Blue Velvet
by: FrankieLouWho
Dislcaimer: I own nothing in relation to TWD. I wish.
Notes: Here is the second installment on my new AU. I hope you guys are prepared for some badass Daryl time. I know I liked it... All of the gun information I got from my Dad. He reads a lot, so I trusted his judgement. I haven't had time to really edit other than reading it a few times, so please excuse any mistakes as I was trying to get this out quicklly. Thank you for reading! Please review!
Chapter Two
Daryl Dixon watched the little blonde scurry off, ducking against the swirling snowflakes, and get into her car. She was a cute slip of a girl, too young for him... But he wasn't blind, and he wasn't in the habit of lying to himself. He smirked, pitching his cigarette, before rubbing his hands together and slipping back into the warmth of the bar. Flanery's was a classy place, the kind of place where guys wore blazers and women wore low-cut dresses to show of their expensive boob-jobs. Kind of place where a guy could forget where he came from, what he was, after so long. Shaking his head as he slipped off the heavy wool coat, Daryl knew he would never forget. He couldn't.
Carol had moved to the bar, and was sipping her typical glass of Merlot as she read through the applications. Glenn was leaning against the bar on his forearms, an eager expression on his face. Daryl slid into a stool, and Glenn was quick to pour him a whiskey-rocks, setting down a beverage napkin and then the heavy tumbler on top of it. Daryl took a sip, enjoying the fire that burned down his throat. He had always been a whiskey drinker - only liquor he could stand.
"You're seriously considering not chosing the last girl?" Glenn asked, sounding incredulous. "She was the best one out of all of them!"
"She's young," Carol replied, giving him one of her wry looks. "Just because she's cute doesn't mean she can handle the pressure of performing."
"Won't know 'til you give her a shot," Daryl said, gazing at Carol levelly. He knew the woman well - she'd grown up in their neighborhood, was a few years older than Daryl. Merle's age, he guessed, though he wasn't certain. She was very good at maintaining her cold, aloof demeanor, at keeping other's out. But he knew better; she was a softy. The reason she didn't want to pick the girl was obvious - at least, to him. Working at Flanery's was not for the weak of heart, or the loose of lip. There was a lot more to the bar than making drinks and carding kids at the door. Much, much more.
Carol arched an eyebrow at him, surprised, before smiling. "Well, well. An endorsement from Daryl Dixon? What'd she do, blow you in the parking lot?"
"I'm not that fast," Daryl retorted, making her chuckle. Glenn was watching the exchange, an expression of amusement and surprise on his face. These were his higher-up's. Hearing them chat so casually was probably like hearing his parents flirt. "Just give her a chance. Seems like a good kid. People can surprise you."
"Yes," Carol said, frowning at him. "They can, can't they?"
The worst part about winter was the cold, the fact that he couldn't ride his bike. Daryl settled for a sporty little Aston Martin, sleek and black and perfect. It was much nicer than any vehicle he expected to own, but the business was booming. That would be the business of killing people. Heading further downtown, to the offices of one Caesar Martinez, where his mark was waiting, the familar beat of an old song played on the radio. No matter how much anyone teased him, he would never give up listening to the hair-metal bands that he favored in his teen years. Poison blasted and he resisted the urge to head-bang. He didn't have enough time to deal with the crazy hair that would ensue.
Parking in the lot, he pulled open the glove-box and pulled out his Woodsman .22, twisted on the silencer, and slipped it into the shoulder holster he wore beneath his coat. It was awkward to wear the gun with the silencer attached, but he wouldn't have enough time to put it all together when he got into the office. Sighing, he glanced at the clock. It was nearly four PM - the perfect time to die.
The office was cheap, one belonging to an ambulance chaser whose moronic commericals played between hip-hop songs on 95.5, the local station. Martinez might have been a good person, might have had a wife and a family, kids. A dog. But these were thinks Daryl tried not to take into consideration when he did his job. Yes, he was a doorman, but that was a front - much like the bar itself. It was a cover to filter all the money through, so that their illegitimate dealings wouldn't be discovered by the feds. His real job description was assasin, hired killer - he was an angel of death, only less holy. Sighing, he studied the chipped painted words on the door that lead into the building. Without another thought, he pulled it open and stepped inside.
The things that Daryl did think about was Martinez's weaknesses. Liquor, drugs, prostitutes. All things that his boss had hands in. Martinez had managed to find them a big new buyer, someone that was taking their Columbian assets of their hands and for double the price they were expecting. He would have kept his life, if not for the fact that he was a greedy little worm. Threatening to run to the police, running his mouth about what assholes the Dixon clan was, and how he was going to switch his allegiance to someone that would appreciate him.
This was a very stupid thing to do. Daryl had to wonder how these people managed to go to college, get degrees, start businesses... How they managed to be so successful in the straight world. He wasn't the kind of man that was book smart - but Daryl knew how to keep himself alive, and he wasn't doing so bad money-wise, either.
"Hello," the receptionist said, glancing up from her phone for an instant before looking back to her phone. People and their devices. Daryl wanted to roll his eyes at her disrespect, but instead asked to see Mr. Martinez. She lazily pressed a finger to the intercom, telling him that he had a client.
"Who is it?" Martinez's voice barked through the speaker.
"Dunno." She leaned over, peering through the glass door, and said, "Driving an Aston Martin."
"Yes, send him right in." Daryl scoffed, shaking his head, but the young woman gave a jerk of her head towards the narrow, wood-panneled hallway, and he took the direction. Surely, Caesar Martinez was thinking of his bank account, eager to pad it. The holidays were only a few weeks away. Boots shuffling over the tacky orange carpet - this office was in a sore need of remodel - Daryl found his way to the office. He entered, shutting the door behind him quietly. His eyes found the tall, Mexican man who grinned at him behind a big wooden desk. Daryl nodded.
"Caesar Martinez. Take a seat. What can I do for you?" He spread his hands over the desk top. A family photo gazed at Daryl, and he took a few steps forward before placing the picture face down. Quickly, ignoring the confused look on the man's face, he grabbed the man's shoulder and retrieved his pistol from the holster. Silencer pressed against the crown of his thinning dark hair, Daryl took a breath.
"This could have been avoided," he said in a deadly quiet voice.
"What are you - you can't do this -"
"Should have thought of that before you started messing with mobsters," Daryl said, letting irritation seep into his tone. "If you would have kept your mouth shut, if you wouldn't have been greedy, this whole thing could have ended a lot differently."
"My wife - my kids," Martinez said. "Please, please don't do this." His breathing hitched - the poor son of a bitch was crying. Shaking his head, Daryl pulled the trigger. Nice thing about the .22 was that it wasn't messy. Didn't exit. Just bounced around inside, tearing everything up. Retrieving a handkerchief, he wiped the gun clean and slipped it back into it's holster. He exited the building, the receptionist not bothering to look up. When the cops came, she probably wouldn't even remember his face.
Sometimes, technology was his friend.
"Hey there," Beth said, brightening as two of her favorite customers bustled into the restaurant. It was early on a Sunday morning, two days after her audition at Flanery's, and she had yet to hear anything. If they wanted to keep her on her toes, they were certainly doing a good job. But all thoughts of the bar were pushed out of her mind as Rick and Carl slid onto their stools at the counter. Every Sunday morning, after Rick's wife made awful, barely edible pancakes, the two would make their way to the diner for some real food. Beth thought it was sweet, them keeping this little secret and pretending to love her food no matter what. Some day, she hoped to have men as sweet as them in her life. Though her cooking would be undoubtably better.
"Mornin' Beth," Carl said, giving her a big grin. He seemed to grow an inch every week, and she was amazed when his voice started to drop, losing it's high, young quality. Rick was dressed down, wearing jeans and his jacket, his dark graying hair cut neat. The first few times Beth met the man, he was dressed up in his policeman blues, looking sharp. She had swooned and blushed at every smile he gave her, but that had passed. Especially when he brought Lori in, and Beth realized she couldn't hold a candle to the brunette.
"Carl," she said in reply. "You guys want your usual?"
"Extra bacon," Rick agreed, and she set to putting their order in and getting their drinks around. She was mixing Carl's chocolate milk when she felt her phone vibrate in the pocket of her apron. Nieko had yet to make an appearance, and Sergei wasn't going to rat her out for taking the call. Flipping open her phone, the number unknown, she pressed it to her ear and said, "Hello?"
"Hi, is this Beth?" the voice was polite but deep and somewhat familiar.
"Yes," she said, stirring the chocolate syrup into the milk.
"This is Glenn - um, the bartender from Flanery's?"
"Hi!" she said again, this time much brighter.
"Hi. Uh, sorry it's so early, but Carol wanted me to call and tell you that if you want the job, it's yours."
Beth didn't have the forethought to cover the mouthpiece of the phone before she shrieked in delight. Full on jumping up and down, high-pitched squeals. Sergei peeked from around the grill, half-grinning at her. She was so excited, she could have kissed the almost-toothless man.
"Thank you," she gushed, breathless. "Seriously, it means so much!"
Glenn chuckled. "It's cool. Kind of expected that kind of reaction. Listen, you need to come in either tonight or Monday - go over your set list, rehearse with our pianist, costuming stuff. At least, that's what Carol suggested. If I were you, I'd get here sooner, rather than later. They really prefer punctuality."
"Noted. Well, I'm at work, so I should let you go..." She trailed off.
"All right. See you soon, blondie."
"Thanks, Glenn." She hung up and flipped her phone shut, pocketing again, before putting the glass of chocolate milk on a tray with the coffee and creamer for Rick. She was glowing, cheeks flushed pink and eyes glittering with excitement, when she returned to the counter.
"Was that you screaming back there?" Carl asked, giving her teasing look.
"Yes, actually," Beth replied, setting his drink down. "I auditioned for a singing gig and I got it!" The giggle that bubbled out of her chest was completely involuntary, and she knew she was acting silly.
"Congratulations," Rick said, stirring creamer into his coffee. "Where at? I'll have to come see you."
"This place called Flanery's," she replied. She didn't miss the way Rick's face dropped, paled slightly. "It's really nice, actually - I wasn't sure from the outside, it looks kind of old. But it was really fancy inside. Everyone was pretty cool, too." She tucked an errant lock of blonde behind her ear, wishing she could decipher the expression on the police officer's face. He cast an anxious look at Carl, who was watching Beth with unrestrained cheer, before flicking his blue gaze back to her.
"That place can be sort of... Dangerous," Rick said, and the serious tone and expression sobered Beth's joy by volumes. "Lot of untrustworthy people go there, work there. I wouldn't want you to get mixed up into any trouble, Beth."
The image of herself in handcuffs flashed in her mind, and Beth laughed. She shook her head. "You don't have to worry about me, officer," she said, giving him a flippant grin. "I've managed to stay out of trouble for twenty-one years. I'm not gonna start lookin' for it now." She batted her eyelashes, getting a smile out of him, before turning back into the kitchen to grab their order.
Briefly, she thought about what Rick said. She didn't get any bad feelings about the place - yeah, it was kind of nondescrip on the outside, blended into the scenery... But that only added to it's charm. It wasn't pretentious, like some of the outlandish clubs that opened up. It wasn't trying to be more than what it was. However, he was a cop - he would know better than her if something was 'dangerous.' Shaking the worries off, she grabbed their plates and arranged them on her arms, balancing. She'd be careful, that's all. It was exactly as she told Rick - the last thing she would do was search out any illicit activity.
"Scrambled eggs, toast, bacon and sausage," she said, setting the warm plate in front of Carl. "Steak and eggs, over easy." Rick gave her an obliging smile. "Get ya anythin' else?"
"I think we're good," Rick said, holding her gaze a beat longer than was necessary. Pasting on a smile, she nodded, and disappeared to check on her other tables. Throwing herself into work, she quickly forgot about Rick's warning. The day flew by, and it was only six o'clock when she finally clocked out. Enough time to get home and change into something nice, do her hair and makeup. Unbidden, the image of Daryl the Doorman popped into her head. Smiling, Beth headed into the blustery Michigan cold.