Step Inside (closed)

[Obuzeti]

The nightclub had been busted a week ago; something had hit the front entrance hard enough to tear off a door and leave the other one hanging ajar. The walnut paneling the door had been set into was knocked out at the same time, and part of the adjacent wall demolished, snapped back by overwhelming force. It'd made sense if a car had plowed into the building from the outside, except that the wood had buckled out, instead of in - whatever had generated that much force had been inside the building. The police had been called during the ruckus, whatever had happened, but no report had been filed in the end. There'd been some damage to the second floor too, something about a floor being busted through, but nothing to the final and third floor that wasn't open to the public.

But whatever happened, the staff of Hemophilia wasn't talking, and as soon as the repairs had finished the doors popped right back open for their rather exclusive clientele. People could walk in without an invite, but the nightclub doesn't cater to lone drinkers; the place is dimly lit, almost firelit in tone between the specially ordered bulbs and the warm walnut the entire place is paneled in, and the only seating on the bottom floor are wide and round tables surrounded by comfortable booths. It's designed to force people to face each other, to communicate and be social, and by how steady the regulars are, apparently it works. The walls are windowless, but something about how they're built creates the impression of space - the center recedes in a series of panels. Scenes of rivers and oceans, paintings and murals fill the virtual 'distance', and the main room itself is wide and spacious, with the bar on one side, the booths on the other, and the dance floor in between, a single staircase at the back of the room leading up to the unknown.

The music and dancing, are heady, too; the place leans towards a mix of swing, blues, and some ethnic music, nothing that it's easy to sit down and ignore. The low susurrus of conversation is constant during the open hours, and just being inside feels like keeping a secret, between all the interesting and attractive people of Louisiana you'd want to meet.

The owner is a trust named Southern Initiatives, and it takes its direction from a company board that is both anonymous and meets electronically, which makes chasing down employees something of a hassle. Reliably, the doorman and bartender are the same people, but they both live on the property: recorded on tax documents as James Barnabas and Allister Mackleroy, respectively. Unusually for a doorman, Barnabas operates inside a sort of airlock to Hemophilia proper, a room between the entrance and the club itself, facing south, so that the rising or setting of the sun never affects the dim lighting of the room. There's a coat and cloak rack and a little bar that Barnabas sits behind, littered with paperwork and a guest list he checks against everyone that enters.

Precisely what the terms for membership are isn't publically clear, and the club doesn't advertise despite being a commercial entity.

Barnabas himself is a dark-haired young man in his twenties, with an easy smile and a pair of round glasses perched high on his nose that help him to seem mild and unaffecting. That stands in contrast to the rest of his bulky body - he stands an even six foot six, with the kind of muscle only developed by hard physical work, and only the fact that his chair is the size of a throne keeps him from dwarfing it. The cloakroom is built to his size, and the only lighting is the low-burning lamp he keeps beside him at the bar, the flame flickering as the air conditioner hums its low drone.

Hemophilia is a self-contained world, and Barnabas its gatekeeper.

 

[Perplexia]

Natasha O'Conner hadn't had it easy growing up in the pits of the Midwest. She was awkward, and had relied upon the street smarts she learned in the many foster homes she'd been placed in over her child hood. Many children had good experiences with being placed with foster families. She hadn't been one of the lucky ones.

But she was a survivor, and through hard-work she managed to get a scholarship to LSU. It was there she met her only friend in the world Jasper Whitlock. Jasper was gay, awkward, devilishly good looking, and despite being a trust-fund baby was incredibly down to earth. His family was considered old school money, which opened a lot of doors that would be closed to most of the world.

Having graduated top of her class and majoring in journalism she swooped up by Baton Rouges top paper The Advocate. She would have been happy writing obituaries or anything that didn't involve her going out and doing investigative journalism. But the assignment was handed to her with a do or die under note.

It wasn't the first time she got the bottom of the pile story. No one else was interest in it, which means it ended up on the newbies desk. "Hemophilia" she muttered to herself. Very little was known about it, and nobody was talking about it. But evidently there was a break in of some sort the police were just shoving under the rug.

Picking up her cell she reached out to the only connection she had.

"Hey Jasp, I need a favor" she listened to him rib her for a few minutes and then got to the point.
"I need on the list as at club called Hemophilla, and a date you up for it?"

"Eh, i suppose, why am i doing this?"

"Because you love me of course."

"Oh yeah, let me make a few calls plan on meeting me there at 10, i'll call you back if the plan changes"

"thank you, you are the best"

She had no idea what the dress code would be for the club. Little if anything was really known about it. She was hoping that it wasn't some strange sex club. She sat at her desk and googled it. She searched the public records and found out the names of the owners when it was established, and that was about all the information there was. It was one of those word of mouth success stories.

Natasha left work early to go shopping for an outfit. She would wear her contacts instead of her wide rimmed glasses she felt so comfortable hiding behind. She would have her hair done, instead of tying it back in a ponytail, and apply a little make up instead of her usual bare face.

At 5'6 she would need to get pumps, she was clumsy as it was and heels would be a disaster. Although she much prefer going in her worn high top sneakers a pair of worn jeans and an over sized t'shirt with a hoodie, she was going to have to dress for the part.

It probably took her an hour to find a dress she felt comfortable in that would be appropriate for a night at a club. But she was quite happy with it. It was a black dress that was tight on the bodice but flowed from the waist down. The dress was now the most expensive piece of clothing she owned. She found a handbag that would go with it and was large enough for her tape recorder and wallet to hide inconspicuously. She visited the salon for her hair, nails and make up to be done.

Eventually the time came for her to meet Jasper at the club. He let out a whistle as she approached. "Holy hell Natasha, i'm starting to wish I wasn't gay." "Oh shut up." she responded with a slight blush. They stood in line and eventually made it up to the door. The first thing that struck her when she saw the doorman,was his incredible height. He reminded her of Jason Momoa.

Though she had no experience with flirting and being a 22 year old virgin was hardly fashionable. There had just never been any guy that she would let close enough. Her past was a rocky one and had created many walls that would be hard for any man to break through, even Jason Momoa.

But there was something in his eyes that reflected an old soul. "I'm Jasper Whitlock" Jasper said to the muscle bound doorman. While the doorman checked the list for his name she said.

"So I heard there was an altercation of sorts a couple nights ago and the doors came off the hinges whats the story with that?" she asked him daring to raise her bright green eyes up to his.

 

[Obuzeti]

Barnabas nods to Jasper without even looking at the book, apparently familiar enough with the other man to recognize him on sight. "Go on ahead, Jasper, I saw Matthew and Nitro coming in earlier. If the pattern holds, they should be getting their first drinks right about now."

Matthew is a lawyer specializing in contract arbitration, making his number a useful thing for any business with more than half a million per annum on the payroll. Nitro - Lucas Hawthorne - is the son of an F1 Formula racer and works with Boeing on something that he explicitly doesn't talk about, but loves sports cars and tinkering with them, an absolute gearhead and home-garage mechanic with a fat budget. They're an odd pair, one patient and methodical and the other all quicksilver genius, but steady boyfriends nonetheless.

Then the doorman turns his steady gaze onto Jasper's guest, eyes crinkling behind those gleaming glasses. "Now, I don't believe I know you, but if you're Jasper's plus one, he's going to have to vouch for you, and if you mess it up you both stay gone. If a regular, any regular, says you're bothering them, you're gone. You might see people necking downstairs - don't bother them, that's normal. All the regulars know to take it upstairs before clothes come off, and the same goes for you, should you find some hot piece able to charm you."

Barnabas lifts and spreads his hands, giving a Gallic shrug, lip turned up comically. "That's all the rules. Enjoy yourself, miss . . ."

His smile is warm as he waits for a name, but he'd not answered Natasha's question at all, instead dodging it in professional minutiae. And, for all that he's smiling, Barnabas hasn't blinked yet, and those wintry eyes are still fixed on Natasha without even so much as a glance at Jasper, who he waves inside without further notice.

Not much of a talker on the job, then, or just disinclined to discuss the matter in general.

This close to the desk, she's also able to see what he's wearing - nice black slacks and black button up shirt. Boring, but efficient at communicating that he's there on a job, like a stage bouncer for a band. There's a gleaming, silver watch on one wrist, and the opposite hand has two silver rings on index and middle fingers. The ring finger is bare, at least. He has strong, pale skin, very Scandinavian, and muscles shift under his tight shirt sleeves as he gestures.

 

[Perplexia]

Jasper hasn't told her that he'd been here before. Much less that he was a regular. She gave him a 'we're going to talk about this later' glance before returning her eyes back to the muscle bound door man. "Oh, cool" he responds to hearing his friends were in there.

"Now, I don't believe I know you, but if you're Jasper's plus one, he's going to have to vouch for you, and if you mess it up you both stay gone. If a regular, any regular, says you're bothering them, you're gone. You might see people necking downstairs - don't bother them, that's normal. All the regulars know to take it upstairs before clothes come off, and the same goes for you, should you find some hot piece able to charm you."

She opened her mouth to retort but shut it thinking better of it. "That's all the rules. Enjoy yourself, miss . . ." "Oh I prefer Ms. But thank you for the break down of the rules." She watched as he waved Jasper in, who turned quickly on his heels releasing her arm and entered. 'That little bugger' she thought as the doorman still waited for her name.

"My name is Natasha O'Conner and Yours?" She was now completely out of her comfort zone. She had to find a way to get answers without asking questions of the regulars. She waited for his response to her question or at least a dismissal and a wave of his hand so she could enter. He was certainly an eye full of every dream man she could fathom.

 

[Obuzeti]

Barnabas smiles, companionable. He doesn't turn towards her, or lean forward, or break eye contact, though - no little flirts of body language. In fact, although she can see his chest rising and falling (the tight shirt makes every expansion of his chest outline his pectorals against the black fabric), he doesn't move much otherwise at all. It feels like a big cat in repose, watching her in case of sudden entertainment value, and those wheat-gold locks that tumble down his shoulders give more than a little impression of a mane as well.

"James Barnabas," he says, the corner of his mouth quirking in amusement. "You can go in. A word of advice on boundaries, Ms. O'Connor: you're free to ask questions. Just try not to annoy anyone with them. Everyone's here to relax. Maybe stay the in-depth interrogations until you've earned some trust, or at least be circumspect."

He raises a hand and gestures her on to the double-doors that seal off the rest of Hemophilia, the motion slow and lazy, for all that it displays an arm as thick around as her thigh. Out here in the coatroom, it's quiet and still, but when Jasper had slid through it had been all low orange-red light, like firelight, and a pulsing low bongos beat that made you want to tap your feet to it, something not quite a tango, with more blues shaded over the writhing beat.

"Go ahead," Barnabas says. "Have fun."

He still hasn't blinked, and those bright blues stare at Natasha. It's starting to feel like he might never, and only the bright spark of light reflecting off his lenses interrupts that ceaseless, cyclopean gaze.

A moment's glance also proves there's nothing behind the bar to entertain Barnabas, either. He'd been sitting in this quiet, still room, with nary a book or a phone or a deck of cards, on that chair, waiting to welcome the worthy or turn away the uninvited.

The only noise in here is a clock, high on the wall behind Barnabas, and the low drone of the air conditioner. It ticks, loud in the hushed silence.

 

[Perplexia]

She recognized his name right away as one of the listed owners of Hemophilia. His eyes were almost bewitching the way he just stared into hers without so much as a blink. It was almost eerie.

She listened as he said "You can go in. A word of advice on boundaries, Ms. O'Connor: you're free to ask questions. Just try not to annoy anyone with them. Everyone's here to relax. Maybe stay the in-depth interrogations until you've earned some trust, or at least be circumspect." Fuck!! how did he know she was a journalist. It wasn't like she had done any major pieces. That was a bit unnerving, in response she furrowed her brow in confusion. "Um okay thanks i guess? How? Oh never mind". She was a bit flustered at being found out before she even got her foot in the door.

Still she stood staring at him as if mesmerized by his eyes and his broad shoulders and pronounced pectorals that his shirt outlined excellently. Time almost seemed to stand still and if it wasn't for the ticking of the clock and the flashing of the lights inside she may have thought it did.

"Go ahead," Barnabas says. "Have fun." Fun would be taking off this glorified barbie outfit and curling up with a book she thought. "Thanks, enjoy your night" she responded politely without moving at his hand gesture. A small smile finally crosses her lips and she gets the will to move. She turns and heads through the double doors with a feeling of having forgotten something. She had her handbag still. Dismissing it she entered to the sounds of a light bluesy type of rhythm.

She looked around and saw various people necking, and Jasper talking to two of his friends and laughing. She scowled, 'I can't believe he just left me there'. Shaking her head she walks over to the bar.

 

[Obuzeti]

The interior of Hemophilia is not a square - the corners are rounded, and from about knee height to head level, a strip of paneling has been removed in the walls and large, contiguous screens set in them, displaying a fiery sunset over water. The faint sound of water lapping and insects chirping underlies the music - it's truly easy to forget the club is indoors if you're not paying attention, and there's something subtly disturbing about that fact, since this is Louisiana; a half-hour's drive could get you a real version of this view at the bay. Instead, a great deal of money has been spent on a convincing illusion.

The barman polishes glasses, in the same nondescript black outfit as Barnabas. He's not as tall, maybe a few inches shorter, but is long-limbed and limber, plucking glasses from the counter and polishing them to mirror's shine with deft pianist's fingers - which probably has something to do with the baby grand sitting to the left of the bar, its wood lovingly cared for and unmarred. He has black hair and a faint ruddiness to his skin that suggests Filipino blood, but with a square, blocky jaw that looks unusually pugnacious on his dancer's frame.

"Don't recognize you," he says, soft. His voice is shockingly deep, whiskey-roughened and harsh. "Newcomer?"

The bartender doesn't make eye contact either, focusing on the glass he's washing in his hands. They're deep chocolate and distracted, staring at nothing.

 

[Perplexia]

Natasha looked around the exquisite layout of the club. It was unique and unusual. The ambiance was that of the outdoors. It was absolutely breathtaking. She was so wrapped up in the ambiance she almost didn't hear the bartender addressing her.

"Wow, this place is like an indoor serenity." she mused without answering his question at first. Then she turned and took in the baritone bartender that polished glasses. "Yes a new comer. A friend brought me, I suppose he felt I needed to experience something exquisite. Any advice?" she questioned looking at the bottles lined up, "I mean about a drink as well, i have a very sweet palette, don't really care for the taste of alcohol but I like the kick."

It hadn't escaped her notice that he didn't make eye contact with her. She could understand that he probably didn't want to encourage conversation. "Have you worked here since it opened?" she questioned making casual conversation.

 

[Obuzeti]

The bartender, rather than answer directly, begins adding together a colorful batch of liquors into a shaker: dark and amber rum, some fresh orange juice, a tablespoon of lime juice, triple sec, granulated sugar, and almond extract, then a dash of grenadine and mixes the whole thing together with a firm shake. The resulting mix he pours over a drinking glass pre-filled with ice cubes, and then he adds a cherry and orange slice garnish as toppers. The resulting drink is a cheery, warm orange with red highlights, like a sunset you can drink, to match the festive setting the bar's screens have set.

"Mai Tai," he says, soft. There's a strange juxtaposition in how he moves - with the carefulness of a big man jammed into someone of average height, his movements deliberate and sure, never darting or out of his line of sight. It gives the impression of intense focus, at least. "A fruity classic."

There is a pause as he readjusts his line of thought. The glasses clink in his hand as he rearranges the ones hidden behind the counter into, presumably, neat lines once again.

"Always," the bartender says, as his hands come out from behind the counter and settle atop it. His gaze surveys the club, never meeting an eye, but - contented, somehow - by the crowd that occupies his bailiwick. "I have always worked here."

He turns and looks at Natasha, then, and whatever his body language may imply, it becomes immediately clear that shyness is not his problem: he's staring a hole straight through her head with unblinking intensity.

"If you are new here, someone will welcome you," the bartender says. He's not smiling, or unfriendly, or anything emotive at all - the information flows through him and his mouth free of human inflection. "We take care of our own."

"Well said," another voice intrudes, as a man with hair the color of wheat moves to take a seat one away from her - allowing some space between them. He raises two fingers, and without further comment the bartender moves to a barrel set low behind the counter and cracks the spigot, catching the released liquid in a tall mug. It has a hot, spicy scent, whatever it is. "Conversation, and company, is usually what most people come for. It's hard to find people that understand."

He's of a height with the bartender - right about six two - and dressed much more elaborately, with a deep crimson top above black slacks and a suitjacket over it, unbuttoned, just a shade lighter of red, both weaved with ripples. Against the tropical sunset of Hemophilia, the dark, warm tones fade right into the background and the hot orange of dusk. The only thing that breaks the illusion is his eyes. They're a flicker of cold green, disconcerting against the warmth of his outfit.

"Nothing's stopping you from joining your friend, anyways," he says, with a faint smile. "I don't think he'd rebuff you."

 

[Perplexia]

She was literally getting no where with the bartender. He was answering her semi questions as brief as he possibly could with no extras added.
Just as she was beginning to wonder if she had something stuck in her teeth from the way the bartender was staring a hole through her head another man took a seat a stool away from her.

"Conversation, and company, is usually what most people come for. It's hard to find people that understand." the wheat colored haired man said.
The drink that he was poured smelled a bit spicy and caused her stomach to curl, reminding her she hadn't eaten.

"I'm sorry, it's hard to find people that understand conversation and company? I thought that's why people visited nightclubs and social places." Not that she really knew, she preferred a good movie or a book to this type of place. But Jasper seemed to like the night life.

"Nothing's stopping you from joining your friend, anyways," he says, with a faint smile. "I don't think he'd rebuff you." "oh Jasper, he's in his element. I enjoy watching him more than I do participating." She took a sip of the Mai Tai. "Oh this is really good thank you." she directed toward the bartender.

"This place has a good ambiance to it. No wonder there's a line around the block to get in."

 

[Obuzeti]

There is a period of silence, as the other man takes a long draught of his drink - not a sip, not a gulp, there's a full two swallows involved before he sets the mug down. A smile touches the man's lips now, and he nods to the bartender. "Excellent, Julias. Thank you."

"Väl bekomme, frälse," the bartender replies, and then moves to the other side of the bar, where another customer has flagged him down for a drink.

'Frälse' lets his fingers fall in staccato against the firm oak of the bar, a rippling tap that only emphasizes the silence he lets fall after the bartender leaves. It becomes awkward very shortly.

"That is three for three people that you've interrogated about the club, instead of making pleasant conversation, trying to get to know people, or dancing," he says with a little smile. It's a meaningless thing, the kind of expression a lawyer gives you from the other side of the courtroom - patently false. "You're getting more subtle about it, which I do appreciate, but I would prefer you quit poking the staff. Has it even been a full minute since you walked through the doors?"

A little, dismissive huff of air escapes his nostrils, and he flicks a hand, dismissing the thought for the moment. "In answer: no, not the conversation and company itself. Power, typically; money, influence, intelligence. They're things that warp the unconscious social standing people perceive each other through. When someone wears an Armani suit, it's as good as armor - they're wearing more money than most people make in a month."

He tilts his head back at Jasper, with his lawyer friend and the gearhead, both busily chatting. "No one is going to take advantage of them here," he says. "No one's desperate for a leg up, an opening into the good life, or a weakness. This is safe harbor for people tired of being grasped at."

He takes a sip. His eyes flick over Natasha, take her in at a glance. The dress, the purse, the nails.

"Try not to spoil that."

 

[Perplexia]

"That is three for three people that you've interrogated about the club, instead of making pleasant conversation, trying to get to know people, or dancing," he says with a little smile. "You're getting more subtle about it, which I do appreciate, but I would prefer you quit poking the staff. Has it even been a full minute since you walked through the doors?"

"The last I checked in order to get to make conversation one asked questions. Perhaps being over inquisitive is simply my offensive nature." She turned in her chair and looked out onto the dance floor observing.

"In answer: no, not the conversation and company itself. Power, typically; money, influence, intelligence. They're things that warp the unconscious social standing people perceive each other through. When someone wears an Armani suit, it's as good as armor - they're wearing more money than most people make in a month.
"No one is going to take advantage of them here," he says. "No one's desperate for a leg up, an opening into the good life, or a weakness. This is safe harbor for people tired of being grasped at."
"Try not to spoil that."

"I'll do my best" she said shooting him a sarcastic glance and turning her back to him again. She was definitely out her element here. Making casual conversation was not her forte. Being in this type of environment was not her comfort zone. It was very apparent she wasn't going to get her story. "may i have another Mai tai please" she asked the bartender then turned back to the man that scolded her.

"Not everyone is equipped with social graces and the ability to make conversation so freely. That's what makes us individuals. If I somehow offended your delicate perception and sense of whats right i do so humbly apologize." Taking her drink she turned her back to him once again and resumed watching the ambiance.