Start Talking Before They Start Drinking

It was the middle of the day when Remy left the apartment she had been crashing for the past few days, not exactly her typical time to be out and about. Her prime operating hours were late evening to early morning, but she had made a special exception in this case, and only because exceptions were starting to be necessary.

Remy was usually a woman who stuck to her schedule and her own idea of how things ought to go – though she frequently convinced others that it was their idea – but more and more often lately she had been having to make sacrifices to keep up her lifestyle. Of course, her lifestyle depended largely on the person she was coercing most effectively at the moment, but that way of living tended to be quite a bit higher than your average schmo, and although Remy could have lived on much less, she didn’t see a reason to if she didn’t have to.

The latest sacrifice, though, was one to which she tried very hard not to have to resort, and also the reason she found herself out in the afternoon sun, walking down Diagon Alley behind a crowd of middle aged biddies that were beginning to frustrate Remy with their slowness. In her latest act of survival, Remy had been forced to apply for a job.

It was out of the norm for her to have to earn her own living, rather than skive off the top of the wealthier and more powerful of the place she was currently inhabiting, but it was not an impossible feat. Remy had been doing manual and menial labor most of her life, at least until she perfected the art of conning. Since then, she had worked a few places, but most of them had been out of choice, rather than necessity. Slug and Jiggers had been her most recent envoy into the world of the working girl, and that had turned out well enough until management was handed over to someone a bit more perceptive to the money count in the drawer at the end of the day. Needless to say, Remy had resigned before she could be accused of anything.

Looking over her shoulder, Remy took a sharp right down Knockturn Alley, glad to be rid of the old women who had slowed her progress. Her watch read five minutes to the hour, so Remy picked up the pace, her heels clicking on the dirty cobblestones as she headed to Satin’s, her destination and potential new place of employment.

Working at Satin’s was definitely not Remy’s first choice of earning a living, but it would certainly have its perks. She was applying to be a bartender there, and with the clientele being as it was, Remy was sure there would be more than a few worthy candidates on which to use her charisma. Bartending was not glamorous work, but she had done it before, and with her knack for charming most of the population she came in contact with – specifically the male section – Remy was quite certain she could be successful at it.

Reaching the door to the bar near the end of the alley, Remy checked that her dark-wash jeans were hanging appropriately low on her hips, and that the slightly sheer black shirt she had chosen was not bunching in the wrong areas (or hiding anything that might give her an advantage in the interview). Finding herself to be passable, Remy pushed open the door to the bar, stepping through and letting it fall closed behind her once more.

Although Remy did not make a habit of coming to Satin’s, she had been here a few times in the past. The place looked different by day, all the lights turned on to reveal the places where were usually clouded in shadow by night. It was clean, as far as Remy could tell, and also deserted. She had expected this much, as Satin’s really only opened at night, and the emptiness echoed her footsteps as she approached the bar.

Seeing no one, Remy leaned against the bar itself, looking around for signs of life. Momentarily, her eyes landed on a small silver bell behind a plaque emblazoned “Ring for Service”. Following these instructions, Remy let the ding resound through the bar and attached dance floor, announcing her presence to whomever was to give her the interview. She could only hope this person would be male, because landing the job would be significantly easier if that was the case.

((Cue Vito))

The shadows of the evening had always been Vito’s favorite; the darkness that cloaked his club, giving it a mysterious feel to it, almost matched his own sense of mystery. He was king of the night… and that was one of the many reasons why Vito felt like he needed to one day have some intelligent inventor create him a device that would allow Vito to control the weather. It was a possibility with all the other things that wizards had invented, he knew that much was true. Vito straightened his hand and held it to his forehead as if he were saluting, in order to shield his eyes from the cruel rays of sun that had somehow managed to sink through his thick, dark curtains and light the room. Yeah, he enjoyed the dark, evening sky much more than the glaring sun.

It didn’t help that he was incredibly hung-over.

His brain, it throbbed slowly and painfully beneath his skull, causing his vision to pulsate as well. The room jumped, and Vito stumbled to his left. He had managed to catch himself just before he had collided with the floor- which would have caused a large, unsightly bruise to form along his shoulder and upper arm. “What a night,” Vito said with a smirk, as if he found the trouble he was having amusing- which he did in a way, because it had been his decision to drink more than he should have, and a hangover was just something he had to deal with as punishment for his actions.

What had his actions consisted of? Vito flicked an eyebrow upward as he attempted to search his mind for some sort of memory from the previous night- but he could recall nothing. This amused him further; that was what he had been aiming for when he had washed his dinner down with several bottles of Satin’s finest wine. He had needed a way to escape his thoughts, his memories… and he had succeeded, apparently.

Vito grabbed hold of one of the end corners of his bed and pulled himself upward, steadying himself. He wasn’t surprised in the slightest to find two women lying in his bed, nor did it anger him to see bottles of alcohol, and several dead cigarettes lying on the floor; his money would handle the mess. Vito would only have to lift a finger to fish his money out of his pockets.

The sun was still mocking him, shooting beams of light directly into his eyes, but he managed to turn his back to the window and ignored it to the best of his ability; “shower, ladies, and then your out of here,” Vito spoke, his voice just as smooth as always despite the fact that he could both taste and feel the vomit that was slowly crawling up his esophagus. The two redheaded women stirred before waking up completely, “Good morning, Vito,” one of them greeted with a smirk, which Vito returned as he plucked a clean towel for himself out of the closet by its hanger.

-

The shower was no longer running. The curtains were drawn and Vito was standing before his mirror, buttoning up his the white shirt he had pulled on as he gazed into the reflective glass. He was in a decent mood, and it was clear by the way he wore his default smirk, which was forever-amused, and slightly mocking as if he were telling the world that there was no way anyone could ever imitate his beauty.

It had always taken Vito a particularly long time to dress and to comb his hair back- raking it backwards and forcing it to stay in place by added a few small globs of an expensive gel he enjoyed the smell of- but it seemed to take Vito even more time than usual to get ready for the day every now-and-then, as if sometimes he needed a little more time to stare at himself in the mirror to make sure that he was really the person looking back at him; he really had managed to perfect his human appearance, and it had taken him years to do so. “Good work, Vito,” he complimented himself with a- yes, be shocked- genuine smile.

He was, however, finished and immediately turned to make his way out the door of his bedroom… right on time to hear a soft ding! from the floor below. Someone had joined him in his kingdom for the morning. “Ladies, I told you to leave…” Vito spoke, but his expression wasn’t one of irritation as anyone who had ever met the poltergeist would expect, instead, his facial expression read: Amused & Pompous- but the two redheads he had dismissed earlier that morning were not who he saw when he reached the staircase’s last step.

No, instead, Vito’s eyes met a fierce-looking female with long, brunette hair. She was standing there, with her hand hovering over the service bell, which she had obviously just rung, “What can I help you with, darling? Or do you simply enjoy making unnecessary noise?” Vito Dee Symons asked, walking towards her with an air of confidence about him.

As the bell finished its echoing in the large, empty space, Remy could hear footsteps from the stairs that were tucked away in a back corner of the bar, nearly invisible until she had heard noise coming from them. The footsteps were followed by a an smooth, entertained voice whose words suggested that Remy was not the first female presence to have been here today. The words died away, though, as the voice’s owner reached the foot of the stairs and looked up to see Remy standing at the bar.

At the sight of the man at the foot of the stairs, Remy was immediately more pleased with the situation at hand. Although he was still across the room from her, Remy had learned long ago to assess her prospects from afar. Even from this distance, Remy could tell that he was well put together, his crisp white shirt stretched across sleek shoulders and fair, smooth skin. His dark hair was slicked back away from his face, revealing delicate features and high cheekbones. His height was difficult to determine at a distance, but Remy guessed that if they were standing side by side, she would be considerably taller than he was. The expression he wore on his face was one of confidence; it was the kind of confidence someone actually believed in, rather than one they just put on for show. He took himself completely seriously, which Remy knew meant she must do the same. Men with high opinions of themselves did not take well to jokes at their expense.

Completing her survey of her greeter, Remy met his eyes as he walked toward her, his words matching the cocky kind of confidence with which he walked. It was a slightly rude way to greet someone you had never met, but Remy wasn’t exceptionally apt to be offended and instead smirked at the man’s words. He obviously had a strong sense of his own worth, dressing and acting the way he did, but his term of endearment for her also suggested that he was not completely immune to the potential worth of others. Remy was not yet certain this man was the person she was supposed to meet for her interview, but either way, it would be advisable for her to make him see that she was also worthwhile. He was attractive, to be certain, and his style of dress and manner of carrying himself suggested money. Even if he was not the man who could offer her a job, he would still be a man worth pursuing.

If only all job interviews provided this many opportunities for advancement... Remy thought mischievously to herself, though her expression remained unreadable aside from the slight smirk she had allowed to develop.

“The noise didn’t seem very unnecessary to me,” Remy replied easily, but careful not to offend, pulling her hand away from the bell and letting her arm rest on the bar, “Because it seems to have served its purpose.” This last addition was accompanied by a gesture toward the man standing in front of her, as if to illustrate the fact that in ringing the bells he had gotten him to come out to meet her.

“I’m actually here for an interview,” the brunette vixen added, pulling herself away from the bar and into a fully upright position to face her companion. She had been right, he was much shorter than she was. Shaking her dark hair away from her face, Remy extended a hand to the gentleman, an introduction already posed on her lips.

“It’s for Remy Devaul,” she intoned, her gaze still resting on the man’s darker eyes, which were squinted slightly in a way that made him look even haughtier than the rest of his appearance suggested.

It took Vito a few moments to process what the women was actually visiting him for- had he stopped judging her appearance for a moment to actually consider her words, it probably wouldn’t have been such a challenge for him to comprehend- but when his constantly busy mind began to understand her words, the corners of his lips crawled upward into an amused grin. “Well now, isn’t that interesting,” he commented before motioning in the direction of a table with a simple flick of his fingers.

Vito Dee Symons had two modes, one of which was meant for manipulating, lying, arguments, sex, and other activities that Vito engaged in during his everyday life- and then there was the second, which was meant for business, and strictly business; Vito cared for his club more than anything else- hell, it was the only thing Vito really, truly cared for. “So, did you just wake up this morning thinking “I bet it would be great fun to work in the most successful club in Knockturn Alley? Or is it financial, hmmm?” Vito asked, sliding into one of the dark colored booths that belonged to that table, laying one bent leg atop his knee. His voice sounded very sarcastic, but it was clear by the look in his eyes- something that could only be easily noticed if you were someone who paid attention to such details –that he was ready to listen to whatever she had to say, as long as it had something to do with the fate of his nightclub.

While he got comfortable in his seat, Vito continued to search the women’s eyes, flipping through whatever files he could reach- but her expression, she kept it rather blank, save an amused smirk upon her lips and a seemingly permanent, knowing gaze. Though he tried his hardest, he couldn’t seem to read anything beyond the surface, he couldn’t break through her shield simply by staring at her. It was going to take a bit more than that, Vito decided. He had never had so much trouble reading someone’s expression- even Jack Dyllan was an easy read compared to this Remy Devaul character.

She was skilled, and she was hiding something.

“I take it seriously, doll- I take this club, and this business seriously- just to make that clear,” he stated, speaking in a slow drawl as he leaned further back, resting his neck against the back of the booth.

The faint sound of a bell tinkling on the other side of the club was heard, working as a security system, alerting Vito that someone had entered his club through the back door; the small bell had been hung there by the previous owners of the place, when it had been a restaurant, but Vito had decided to leave the small thing hanging above the back door when it had occurred to him that it could, in fact, be useful.

“insurtnamehere, what are you doing here this early?” the poltergeist hissed, lifting his gaze slowly from Remy to watch one of his employees walk closer. “I forgot my house keys here…” the man replied, his voice betraying his annoyance, along with a roll of his eyes. “Are you drunk or something?” Vito asked, his glare suggesting that ‘no’ would be thing for the man to say in reply.

There was momentary silence.

“This is Remy Devaul, she is here for a job interview,” it wasn’t a very glorius introduction, but it was the best one to fall from Vito’s full lips; he didn’t include any insulting curse words, after all- Vito was using his words as a threat directed towards the other man, though it wasn’t clear if he planned on fallowing through with that threat or not. “I’ll get my keys and be on my way,” the employee replied, turning away from Vito swiftly to collect the belongings he had apparently left behind.

"I will happily replace that mess if your interview goes smoothly," Vito growled.

[Sorry, this post is all over the place]

As Remy had anticipated, the man’s reaction to her words indicated that he had taken no offense to what she had said, and the amused smile meant that her first impression had been a favorable one. In her experience, Remy had found that men were not often forthcoming about their impressions of women –whether it be in a personal or professional setting – and thus she had learned to read the cues that indicated her next best course of action. The man’s word choice – “interesting” – was said in such a way that made it seem that he genuinely was interested, and judging by the way his eyes had been surveying her and the way the corners of his lips had been pulled up into a closed-lipped smile, this interview seemed to be off to just the right start.

Although she hadn’t been certain of it at first, the confidence with which her greeter spoke and his general physical appearance seemed to confirm to Remy that she was talking to Vito Dee Symons, the owner of Satin’s and debatably one of the most desirable men on Remy’s short list of people worth knowing. He had a reputation as a womanizer, but that couldn’t have bothered Remy less; she was far more interested in his reputation as a man of wealth, power, and influence, none of which she had personally, but was more than happy to take from others when they were foolish enough to let her. Her interest in the interview piqued further as she assessed what she had heard about Vito against the man now standing in front of her, but she was careful not to let the hunger she felt for what he could do for her appear on her features. In getting what she wanted, Remy’s most useful weapon was that the people she was using didn’t know she wanted it.

At Vito’s indication, Remy followed him to a booth on the far wall of the establishment. She waited first for him to sit and then slid into the seat opposite him, crossing her legs and setting her forearms on the table to bring herself subtly more close to the man across from her. Physical proximity had been a tool Remy employed for her own gain ever since she had developed the curves that made it effective, and although a job interview might not seem the appropriate place for such tactic, Remy had to disagree. People were always judging you on the way you looked, whether they chose to admit it or not, so why not give her interviewer one more reason to hire her? If Vito was distracted enough by certain aspects of her person, he might not notice those she would rather not discuss.

But in the next sentence, the dark-haired man seemed to indicate that he was not one to be easily distracted, for Vito was immediately down to business in asking about her reasoning for applying for the job. The indirect show of confidence in his reference to the ‘most successful club in Knockturn Alley’ gave Remy another piece of valuable information about the man of her current attention, and she made a mental note to be especially careful not to contradict the man’s inflated image of himself. It might also be pertinent for her to slip in subtle compliments to him, both for the sake of getting the job and also because it could never hurt to flatter a man with a fat pocketbook, but she would have to be careful not to seem too aware of her own intent, lest Vito catch on to what she was doing.

Remy’s smirk deepened at Vito’s slight sarcasm, her answer already poised on her lips as soon as the question was asked. It was so easy now, to know the right answers or be able to fabricate them if she didn’t have one, that it seemed impossible that at one point she had been a quiet girl on a farm in the muggle world instead of the minx she had grown into.

“This is both business and pleasure for me, Mr. Dee Symons,” Remy replied easily, maintaining eye contact with her interviewer as though to dare him to make the innuendo that her words implied, but not making any gesture or expression that would suggest she had made the innuendo on purpose. Of course, she had done it on purpose, but Vito would have no way of proving that unless she gave him the opportunity. His eyes on her were already scrutinizing her as though he was searching for answers, but Remy did not fidget under his gaze; she was quite confident that he would find nothing, and the frustration that appeared fleetingly on his face suggested that her confidence was not unfounded.

As Vito clarified his seriousness with his business, Remy nodded with feigned, but believable interest. If she was honest – and with herself, she always was, though with others it was questionable at best – she didn’t care much about the business itself, but more about what it could do for her. In her opinion, however, these were close enough to be considered as the same thing, which made her I-really-understand-and-agree act much easier to pull off with a degree of credibility.

The distracting tinkling of bells managed to avert both Vito and Remy’s attention simultaneously, though he seemed to have a better idea of what the sound indicated than she did. Remy was quick to catch on, though, as a slight, unimpressive man she would not even have noticed had the room been more crowded walked in from the back. The man showed a surprising lack of tact, however, when speaking to the man who obviously controlled his position at the establishment, and Remy wondered idly if his brain was as unimpressive as his appearance. Vito seemed to care about as much about the employee’s identity as Remy did, for he was blatant about not knowing the man’s name and didn’t bother to ask. She gave the man a brief nod when she was introduced, though she did not interject into the conversation on his behalf. She did not see any reason to put herself in the line of fire when it came to Vito’s barbed comments, including the one he made to her as the sad excuse for a man once again made the bells ring as he left.

“Then that makes two of us hoping for a good outcome,” Remy replied simply, making no mention of the poor treatment Vito seemed to dole out to the people that worked for him. Remy was in no way in need of compliments or reassurance about her performance; situations such as the one she had just experienced would likely roll off her back and be forgotten moments later. It wasn’t in her nature to be delicate or needy. She didn’t need Vito’s approval or kindness – she just needed his money.

“So where would you like to begin?” the dark-haired woman asked, relaxing slightly into the back of the padded seat, though still maintaining the posture necessary to look alert and put-together. It was clear that Vito was quick to judge, so Remy didn’t want to give him any excuses to judge her unfit for the job she wanted.

With a simple movement of his body, shifting his weight slightly, Vito brought his hand upward, holding it flat against his forehead when the pain within the walls of his thick skull grew a bit too strong for him to tolerate, and he moved himself against the edge of the table. He momentarily forgot what exactly he and the young women before him were speaking of, and couldn’t help but notice that she had positioned herself relatively close to himself, despite the table in-between them; being who Vito was, he had grown quite used to the attempts of eager women to get to him for both pleasure and bragging rights, and therefore, could easily spot an attempt to make physical contact an element of the conversation- though he had to admit, the brunette had made the movement appear quite casual, and for a moment, Vito questioned his judgment, wondering if, perhaps, the throbbing pain in his head, and his ever-so-lovely ego had made him jump to conclusions…

“Hmmm, well, you’re on a highway to hell, darling,” the overconfident man replied, dragging the nail of his thumb across his hairline slowly in a futile attempt to rid himself of the pain that seemed to worsen in that particular spot, “I have all my potential employees sign a fancy piece of paper that says I’m not liable for what happens to them if they get a bit too crispy, you know, just in case,” he added, almost as an afterthought, sprinkling sarcasm over his every word with the tip of his tongue.

His pain had already begun to get the best of him.

“Where would I like to begin?” Vito repeated Remy’s words in a tone of voice that suggested he was mocking her, and yet, he hadn’t yet allowed his tone to reach the point of straight-out insulting her, which provided the young women with the perfect opportunity to either light all of her chances of getting a job at Vito Dee Symons’ nightclub by showing off a flashy temper, on fire, or to impress him by allowing the comment to roll off of her completely. Vito flicked his tongue across his lips, wetting them when he noticed that they had begun to feel somewhat dry- which was most likely a result of the drinking he had done the evening prior. His mind was held together by hundreds of thin little strands, like a masterpiece of a cloth; each strand a scheme or bull-shit test that he put into play against those that he felt needed to earn his trust- It’s worth more than any Gold or Silver, that I can guarantee- though he hardly ever allowed anyone to pass said tests.

It wasn’t always up to the players of the game, sometimes the dealer felt the need to deal a hand that would throw everything out of whack- the God’s had once played chess to determine the fates of mere mortals, after all, why not the king of the world? If anything, Vito had been created to show the God’s how to do what they hadn’t been able to when they gave it a try their selves.

All this thought of Gods- oh how it made Vito feel good; it was as if his cold, ash-colored heart had begun to beat a thousand miles an hour, rattling the bones beneath the skin of his chest until they threatened to break through, breaking their way out of their fleshy prison which had held them captive for so many long years, receiving abuse of all sorts during the periods when Vito had made a few fiery redheads a bit too angry. Vito’s ‘I’m a sexy Grinch’ smirk slowly unwound itself until it became a closed-lipped smile- one that was directed not towards Remy, nor anyone else in particular, but had somehow managed to change the temperature in the room from ‘it’s fall, but yes, we do own a heater’ to ‘we’re locked in a freezer, we’re going. to. die.’

Despite the fact that it was a grin upon the poltergeist’s face, he seemed to be smiling for all the wrong reasons- you’ve stolen Christmas, Mr. Grinch!

“Has anyone ever told you that you would look so much more attractive with red hair? Don’t go saying that that is unprofessional either, I don’t find that kind of comment very appealing, even if it is meant to be playful,” Vito commented- warned- commentedwarned while slowly turning his head in the general direction of the bar that they were sitting only a good seven or eight feet away from, “Either you dropped a bottle back there and you're trying desperately to clean it up without me finding out about it, or your listening in on our conversation,” he spoke clearly, sampling a bit of that threatening feel, just to test it out and make sure that his employee knew that it was far too early for him to be pleasant towards him if he had made such a mistake- either would do well to make Vito loose his temper.

As if the man crouching behind the bar had suddenly become a deer, caught in the headlights of Vito Dee Symons’ Black Dodge Viper as he slowly stood from his position behind the bar- which had been acting as a shield from Vito’s piercing, cat-like gaze before he had been called upon, “Well, you don’t have anything to throw at me this time around, so I suppose I could reply to that question honestly…” the other man retorted, as if he had been biting holes in his tongue for years and had only just then allowed himself to spit the blood upon Vito’s face, who then reacted unexpectedly, “Get off of my floor. Grab me a scotch and I’ll forget you walked through that door this morning.”

The employee took a moment to stare at Vito, his eyes betraying his confusion, as if he was unable to pull on a mask for even a fraction of a second and pretend as if the punishment that he had received for his actions from his boss were not out of the ordinary in any way- not that it mattered much to Vito, however, it did frustrate him slightly that his judgment was being questions, “You should be happy; *you get to keep your face and report back to this wonderful place of dreams-come-true later this evening,” Vito spoke, speeding up the time in which it took for his words to fall from his tongue in order to make it clear that he was finished with the conversation, and that his employee was to do as he was told.

“Would you like anything, darling?” Vito took the time to ask Remy, dragging his eyes back towards her so that he had once again met her gaze. He still felt as if their was a wall built up in-between himself and the female before him, and he had to admit… it bothered him.

*Vito once threw a bottle at the bartender's face unintentionally when he lost his temper with Jack Dyllan.

Without any particular stimulus to warrant the action, Vito’s posture and persona seemed to be changing, almost imperceptibly, before Remy’s eyes. He was hunching in on himself, his hands going to his forehead as though something were trying to escape through the middle of it. Nothing about the present situation had changed much as far as Remy could tell, but her usual confidence flickered for just a moment when he closed his eyes to her, retracing her steps in the conversation to see if she had said anything to warrant this kind of reaction.

The change in his persona was fleeting, however, and soon Vito was back to his smart-alec comments, bringing Remy back into her comfort zone. She was all too accustomed to men who thought too much of themselves, and Vito would be no exception. The man was powerful, but as far as Remy could tell, his powers did not extend far beyond business-savvy and the ability to badger people into doing what he wanted, either physically or verbally. These were not particularly impressive traits in and of themselves to Remy, but she was drawn to them because of the dollar signs and influence that were intrinsically connected to the men that had them.

Remy would never think as highly of Vito as he did of himself – in fact, it was very possible that no one ever could. Remy rarely thought highly of anyone, though she was quite adept at the opposite. Her thoughts of people who might otherwise garner jealousy or respect were mostly thoughts of how she could use them for everything they were worth. But Vito didn’t need to know that. The dark-haired woman knew that the businessman must be accustomed to women throwing themselves at his feet and worshiping his every move; she would not be one of those girls, but feigning a high opinion of him could only earn her points where Vito was concerned.

“Naturally,” Remy replied smoothly to Vito’s cautionary words about the employee release form, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world to have your employees agree to be verbally and physically abused. The words were sarcastic, but Remy knew enough to know that they were not untrue. She was not worried about any repercussions, however, because she had been practicing flying under the radar for long enough to do it well. If given the opportunity, she would do exactly what Vito asked, but not because he asked; instead, she would be doing it because being in Vito’s inner circle would be personally beneficial. And benefits had their sacrifices.

Passing over her response entirely, Vito continued the conversation, mocking the words she had said only a few seconds earlier. It was, Remy knew, a logical question to ask in an interview, but Vito was making it seem childish and self-indulgent. Despite his mockery, however, Remy’s slight smirk did not change on her face. If anything, it only deepened. She knew that Vito would be used to people cowering at his words, or rising to meet him when he gave the challenge – only to be struck down moments later – but Remy would not fall for his incendiary words. She felt anger as equally as she felt remorse, sadness, guilt, or happiness – as in, not at all. She was not victim to her emotions because she did not have any, which basically rendered one of Vito’s greatest weapons virtually inert.

Vito had a smirk to match hers, however, and he certainly meant business. Although her smirk was more of an entertained, mildly interested one, Vito’s upturned lips were slowly beginning to look more lecherous, predatory even. Remy was careful to keep her gaze level as she watched this happen, focusing on controlling her breathing while simultaneously looking for her options of escape. Having little power of her own when it came to confrontations, Remy was usually the one slipping out the back door before things got really heated. Despite the information she had on Vito as to his lifestyle and six-figure income, she had insufficient experience with him to know what dangers he posed to her personally, and she wasn’t going to take any chances.

Instead of pulling his wand, though, Vito once again chose words as his weapon. This time, he seemed to have lost all sense of the interview, making a rather forward statement about the color of her hair. Although Remy was beginning to worry that the interview was going slowly off track – and through no fault of her own, as far as she could tell – she made the correct posture and expressive changes necessary to seem as though she was taking this comment in stride. A slightly raised eyebrow, the fingertips of her left hand brushing the ends of her dark hair, but no verbal retort. There really was no good way to respond to that statement, and Remy knew when to stay quiet.

So he wants me to be a bloody ginger… Remy thought to herself as Vito’s attention was once again distracted by his employee behind the bar. Remy had already grown bored with Vito’s displays of power over his employees after the last encounter, but she turned her head to match Vito’s, though her thoughts were hardly on the verbal abuse Vito was doling out once more, Figures a man with as much money as he does would want things that are rare. Curious that he would want the hot-tempered type, though, seeing as he obviously likes the dominant position…

This mental analysis of Vito’s comment continued as the man behind the bar stuttered to come up with a response to Vito’s accusation, which Remy had only taken in to the point of knowing that Vito was criticizing the man, not actually having taken in the words. The man stuttered something about Vito not having anything to throw at him, which made Remy raise an eyebrow yet again. It seemed that for all Vito’s bullying, his employees remained virtually unaware of how to get in his good graces. It was pitiful, really, how often people put their pride ahead of their needs and well-being; if this man had just had enough sense to shut up and do as he was told without comment, he might have been able to work in peace – or at least as much peace as could be expected in an establishment run by what was starting to look like a mad man.

Remy had never had trouble setting aside her pride in the interest of self-preservation, as evidenced by the lows she would sink to in order to get what she wanted. Nothing was beneath her, and she was never too proud to commit herself to anything or anyone, all in the interest of herself, of course. What she did have trouble with, however, was being patient, and although Vito had ordered his drink nearly two full minutes ago, and also made his question of what Remy would like to drink, Remy was too distracted watched the ineptitude of the man behind the bar to have answered yet. He was pathetically slow, rummaging around for a bottle of scotch when there was clearly a bottle of top-shelf liquor just a few inches above his head. Remy had unconsciously started drumming her fingers on the table as she waited for the man to give some inkling of proof as to why he was hired. After waiting as long as she had, though, Remy’s patience had expired.

“I think I would like a drink sometime this decade,” Remy finally answered, turning her attention back to Vito to make this statement, and then immediately sliding out of the booth. Confidently and with purpose, Remy crossed the room to the bar and pushed open the hinged counter top that served as the door to the space behind the bar. Taken aback, Vito’s employee stepped away from Remy, either confused or intimidated by Remy’s presence behind the bar. Whatever his specific emotion was didn’t particularly matter, however, and Remy was quick to sidestep him to get to the bottle of scotch that he had overlooked in his stupidity or ignorance.

With the bottle in hand, she grabbed a glass from beneath the bar and threw three ice cubes in it, pulling the stopper on the bottle of scotch and pouring just over two-fingers worth of the amber-colored liquid into the glass. Finished with this task in under 30 seconds, Remy grabbed another glass and a middle-of-the-shelf bottle of whiskey and poured it straight, no ice. Afterward, she replaced the bottles on the shelf and grabbed the two glasses, giving the current bartender a “this-is-why-you-get-yelled-at” look before returning to the table where Vito was still sitting. The dark-haired woman set his glass down in front of him and then slid into the booth holding her own in one hand, pushing back a clump of hair with the other.

“That’s better,” Remy said, taking the first sip of the dark liquor in her whiskey before continuing, her attention fully back on Vito, “Now where were we?”

OOC: I apologize for the poor quality of this post. They shall improve as I get used to writing as Vito once again.

It had never been Vito’s way to allow a normal, human-like conversation to continue on for much longer than a moment or two. There really didn’t seem to be any particular reason for such conversations to get on his nerves, but over the years he had spent pretending to be a human being, those confrontations with both boredom and irritation whenever in a civil situation seemed to build up, and eventually had resulting in his inability to hold an honest conversation with a single person for much longer than he would pay attention to someone unattractive or with little money.

It was for this reason- whatever reason that was, exactly –that Vito had continued to toss the brunette female back and forth throughout their conversation- throughout her interview. It had been quite a fortunate thing that the clumsy, uninteresting buffoon that called himself a bartender had set foot within the almost-empty club, or Vito certainly would have begun flicking the switch within his skull back in the direction that would allow him to act as he usually did when business was not involved. Inflicting unnecessary violence and harm upon those around him had always been Vito’s specialty after all- if you could call the inability to withhold oneself from acting in one way or another, a specialty, that is.

However, it seemed that the “Gods” had once again taken hold of the reigns; flicking them in order to force the horses their chariot was strapped to- the chariot that was the current situation- to hastily move things along. Now, the phrase “saved by the bell” would have applied quite nicely, due to the fact that the bell dangling loosely above the back entrance had rang promptly upon the employee’s arrival, however, Vito felt it necessary to edit the phrase in order to make it sound as if he had complete control over the situation, despite the fact that he did not. It was "saved by the god" that he came up with, becuase, despite Vito’s disbelief in any real figure of power who controlled his fate, he felt the need to use such a word as “god” in order to explain himself in such a short sentence. This was, however, the furthest description from the truth that Mr. Symons had ever come up with. His club hadn’t been named “God’s”, after all, and there had been a reason for that.

Oh what a dreadful place Earth would be if it sat in the palm of Vito Dee Symon’s hand. The damage would certainly be irreversible, even with every last one of those “storybook heroes” running around, attempting to save all those damsels in distress that there were sure to be…

Vito scratched his right brow, which he had arched out of curiosity as he watched Remmy rise from her seat in order to answer his employee’s distress signal, which had been shining far too brightly for Vito to go about his egotistical ways without noticing. It was as if she were the man’s older sister, Vito noted as he examined the way the brunette stepped behind the bar and began to take charge of the situation; she seemed to move quickly and accurately simply in order to show a younger brother how the big kids served there boss a drink.

Or, perhaps Vito had casted each character incorrectly; sure, at first it had seemed as if Remmy had taken on the role as the current bartender’s older sister, but as Vito watched her expertly move the bottles of alcohol within her fingers and slide the glasses along the sleek bar, he had almost caught a proud glimmer within her eyes, as if she had intended to do nothing but impress Vito. Though this could simply have been something that Vito had allowed his narcissistic mind to concoct in order to make him feel more important than he truly was, Vito did not sweep the theory from his mind, no, instead, he allowed his expression to betray his enjoyment as the artist before him continued on with her artwork.

“Brava, brunette,” The man in his darkly colored suit, tie, and expensive shoes began, offering her the simplest of complements- something which was quite rare when one spent time around Vito, “You’ve got my attention. I haven’t seen someone serve a drink like that around here.”

((Don't worry about it. My post is shorter than usual as well. It happens.))

Remy allowed herself only the smallest of smirks when Vito complimented her work behind the bar. It had taken her only this past hour to get a handle on the man that most considered to be too mysterious to understand. Now, Remy was not suggesting to herself that she knew everything there was no know about Vito; that, indeed, would be impossible, especially considering how detached he kept himself. So she didn’t know everything, but Remy knew what she needed to know, and her knowledge base was growing the longer she spent with the dark-haired man across the table from her.

The smirk had been a calculated response to Vito’s praise, given to suggest that Remy was not surprised to find that what she had done was worthy of praise, as well as to imply that she would not be begging for scrap compliments from Vito. She could have feigned embarrassment at the comment, telling Vito he was being too generous, but they would both be able to call bullshit on that statement. Remy may not have been skilled with a wand, but when it came to alcohol and its service, she was pretty damn good, and pretending she wasn’t would be a waste of time for both of them.

Besides, Remy was becoming quite certain that there was a certain level of confidence required around Vito in order to gain the closest thing he might give that resembled respect. The whole charade of intervening to get them their drinks, the smirk upon his compliment – it was all in subtle reference to the confidence Remy exuded. She wouldn’t be completely submissive to Vito – he didn’t seem to prefer the wilting flower type. He enjoyed his position of power, yes, and Remy would never dream of exerting dominance over him, but she wouldn’t grovel at his feet, either. It seemed his other employees did enough groveling. There was a significant amount of space between groveling and outright challenging Vito, and Remy was working on finding the safe haven between those extremes.

“Perhaps that is why you have had to resort to throwing bottles at your staff?” Remy responded rhetorically to Vito’s compliment that she had served his drink well, both of them knowing that the bottle throwing was a direct result of the poor service demonstrated by the man that was still standing awkwardly behind the counter, having missed the altogether obvious cue that his presence was no longer necessary or wanted. The comment was also to meant to suggest that if Vito hired her, the prospect of throwing things in order to get what he wanted might become obsolete – though if he wanted to throw her onto a bed, Remy would not object.

“It has been my personal experience that Occam’s razor lends itself equally well to bartending as it does to dealing with people,” Remy added after taking another sip of the whiskey she had served herself. Although it was a middle shelf brand, it was better than what Remy was used to when she was between men, and it went down much smoother than the slop they served at the Leaky Cauldron. The Leaky Cauldron was never her first choice of locales to scout for new prospects, but she had occasionally gotten lucky there – both figuratively and literally – so she hadn’t written it completely off her list, despite the weak liquor and relatively poor service.