he called his daughter?
Joliet entered and looked around, eyes setting on her targets. She couldn't count on two hands the number of inns and bars she had checked for them. She got lucky; they were, as the bartender had so beautifully put it, roaring drunk. "Messieurs," she began and they looked up. "The Opera Populaire—I believe you were its owners?"
The bartender was, mercifully, busy elsewhere. That was good. She had lied to him, and was about to expose herself. "That is my partner and I." His voice was surprisingly sober-sounding. He moved to stand up and fell over, arm around Joliet's waist. She gritted her teeth and disentangled herself.
"Messieurs, I have an offer—I'll take it off your hands."
"How much will you give?" With their overgrown beards and dirty clothing, they were unrecognizable as their former well-to-do selves. She thought the one who was sober-sounding and able to talk was Firmin.
She said nothing, only handed the man a wad of bills. "I've a better idea," he said, arm around her slender waist again. It took all her self-control and all of her skill as an actor to not scream or fight. She used all her will not to panic in this terrible déjà vu moment. "Take the money Firmin. Buy yourself a drink. Buy your friend a drink. Give me the rights. Just hand over the papers."
"He's Firmin." The man, apparently Andre, pointed at the man to his left, the one unable to talk.
"Terribly sorry. Just take the offer."
"No."
"You won't get better, if you ever get one aside from this."
"No."
"Take the offer Andre. It's very good." Maybe the man wasn't as drunk as she'd thought. Then she looked at him, and realized he was just playing. "All right. I'll leave."
"No, wait. I'll take it." He tossed her a bag.
Joliet smiled and walked out of the stinking room. Opening the bag, she found the papers she needed. It was a good bag; it was worth a lot of money. Almost enough to be worth more than the small amount she had paid him. He hadn't counted the money; it was his fault. The bartender exited the room as well.
"Did you find what you needed sweetheart?" he asked.
Her smile wasn't faked. She emptied the bag into her own. "Give this back to the two men I was talking with."
"Congratulations on your wedding sweetheart." He winked as though he had made an incredibly observant comment.
She smiled. "You'd think it would clean out my pockets. It's going to be beautiful, yet it's still incredibly…cheap." It was her favorite American term. If he noticed the language change, he said nothing.
"Goodbye sweetheart, thanks for stopping by."
She handed him a few bills. "Thank you monsieur."
