Post by Torrid on Jan 23, 2016 21:04:05 GMT -5
Torrid had lied to that woman, actually. He'd already been to Costa Rica-- nice climate, lots of drug lords. Not good for tourism-- but liked having the get-away reason in case she wanted it to be a recurring thing. Hey, don't judge him. They'd met at a bar a few blocks away, and he retraced his steps on a growing suspicion. The bar was nothing but the regular sad old drunks at this hour. "Excuse me," he approached the bartender. She looked like she remembered him and perked up a little. "I was hoping you could just answer a quick question for me. Did you see a guy come in here last night? Green eyes, short blond hair? Dressed like a lesbian who's gone camping? He was probably drinking whiskey."
The bartender wracked her brain. "Mm... yeah, actually. He'd been here the better part of four hours. Sat right over there." She indicated a seclusive corner booth. It was exactly behind where Torrid remembered sitting the night before.
"Do you recall when he left?" he asked politely.
Again, she thought to make sure she was accurate. "About the time you left with that dark-haired lady, come to think of it." There was someone calling her from the kitchen area. "Excuse me." He smiled and waited until she was out of view to head over to that booth. Sure, that description is fairly vague, so there's only one way to be certain. He slipped into the booth and, among the scotch and testosterone of bar booth in general is the strongest scent:
Dean's.
Dean hung up the phone on her, and she smiled. She nimbly flipped the device shut, reclining into her furs. Her agile fingers trailed through the thick pelt of her companion, who whined in submission. He had grown old, and soon his soul would be given over to her as many others before him. Her pack had grown thin in recent decades, but she made sure to pick up one or two new recruits every now and again. Now that she had the hunters chasing the hellhound, she could let them eliminate each other and continue to strengthen her pack.
This is just fucking ridiculous, Torrid stewed. He's a nice guy. He's put up with a lot of shit, and even been understanding of it all. You suffered some serious tragedies recently? Okay, I'll take a little prejudice and unnecessary threats. He'll even overlook the fact that Dean was perfectly cool with leaving him to die even when he stuck his neck out for the poor bastard. But it wasn't just that. It's everything. It's being thrust in this weird world, not having any kind of purpose. It's always having to hide himself or take rejection, and knowing that the only person to blame for his situation is himself. And the one person who gives him any hope of reuniting with his family is not only pointlessly, irrationally belligerent towards him, but has actually stalked him to this shitty town, watched him find a date, followed them, and stole his fucking phone from her apartment just to try and intimidate him?
It all just hit him at once. And Dean is the only outlet that Torrid has. He disappeared out of there and got to tracking that stupid son of a bitch down.
The bartender wracked her brain. "Mm... yeah, actually. He'd been here the better part of four hours. Sat right over there." She indicated a seclusive corner booth. It was exactly behind where Torrid remembered sitting the night before.
"Do you recall when he left?" he asked politely.
Again, she thought to make sure she was accurate. "About the time you left with that dark-haired lady, come to think of it." There was someone calling her from the kitchen area. "Excuse me." He smiled and waited until she was out of view to head over to that booth. Sure, that description is fairly vague, so there's only one way to be certain. He slipped into the booth and, among the scotch and testosterone of bar booth in general is the strongest scent:
Dean's.
Dean hung up the phone on her, and she smiled. She nimbly flipped the device shut, reclining into her furs. Her agile fingers trailed through the thick pelt of her companion, who whined in submission. He had grown old, and soon his soul would be given over to her as many others before him. Her pack had grown thin in recent decades, but she made sure to pick up one or two new recruits every now and again. Now that she had the hunters chasing the hellhound, she could let them eliminate each other and continue to strengthen her pack.
This is just fucking ridiculous, Torrid stewed. He's a nice guy. He's put up with a lot of shit, and even been understanding of it all. You suffered some serious tragedies recently? Okay, I'll take a little prejudice and unnecessary threats. He'll even overlook the fact that Dean was perfectly cool with leaving him to die even when he stuck his neck out for the poor bastard. But it wasn't just that. It's everything. It's being thrust in this weird world, not having any kind of purpose. It's always having to hide himself or take rejection, and knowing that the only person to blame for his situation is himself. And the one person who gives him any hope of reuniting with his family is not only pointlessly, irrationally belligerent towards him, but has actually stalked him to this shitty town, watched him find a date, followed them, and stole his fucking phone from her apartment just to try and intimidate him?
It all just hit him at once. And Dean is the only outlet that Torrid has. He disappeared out of there and got to tracking that stupid son of a bitch down.
