It had been a week since Nick had seen the true shipment of Wolfsheim's and a week since Gatsby and himself had had a proper conversation. Nick was on the couch, rubbing his temples after coming back from a very grueling interview with a shop owner down the street. He had mentioned to Gatsby that they needed work, and he wasn't going to be involved with illegal activates forever. Of course, Gatsby had agreed and commented that he wasn't planning on it either before they both had gone silent. They'd taken to cleaning the apartment themselves instead of the maids since Catherine would sometimes drop of cases of 'something' to deliver- those Gatsby took the liberty of taking to their proper location. The elder picked up a leather back notebook, frowning slightly knowing it certainly wasn't his. He opened it, on the other side of the room from Nick. "Is this yours?" Gatsby asked in awe, reading over some of the papers. Nick opened one of his eyes, doing a double-take. "Yes, why are you-" Gatsby waved him off, "I was just tidying up the room when I noticed it. I wasn't trying to get in your business." He turned a page, "You're a phenomenal writer."
Nick shrugged one shoulder, deciding that perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if he looked. They were simply college essays and articles of things he'd recently thought about. Nothing more. Most were hand written and hard to read, though Gatsby seemed to pay no attention to it. Then again, Gatsby seemed to read whatever he got his hands on- including the back of the menus were few looked at restaurants to see the history of the establishment. He continued and frowned at something, "What's this about Jordan?" Nick sat up, immediately realizing what he had been writing and getting up to take the notebook away from him. "It's nothing. She's already made her statement about what's to happen between her and I. Writing brings me solace sometimes." Gatsby frowned, "Out of respect, I won't ask. But I do have to mention why you aren't a writer as a permanent position." Nick turned to him, eyes narrowing, "What do you mean?"
Gatsby made a face gesturing to the air like the sentence would appear there, "Exactly what I said! Why not become a writer instead of getting headaches to work in stores that you had an education to own not to work in." Nick looked at the leather book in his hands still and sat down, "What would I write about?" Gatsby smiled coming to sit in front of him, his smile became a grin, "Write about us." There was a short laugh, "And why would I do that?"
Gatsby hadn't lost the luster in his eyes, "You said that writing brought you solace." Nick seemed to begin to smile and shake his head at how Gatsby looked at him with such reverence that he nearly turned his gaze, "It didn't bring anyone else much solace... I wasn't any good in my opinion." Gatsby shook his head, "That's just it! You are wonderful!" He pointed at him, "If you're here working then I highly doubt that you will ever need to do an illegal thing again. You'll be too busy and Wolfsheim likes work ethic, my friend." He patted him on the knee before offering him a pen out of his inside jacket pocket, "And if you don't like it. No one need ever read it. You can always burn it." Nick carefully took the pen from him, considering the challenge that Gatsby had unwarily issued to him, "Alright. I'll do it."
xXxxXx
Dice bounced their way down the roulette table while Tom Buchannan whooped his excitement. They landed on snake eyes and he grinned, "Oh yeah! Come to papa!" He laughed as the men patted his back and women hung off his arm. He held the dice to one lady's blood red lips, "Blow, doll. You're giving me a lucky streak." She formed her lips in a perfect 'o' before blowing on the dice and they flew down the table once again to win him more money. Daisy sat not too far away, make-up caked on her face as she spoke softly for gin at the bar. She didn't look at her husband, examining her nails as she heard him cat call as a flapper walking by in her short black dress. They were more risqué here than they ever were in Chicago and New York- though that didn't seem to bother her anymore. It bothered her that the nanny was with her daughter while she sat her alone at a bar wondering if things would ever change. He didn't even try to hide it anymore since her affair with Gatsby.
Her eyes shut and she leaned her face on her hand, eyes lowered as the ice clanked quietly compared to the slow jazz music not too far away. The nearly clear liquid bubbled slightly. Alcohol wasn't illegal in the wonderful state of Nevada, especially in Las Vegas. This was their first stop in a total of three on their vacation. Next was Los Angeles then San Francisco, possibly Washington to see their president's faces. It would be educational for Pammy- or at least that was Daisy's argument. They weren't finished with it by no means, but Mount Rushmore would be something that she could say she had been to that didn't seem so… Her gaze looked toward her husband again before handing the bartender the tab and getting up. "If my husband takes a break for a drink, please tell him I've returned to our room." The man nodded, "Yes ma'am." Before going to fill another patron's drink. She walked to the elevator and went to near the top floor where their room was facing the other casinos. Pamela was hugging her the moment she opened the door, "Momma, momma- come look what I made!" She dragged her mother into her little room where the nanny sat with paint and smiling down at Pamela's little desk to see her artwork.
Daisy came closer, "Oh my angel that's wonderful." She whispered looking down at the painting of her and her mother which was quite good for her age. Daisy brushed her daughter's hair with her hand, "I love it. May I keep it, darling?" Pammy nodded, a smile blooming on her face and she sat in her lap. Daisy asked if the nanny would retire for the night and she nodded, leaving her with her daughter. Eventually they moved to the bed and Daisy was in the middle of the bedtime story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears when Tom banged his way into the apartment.
Daisy sighed, "I'll finish it later, my love." Closing the book with one hand, she laid it on the bedside table before turning off the light and kissing her on the forehead. "Goodnight." With that, she shut the door and went out to see him. He was holding himself up on the kitchen counter, red in the face from the alcohol. "Where is he?!" Tom snarled at her almost immediately on her way to her own bedroom. Her eyes found him and she muttered, "Where is who?" His fist hit the marble. "You know damn well who! Where is Gatsby!" There was a pause before Daisy whispered, "You're drunk. He isn't here." Tom pushed past her, checking the rooms except for Pamela's and he nodded, "Out the window then?!" He roared and went to it, wrenching it open and standing on the edge. "Did you push him out the window now he could escape me?!" He asked her and Daisy let tears fall asking him to get down before he fell. He refused and then came down moments later, "If I find him-" She took a deep breath and met her blue gaze to his brown. "You'll kill him. I know." Tom nodded to her, meeting his wet lips to hers. She could still taste the liquor on him. "You're my girl. Understand? You're my wife." Daisy nodded, looking away from his eyes to the door, "I'm your girl. I'm your wife. Not… not his."