Grant's Pass


Grant_icon.gif Gwen_icon.gif

Summary: Grant overhears something interesting, and Gwen has to deal with a stray tomcat.

Date It Happened: December 13, 2001

Log Title Grant's Pass

Club D'Oblique

It's evening, the sun is down, and in certain parts of Los Angeles, the rich, powerful, and famous come out to play. One such place is a bar called D'Oblique, which tends to attract the young and beautiful, often looking for partners to spend their evening with, or at least a briefly passionate twenty minutes. Dance music throbs over the heads of the beautiful people dancing, a few loiter at the bar, trying to make connections. Couples and schmoozers with their wingbuddies take up the tables, and there are yet a few singular persons at them as well. At one is a man who is just on the edge of being too old for this place, his Armani suit enough to make up for the fact that he's a little on the nebbish side and going slightly bald.

At another nearby is a second man, younger but just as finely dressed. The glass of brandy on the table in front of him is barely touched in the drinking sense, but the base of it is framed by the thumb and forefinger of one hand. He's watching the older gentleman with a mostly disinterested expression — curious about why he's there, and yet unable to bring himself to care much. Grant is, quite frankly, bored.
And in walks Gwen.

Pretty girls are a dime a dozen in Hollywood, so to say that Gwen's pretty isn't necessarily a means for so many heads to turn. But her clothes - a scarlet red crop top, black paints that look painted on, and a pair of opera length, silk black gloves, do add a little spice to the creature being presented. She strolls through the room, avoiding the dance floor and its opportunities for casual contact, and strides up to the table where the Balding Nebbish sits. He glares at her. "I thought I said 'discreet'."

"What?" she replies blithely, taking a seat at the table. "Do you see a nipple?"

Just when Grant was considering calling it a night, there appears someone else worth watching for at least a few minutes more. Ah, Hollywood. Gwen is given a once-over, and as if the package wasn't interesting enough, the fact that she walks over to Balding Nebbish's table and invokes an apparently nervous reaction further piques the cambion's curiosity. Grant turns his face toward the dance floor, but he's watching the proceedings at the other table intently from the corner of his eye.
"You're late." the man snaps.

"And you're screwing me." the woman counters. "The net price on what you wanted is maybe a tenth of what it's actually worth."

"It has no inherent value, it's a mystic object - "

"That's fun for a girl and a boy." she singsongs, interrupting him. "Blah, blah, polysyballic blah. If you want me to get it for you, there better be a lot more zeroes on the end of the chekc. I work on comission. Say it with me, big guy - cuh-mish-un. Otherwise the gloves are coming off. We don't want that, now do we?"

The man gulps audibly, and shoves a slim black folder resting on the table toward her. "Here's what you asked for."

Damn the music. It makes it impossible for Grant to really hear what they're saying. How to read lips is the next thing on his list of Things To Learn. In the meantime, he's doing admirably well in reading the situation based simply on the body language of those involved. As such, he picks up on the displeasure of Gwen about the money she's being paid, the argument, the fear of the Balding Nebbish after he's threatened, and the significance of the folder. Conclusion: the woman is a hired hand. Of course, he doesn't know the nature of the work, but Grant is amused nonetheless. The faintest upward twitch is detectable in the corner of his mouth for just one moment before he takes a sip of his brandy.

Gwen takes the folder, her hand seeming to briefly brush against the man's - it's hard to see exactly what took place. He flinches, though, and she laughs as she leans back and opens the folder. She nods. "This is what I need." she confirms and closes it up, tucking it under her arm. Lazily, she draws off a glove, rises, and reaches out like she's going to pat him on the shoulder. He rears back in his chair, horrified by the sight of her bare hand. She just laughs. "Like I said, a lot more zeroes." She turns and starts to saunter away when the man seems to realize something. "Gwen!" he calls out, half-angry, half terrified.

She turns around slowly. "Yes?" she purrs, tone sweet.

A hired hand who causes some kind of pain with a single touch. This is worth following. Grant lowers his brandy and places it on the table before reaching into his pocket to retrieve his wallet. He thumbs through the billfold unhurriedly before tossing a few bills onto the table. Just as he's about to rise, though, there's commotion and the woman stops. He casually turns his face toward the dance floor once again, keeping his eye on the action.
"You came to me very highly recommended for your, ah…for your talents. But I have to admit, I was expecting someone a bit more - professional."

Gwen's reply is cool. "I am a professional." She holds up his watch in her bare hand. "And we professionals don't like taking the bone."

The man looks rather perturbed. "Gwen, that is a twelve thousand dollar watch."

Her fingers close around it, and a crackle of blue-white energy surrounds her fist. Sadly, Grant's face is turned away, so he misses it. She tosses it onto the table. "Now it's surrealism." And with that, she turns, sliding her glove back on as she starts to make her way out of the club.

Grant spots movement from the corner of his eye again and glances toward Gwen. Finding that she is leaving, he pauses just long enough to give her an acceptable lead before he gets to his feet and follows. As he passes the Balding Nebbish, he casts a brief glance at the watch — or what was once a watch — on the table. Very curious. He does not veer from his course, however. Following Gwen is the top priority.

The watch has been melted, as if by an intense heat. The man is staring at it in dismay. Gwen ducks out the door, is heading down the street. Turns a corner.

And is tailed by Grant, who is not so intent on keeping his space once they're out the door. He speeds up his pace in an attempt to slowly catch up to the woman and, if he can manage, bump her as though by accident. It's an experiment, really: what sort of power has she got?

He may not be expecting it, when as he turns the corner her feels his arm being grabbed, whirled around, and slammed up against a building wall with her hand at his throat. Her fingers are very, very warm - almost feverishly so, and she is uncannily strong - vampiric level strong. Either she's just fed, or she's another sort of freak entirely. Holding him in place, she flashes Grant an irritated look. "Listen, sugar - I know I'm pretty, but believe me when I say I'm the last girl in LA you want to stalk. Why are you following me?"

Indeed, being grabbed and flung against a wall is rather unexpected, but Grant isn't intimidated. In fact, after the initial minor shock of having himself come into harsh contact with a solid object, the man is smirking. He's … delighted? Amused? This is certainly making for some entertainment. "Curiosity," he responds casually in a slight British accent. "I would appreciate it if you would unhand me now." He can feel the heat from that hand, but he is otherwise unaffected. Perhaps that's what her power is: generating heat from her hands.

"Killed the cat, and all that." she replies, having yet to do so. "I'd appreciate it if you went back to your drinks and starlet lap pets. I really don't have time for stray tomcats." With that she lets him go and steps back, arms folding in front of her. "Shoo." she makes a vague gesture to match the word.

But Grant does not 'shoo'. He adjusts his jacket with a tug on the lapels and takes a step away from the wall. That's much more comfortable. And then he proceeds to pat down his pockets discreetly — just in case. His eyes remain fixed on Gwen. "Of course, you were on your way to whatever job that man just hired you for," he remarks flatly. "Thief or assassin?"
What is it about stubborn men in Hollywood? Gwen refrains from rolling her eyes. "What're you, a cop?" she replies. "I wasn't kidding about the shoo part, you know. If you follow me, I'll make you sorry. So I'm going to start walking, and when I turn around, you're not going to be there."

"Just a curious observer." He smiles wider at the last. "Are you going to melt my watch too?" As though to test the theory, he unfastens the wrist band and holds up the timepiece invitingly. "Go on, I can always buy another. But you ought to be careful; you're not the only one who can heat things up." Though Grant's brand of heat is far, far different.
Gwen lets out a noise of disgust. "La La Land is full of scum like you." With that, she turns on her heel and starts to walk away, grumbling about how she didn't even have time to get a drink.

Grant replaces the watch on his wrist, still smiling. "Well, then, I won't offer to buy you a drink. Have a good evening, miss." And with that, he turns to head off on his own way, which no longer coincides with Gwen's course.

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