They had split a bottle of wine over the course of the evening, a bold but fruity red that Damien - having little knowledge or interest in such things - had forgotten the name of. "To returning to a somewhat normal lifestyle," he toasted Rachel, who glared at him in return and finished her last sip. The daytime bodyguard had been hired after weeks of searching and things were looking up. To celebrate the success, Damien had surprised his human companion and brought her to Echelon, where the food was said to be outstanding and the atmosphere relaxing.
They had ordered their entrees and deserts as well. Damien (not caring too much about what the food was, considering he was just going to have to purge it later) decided upon a piece of duck that wasn't fully cooked - apparently that was the point - and a warm root vegetable salad that tasted vaguely sweet and like dirt to the vampire. It was the most familiar thing on the menu to him, but he wasn't disappointed. Desert, for him, a cheesecake thick and sticking to his throat, making him wash it down with more wine. The evening had consisted of copious amounts of laughter from both himself and his human companion, added on her side by the wine. Every so often she would would purposely make inferences about their life behind closed doors and watch as Damien attempted to hide his face or change the conversation. Devious smiles and promises of exploration and glasses of wine. What a wondrous night!
---
Quinn Patenaude stood at the corner of Broad Way and 11th Street with a backpack full of clothes slung over one shoulder. It was one of the busiest intersections in this part of the city and the only way to get to the White Rabbit from where he lived. Impatient and a bit worried about the time, he looked down at his phone as he could will things to go faster. He had forgotten his headphones at home and it made the twenty minute walk seem much longer than usual, the normal sounds of the city chaotic. As he waited for the signal to walk, he took out a cigarette and lit it, needing something to occupy is brain and calm his nerves. The signal finally turned and the human took off at a brisk walk across the four-lane street, crossing to the same side of the street as those upscale, swanky restaurants that cost more to have a drink at than he made in a week.
Ever since the Pompeii had shut down, Quinn had been trying to figure out something to do with his life. The Pompeii had never been his dream job, of course, but it had its perks. Free liquor and getting paid for the pleasure of viewing his body. It was much easier than working in retail or lower level management, that Nine-to-Five bull. There had been something extremely satisfying about showing men his body, having them toss money at him, slip it in his clothing. He had met some of his closest friends there and he had been devastated when he heard that Hank Garvey, the owner and manager, had to sell the place in order to make good on some bets. Of course that's not what he told anyone; he told everyone that the Sacramentum was shutting them down because Hank refused to pay the extortion bill that they had demanded.
When the news first broke, Harvey had everyone's full sympathy. "We'll get through this", "we'll all go to the White Rabbit as a family", "we'll raise the money and buy a new club somewhere else", on and on. But as the weeks carried on through the last month of Pompeii being open the only clientele were the thugs who pushed Harvey around. They were human, talking about money owed., not undead or supernatural. Harvey made no attempt to remove them from the club. The thugs, big Italian-looking men with square jaws and fists like hams, started harassing the dancers, the wait staff, even the bartenders - tugging on clothing, grabbing them, offering money for sex. The first time someone said something was when Tommy pulled roughly out of the grip of one of the big ones who pulled his toga off and Quinn had, more or less, stepped in. He was able to get two punches to Angelo Macaroni's head in before the Italians plucked him from off of Macaroni and tried to lay Quinn out in his own workplace. That morning, Quinn went home with a split lip, a bruised eye socket, and no job. A sympathy card from Hank had shown up in his mail two weeks later.
Now he was trying to find a way to call the White Rabbit home. He worked as a shot boy for half the money he had made dancing, doubling as barback when it got too busy - which it often did thanks to some recent political bullshit that Quinn didn't really understand. He missed working openly with vampires and demons. He missed stripping. But mostly he missed the atmosphere of the Pompeii - a gentleman's club for lust, not some balls-out rave. He did appreciate his boss though - Lisa-Joe, a red-head who pulled no punches and settled every argument with her fists. Then there was Jake McCloud who, as the whispers told it, was a District Leader for the City Central and the West. A young-looking thing - he often appeared in the club, though Quinn had never taken the chance to talk to him - who didn't quite seem old enough to be allowed in the bar, let alone own it. He had never been fondled at the White Rabbit he was happy to say, but then again he had only been working there a few months. Tommy, his best friend from the Pompeii - a young punk with a very cute ass - had told Harvey to shove it the same day that Quinn got fired and they both worked together at the new club. But seeing as Quinn was almost 30 and Tommy was just barely old enough to drink, Tommy got the stage job of showing his ass. Quinn tried not to feel bitter, but it only made him want to find something else as soon as he could. Maybe dancing for a living wasn't the way he would make his money.
He walked briskly up the street, the sidewalks thankfully wide and brightly lit here. As he approached Echelon, the swankiest of the swanky restaurants, a straight couple stepped out of the building, giggling and all over each other in the way that straight people did - holding hands, kissing like no one else could possibly be nearby, speaking in high pitched, low voices like lovers. Quinn tried to keep his eyes forward, but something drew his eyes to the couple, something familiar that he couldn't put his finger on. He was a safe distance away - about 30 yards - away from them, so he kept his gaze flickering back to them to try to figure out what exactly was pulling his attention. But he just couldn't place it.
