milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Grace is pissed.

For the moment she's hiding it well beneath her casual disregard for anything around her other than the Budweiser in her hand, but her friends would notice something simmering under the disinterest.

Good thing they aren't here.

She'd left the bar and the surprise family cabal only to find Earl sitting at her counter with the freaking brochures she'd just thrown away. Belching, she deleted her sister's messages and ignored Earl's latest attempts to impress upon her the importance of family values. It was a relief when he flashed the wings and disappeared to Vegas or the Titanic or wherever the hell he said he was going. She doesn't care. She never cares.

But she doesn't feel like being alone. These days, that means finding Mike and making some trouble, so here she is, lurking around the main bar with a beer and a somewhat vacant expression, waiting for trouble. Yee-haw.

[OOC: Also for car keys, all are welcome, slowtime likely, etc.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

A tall blonde comes down the stairs. The way she walks with a self-assured, purposeful stride, she could be a runway model.

Or a predator.

A very well-dressed predator, then, with perfectly coiffed hair, wearing a designer form-fitting outfit that's all leather and studs, and impossibly high stiletto heels.

She stops at the bar where she momentarily distracts herself by checking her makeup in a compact mirror.

[OOC: This could end in tears, but I couldn't resist XD]

Grace notices.

She's pissed, not dead... and always a cop at heart.

Hell, in this place she could even be dead and notice. Ain't Milliways grand?

"Hey," Grace says, coming up next to the other woman, innate confidence and devil-may-care attitude making up for her short stature. She doesn't comment on the makeup checking or the stilettos that look like they could be used as a weapon. She doesn't much care about that stuff. It's the predatory walk that caught her interest. "Wanna drink?"

[OOC: *cackles*]

Pam pauses.

Still holding the compact mirror open, she looks down at the small human.

She smells like all sorts of vices, and judging by her heartbeat, she's a plucky little thing.

Then Pam looks left, and then right.

And then back to the human.

Pam's face remains stone cold expressionless.

"Are you talking to me?" she drawls flatly.

Grace looks right, and then left. Then back at the lady with the open mirror. Both eyebrows shoot up.

"Yeah," she replies, her tone a friendly enough challenge, laughter lurking below the surface. Glancing away, Grace throws a leg over the stool and slides on, leaning her elbows on Bar, grinning when a bottle of Jack Daniels appears. Bar knows her so well. "That a problem?"

She gets the ice queen thing and all, but the bar is a little light on interesting tonight. It could use some livening up.

The woman seems so...rustic. Like those Bon Temps people.

Pam snaps the mirror shut and tucks it into her clutch.

"Not a problem at all."

She turns to face her and props a hand on her hip.

"I just didn't think I was your type."

Smirk.

Hey, Oklahoma City is a perfectly respectable size. They have major crimes there and everything. Keeps her employed.

Grace smirks back, opening the bottle and tapping the bar for glasses.

"Well you're fancier than most of the people I throw one or eight back with, but I won't hold that against you." She snorts. "Of course, there was that time I did shots off the Lieutenant Governor at the annual police gala, but that doesn't come up much. Orders."

Still smirking, she raises an eyebrow.

"Well, hell. If you can't talk about doing shots off a public official, what can you talk about."

Plucky, indeed.

Casting a dismissive glance at the glasses and the bottle of whiskey, she then says,

"I don't drink liquor anymore."

"Fuck if I know. I make it a rule to ignore reprimands from above."

Damn, that's an effective eyebrow. Grace would applaud if she weren't so busy lighting a cigarette.

"Okay."

Beat.

"What'll it be?" she asks, finally exhaling the smoke off to the side as she eyes her new drinking companion. "Coffee?"

Ignoring reprimands. Now why does that sound familiar?

"Mm, never had a taste for coffee, to be honest."

Turning to Bar, she runs her manicured fingers over her glossy surface.

"You know what I like, don't you, sweetheart?"

Talking to magic furniture is the last thing Pam thought she would ever do, but here she is. And thus, a wine glass appears, filled with a red liquid that obviously isn't wine.

Grace is a cop. She knows what blood looks like, right?

"Of course I prefer it fresh," Pam says, turning back to her, "but this'll do."

She does, indeed.

That said, Grace fails to look startled or disturbed or any of the other negative reactions Pam might have encountered from other patrons. All she does is smirk a little and take a long drag on her smoke. After all, she'd gotten drunk and horny and let the Prince of Darkness or whatever the hell he calls himself feed off her in the stairwell upstairs.

Grace amuses herself thinking about her uptight sister's face earlier this evening, how she'd wiped down the bar at Louie's with those stupid disinfectant baby wipes before unloading her newest bullshit idea for family bonding. How would Paige react to a wine glass of blood?

Five Hail Marys and an ear-splitting scream.

She snorts and shifts on her seat, leaning on Bar. "So get this. My idiot stick-up-her-ass sister wants us to take a family cruise. Twenty-five Hanadarkos stuck on a boat together. That. That is hell."

So she's not squeamish. That's good.

Well. A squeamish cop would've been problematic from the get-go, but no worries here.

Pam picks up the glass and takes a sip, licking the blood off her upper lip, as crimson as her lipstick.

"Is this her idea of genuine fun or some form of revenge?"

"Fun? Fuck no. Not revenge, either." Grace uses her cigarette like a pointer finger, jabbing her hand forward. "Paige is as Catholic as they come."

She takes a drag.

"What it is is some twisted notion of the virtue of family togetherness or some shit like that. No thanks. I did my time growing up."

She does a dramatic shudder. "You got family?"

There's no still, even though she thinks it, because Grace knows there are other types of family than the one you're stuck with at birth.

She snorts softly at the mention of her sister being Catholic, because organized religion and vampires mix so well together. But Grace herself doesn't seem to have bought into it, so.

At her question, she sort of gives her an expression that says Does it look like I have a family?

"No," she says flatly.

"Not in the human sense. I have my Maker. He's the only family I ever needed for the past hundred years."

She would sound affectionate, if she did affectionate. ...She doesn't really do affectionate.

The expression, as telling as Pam's flat tone, makes Grace laugh. It's no half-assed laugh of mild amusement, either. Grace laughs like she lives: loud and wild.

Abruptly, the laughter dies.

"He ever piss you off?"

It's possible her lips twitch, just a little.

The raucous laugh barely gets a reaction out of Pam except for that raised eyebrow again and another smirk.

It's amusing when humans find her amusing, because usually only Eric laughs at things she says.

"All the fucking time."

You live with the same person for over a hundred years, it's going to happen.

And...there might be some semblance of fondness in her tone.

"So you get it."

Also smirking, Grace reaches up and starts a small braid by her temple, then just as quickly grows bored with it and flips it back.

"What's he like? Your Maker. Besides old." A snort.

Grace shows no hesitation or censure or undue curiosity at the word 'Maker'; it's just a thing that is true.

She smiles at that. A bit toothily.

"He is over a thousand years old, give or take several decades. He's tall, blond, blue-eyed-- you know those Abercrombie and Fitch underwear models? Yeah. Like that, except he can snap every one of them in half in the blink of an eye."

When she talks about Eric like this she feels like the luckiest girl in the world.

Grace blinks. If there's one thing she knows and loves, it's a good looking man. Of course, she's not so picky about the not-so-great looking ones either, so long as something about them catches her interest: cool job, reckless behavior, a crippling depression over a dead cat...

"Damn. I'm suddenly rethinking my life choices." She laughs, lower, lustier and more knowing than before. "He come here?"

Pam likes the sound of that laugh and the way her interest piques, subtly turning the smell of her blood just a bit sweeter. She even steps closer, her ice blue eyes flicking down to the side of her throat, watching and listening to her pulse.

"He does, actually. His name is Eric. Eric Northman. He's difficult not to notice. And even if you don't, you'll know it when he notices you first."

Why does she suddenly feel like a cat bringing its owner a present?

Does the owner like his presents small, feisty and playful? If so, then Grace is willing to be tied up with a bow and presented.

Sorry, Earl.

"Northman." Grace tilts her head away from Pam and idly runs her forefinger along her collarbone. "That literal?"

She did say he was a thousand years old. Back then, names meant something, right?

Eric would consider her bite-sized. (And he'd probably find the pun amusing, because vampire puns.)

"He was a Viking."

There's a note of pride in her tone.

Was. Is. Always.

She follows the motion of her finger. And her eyes flick up to hers.

"Have you been fed on before?"

Grace thinks puns are always amusing, no matter how much they suck.

"A Viking," Grace repeats, her voice huskier now. "That's new. Never met one that didn't come from Minnesota."

The finger travels back toward her shoulder and pushes her hair aside.

"Once. Here. Less viking or," she glances at Pam's feet, "supermodel, more gothic traditionalist. Called himself Vlad."

She smirks.

"Very hot."

So that explains her nonchalance.

Pam smirks in return.

"I'm sure he was."

Probably wore a cape and everything.

The way Grace pushes her hair away to expose more of her neck is far too inviting, and it draws Pam even nearer. Whether her gestures are conscious or not, she will now feel that Pam is eyeing her intensely, leaning in a little, savoring the heat of her skin and blood, listening to her very core.

"So you wouldn't mind being fed on again?" she says, slow as molasses, her teeth white behind her red lips.

"Would I mind," Grace repeats.

There's a question. A faint eye twitch is as telling as the increased thrum of her heart; not all of Grace is as nonchalant as she seems.

"Not if I walk into it willing."

Pam smiles toothily as a short chuckle escapes her lips.

"And what's it gonna take to get you willing?"