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Post by Shadi on Feb 11, 2009 17:13:05 GMT -5
It wasn't, exactly, that she was looking for trouble. More that, half-full (or empty) of some combination of gin and vodka and whatever she could find, Shadi was wandering the streets without any regard for trouble, and with the potential for welcoming it. A street fight, perhaps, could be disastrous; her reflexes dulled, she might well lose. She might well bleed out in the gutter, her paltry pocketbook pilfered, and she giggled in spite of herself at the drunken alliteration. She might just collapse, and get run over by a carriage. A dog might loose itself from its fighting ring and attack her.
What she found instead was Valmont, which was a death of another kind, and rather slow. Still, she thought. Better than nothing.
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Post by Valmont on Feb 11, 2009 17:14:22 GMT -5
"Well, well," he said, that same smug smile on his face as he peered down at her. "The little baggage herself. Are you really fooling anyone with that get-up? Or is Paris just overjoyed to see a well-formed backside where it can get it?"
She'd really run Rochester ragged, he thought. And for what? A drunk, scrawny, trashy little thing. Granted, she looked like a goer. A regular wildcat; he wasn't about to discount that. But honestly. Some standards had to be kept up.
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Post by Shadi on Feb 11, 2009 17:17:19 GMT -5
She glared up at him, hating him, and hating the sensation in her gut that answered the lewd twinkle in his eye. Rochester, the best man she'd ever known, was dead, and this snake was alive. Alive and mocking her, mocking Rochester, mocking life itself and love and everything good. She straightened, composing her features and smoothing back her hair under her cap.
"It's no business of yours," she spat.
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Post by Valmont on Feb 11, 2009 17:20:36 GMT -5
"Oh, but I'm afraid it is," he said smoothly. "Every fine young thing is my business, and my friends are my business, and you, my dear, are one of the former and hurt one of the latter very, very badly."
Of course, with Valmont, the term "friend" was rather loose. She looked pathetic, almost as pathetic as Rochester, and he couldn't imagine why. She'd left him, after all.
"Upset because you can't go crying back to him?" he said. He was surprised at the vehemence in those green eyes, the hand twitching as if torn between a ladylike slap and the knife he was sure she kept in her boot like a common ruffian. He was even more surprised when, in answer to his "You could come home with me, if you aren't going to cry," she merely said,
"Yes."
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