Going Out Tonight (Closed for OneBadMomma and myself)

[ashlynn_rae]

Harley Amos, 24

Harley took a sip of her drink as she surveyed the busy bar. She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear and allowed her eyes to scan the crowd, bored and annoyed that she had spent so much time making herself look good for nothing. This night was turning out to be quite a letdown and Harley had already mentally prepared herself to go home alone...again. She had been quite unimpressed with the variety of guys that had already approached her to buy her drinks. She had turned each of them down...none had been quite her type.

She, however, was Harley's type. Harley adjusted the neck of her red top and watched the girl step into the bar alone. She seated herself a few seats down from Harley. On her end, Harley could already feel a sort of electric buzz and she was sure it wasn't from the meager amount of alcohol she had consumed.

"Amy," Harley called to the bartender, flagging the woman down before she got a chance to serve the gorgeous newcomer. "Get her whatever she wants. On me." Harley handed a couple of bills to Amy, who grinned knowingly.

"On you, huh? Sure thing," she replied with a wink before going back over to talk to the girl.

Harley waited until the girl had her drink and had the chance to settle in and survey the bar. She didn't want to crowd the girl or scare her away like the usual group of horny guys. Finally she stood up, adjusting the waistband of her tight jeans and pushing her hair over her tanned shoulder. She sat next to the girl and smiled at her. "Hey," she said, cocking her head to the side and allowing her eyes to roam unabashedly over the girl's pretty face. "Congratulations for making it all the way from the door to the bar without being attacked by the vultures." Harley nodded toward the usual crowd, a group of guys all popped collars and spiked hair.

 

[OneBadMomma]

Tipper MacFayden, 21

The bar was the last place in town to do something late at night. She'd been fighting insomnia most of her life, and the only true remedy had been to get busy until her melatonin levels broke through. At first, it began with long walks around the block and the occasional drive out of the city limits. Later, after she started attending university, it became homework and the double-checking of homework and then triple-checking.

She also attempted to explore her culinary side, but she hadn't yet found the right place to pick up ingredients that could be found in her homeland; it was true, she was homesick, and travelling to the states to go to school had taken its toll on the poor girl, the only solution to this problem being recipes that her parents had sent along with her. She missed the food her mother and father used to make her. Now, here she was, an ocean and a half away from the northern Scottish frontier where she'd been birthed, having been given the opportunity to tackle the civilized world through education. Of course, when culinary nostalgia failed to satisfy her late at night, she found that there was a severe lack of things to do at night in the town she'd come to.

Between gas stations and porn shops, she hadn't become aware of any places of interest that were open 24 hours a day besides her flat. She wasn't about to go pick up a candy bar late at night and follow it up with a porno; she liked to think that she had more class than that, but she had also been described as very plain and unadventurous. Her lack of social courage was a header to the amount of phobias she had acquired over her short lifespan, including fear of spiders, unclean food service establishments, germs in general, fire, and all manner of potentially threatening situations and objects. All her life, she had dreamed of settling down immediately following school and becoming some sort of stay-at-home mother; this was mitigated by an exchange program that allowed her to come to the United States for further education in the field of machining. That was always something she was good at: working with her hands, whether in the barn with pop or in the kitchen with mum, there was always work to be done and Tipper was on the job.

One of her friends had told her that there was a club that had opened nearby, just within walking distance of her apartment. Late one night, staring at an essay that had just written itself in two hours, and with no prospect of the sun returning to the sky any time soon, she decided she was in need of a drink. Surely, they had drinks, and if not, she decided she was gonna leave immediately. Just one drink, and then we'd see about getting to bed.

It was dark and loud, like a thunder storm. Though she loved thunder storms, she was immediately unimpressed with the atmosphere of the place, the zipping lights and the grooving flesh seeking a physical extreme to satisfy something mentally. It made no sense to her; what did make sense was the large group of people huddled around the bar, fighting for drinks. She was most definitely talked to by guys at some point in her march to the magical drink person, though she couldn't exactly tell based on the fact that the decibel level felt as high as her IQ. She became worried, however, as she arrived to the bar at the mere fact that things seemed to clear out almost immediately upon her arrival. It was more than likely the change in song, requiring the denizens of dancers and impending drunks to fulfill themselves closer to the speakers.

The bartender, a nice-looking lady, leaned to her and asked what she was having. Tipper knew her accent was thick, and she was having trouble adopting an American accent, and thus, her speech made her quite self-conscious. Not many people DID understand her even in peace and quiet; her counselors and teachers at school sometimes even required her to write down what she was trying to pass across because of her thick, northern Scottish dialect. Despite this, she attempted to order anyway.

"Ah, ye has a logger like, eh, Guinness arr maybhe a Warshteinah?"

More than likely, the lady heard Guinness and went to get it, coming back with a nice, tall pint of it. As Tipper slid the money toward the bartender, she waved her hand to deny it.

"It's paid for, sweetie, courtesy of my friend down the row."

She pointed to another girl at the end of the bar, sitting in peace as she sneakily eyed Tipper. Tipper smiled and thanked the bartender, downing the alcohol immediately after. It surely didn't taste like the stuff back home, but it had flavor, and if they served food, she'd be willing to buy earplugs and come back again for a midnight snack.

Soon enough, the girl slid over to her and began making conversation. God, the yanks were so aggressive. It wasn't the first time Tipper had been hit on by a woman, but this one was just like all the other Americans: confident, self-entitled, and under attack. But still, she was cute, and although Tipper didn't exactly associate herself as a lesbian or a bisexual, decided to talk back anyway.

"Ah dunnoo, 'vulltyurr' shorr issa dynamic werd, ah? Eh meen, wotsa stop da lyks off annywun frum persuin watevur dey wantin now? Dossat maik mee a vulltur fer wantin a pint?" She took another sip, not sure if she was being rude or conversational. "Ah dunno, ah juss tank pepl arr gonn do wat dey wann, an iss jus hyuman naytyure, ah supposen. Buh tanks fer da 'gradulashuns an da drank anyhoo."​

 

[ashlynn_rae]

Oh, my dear sweet Jesus, Harley thought upon hearing the blonde speak. The sound of her thick accent put butterflies in her stomach in a way she hadn't felt in a long, long time. Harley supposed it was very American to be so fascinated and attracted to the accent, but she couldn't help it. Especially when it was a Scottish accent. Harley had actually spent her final semester in school abroad, studying literature in Scotland; her advisor had been one of the most attractive (and fun, both in bed and out of it) women Harley had ever met.

This evening was certainly shaping up, after all.

"Well," Harley said, regaining her composure, "I suppose 'vultures' is a bit harsh." Harley looked at the woman, cocking her head to the side and flashing her a smile. The girl had a slightly surprised look on her face and Harley silently thanked God for her semester in Scotland, allowing her to understand everything the other girl said. "When you put it like that...I know I always go after what I want." She pushed her dark hair out of her eyes, searching the girl's face. The girl wasn't as obviously flirting with Harley as Harley was with her, but she didn't seem totally disinterested either.

"I'm Harley, by the way," she said. She wondered what the girl was doing at the small-town bar. It didn't seem to really be her scene...she seemed put off by the blaring music and throbbing crowd that was only getting larger by the minute. And, Harley supposed, she could understand why. The atmosphere of this place was nothing like the pubs she had visited while in Scotland. Still, she couldn't help but wonder, though she resisted the urge to ask the old what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?

She motioned to Amy, acquiring another beer for the girl next to her and another whiskey sour for herself, paying for both of the drinks before the blonde had a chance to reach for her money. Harley took a sip of her drink and glanced at the girl out of the corner of her eye while she was occupied with her beer.

"You don't look like you're enjoying yourself much. What brings you out here?" Harley finally asked.

 

[OneBadMomma]

"Herlayh," She said the girl's name so she would remember it. She DID have a feeling that she wouldn't soon have a reason to forget. "Ahm Tipparr." The hand she shook was warm and small, but the muscles contracted and bent around the bone like she'd worked with them quite a bit. They weren't clammy, they weren't awkward, and they weren't overly meaty, but the touch DID make Tipper feel much calmer as she sat there trying to feel less awkward about her presence altogether. It wasn't the first place in the world she'd want to be, but it was better than nothing, especially with a possible lesbian giving her attention.

Before she knew it, there was another beer in front of her. Now it was real. Not only did she understand the hard northern Scotch dialect, but the girl was trying to get her drunk and pick her up, or at least, that's what Tipper was afraid of; most Americans loved the accent, whether or not they understood what she was spitting out, but she knew immediately the girl was turned onto the local color of her voice. There might've even been a part of Tipper that WANTED this flirtatious meeting and the places it was leading. She sure didn't think this would have happened as soon as it had, but now it was, and she was willing to see what would become of it.

"Weh, ah dunn slep wayl annymoor, an ah cerdanleh dunn intennah leeh arrunn cuntin shep, so ah comm herr hopein tah gehsum logger hops een mah bellh."

She drank a little more, looking around the room at the decorations and the spinning lights. She was astounded at the total waste of utilities and supplies in that place; did people enjoy this? She could hardly process it all on the first several glances. It seemed very busy and intimate, a constant show, very American. 'Fuck these people,' was the only thing she could come up with to think to herself, the only conclusion she could process. She turned back to the girl at the bar.

"Doyah bae alla gerls dranks indis plece? Juss weatin tharr ad yer liddl connah adta barr tae geddum drenkin?"