Maybe it's frowned upon to drink at this hour. Some people like a beer with their meal, though, and this isn't so much the place where people frown on you if you want something to drink. Yes, please, we'll take your money.
Toni isn't a new hire; she's been around for a while. She pretty much comes in, does her work, and leaves without bothering with any of that 'bonding' stuff. She's not friendly, though some people view that as a sort of challenge. She can also throw a punch if she has to. Right now she's standing behind the bar, scowling at the TV.
Some people are day drinkers. Some people also do most of their day drinking down the street at the place they work, but every once in awhile, you need a change of pace. Say, at your family's bar. Not like the Alexander family is particularly fond of the frowning fellow who comes into the Union, pulling on the brim of his Red Sox cap. He's wearing a quilted red and black flannel jacket to keep him from the cold, as well as a raggedly black scarf, and some kind of black henley under that, along with black jeans and construction boots. There's an old school messenger bag slung across his personage covered in radical Leftist buttons. Shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, he moves up to the bar and takes a seat near the end. He glances up at the TV too, not immediately trying to get Toni's attention.
It's kind of Toni's job to notice newcomers, particularly ones that sit at the bar. She glances that way and immediately narrows her eyes at CB. Suspiciously. Then she ignores him, because she can be kind of a bitch. It's an ignore-off for now. How long until one of them breaks?
Oh, C.B.'ll break. He wants a goddamn drink! "Hey!" He pounds once on the bartop with the flat of his hand. "Double bourbon, neat, beer chaser." He smells like someone was just smoking a cigarette outside -- that and the faint smell of ozone, like there's a storm brewing. Which there very well may be. Inside C.B., at any rate. "C'mon, kid, I don't have all day." Kid? He can't be more than late 20s himself...
Toni rolls her eyes. Great. She makes a sort of assenting noise, somewhere in the grunt family, and sets to work on the bourbon first. She's efficient, despite the thing where she was, you know, ignoring him. The drink is placed in front of him, and the beer follows shortly thereafter. Toni stands behind the bar, eyeballing him wordlessly. Curiously defiant, even.
She did her job. That's all C.B. cares about, right? He mutters a 'thanks,' reaching for the bourbon once and downing nearly all of it in a go. Then he blinks up -- into her eyes. Noticing just /how/ those eyes look. Then he starts to look a little suspicious. "Haven't seen /you/ around before."
Toni scowls at him. "That's generally how I like it," she tells him, her voice low. One eyebrow is arched. She drums her fingernails slowly on the bartop. Click-click-click-click.
C.B.'s brows go up. "Ooooookay." He takes another swallow of bourbon, rummaging in his bag with his other hand. Then he glances away, like he's looking at the bottles behind the shelves instead of at her face. And then lowers his voice a little. "You /do/ realize that my family would probably hide you if they ever found out what you are, right?"
Maybe she doesn't know he's an Alexander. "Why should I care what your family thinks of me and why would I ever tell them?" she demands. Now both eyebrows are up.
C.B. snorts. "Because they own this place, jackass. Not like I have anything to do with it." He's managed to dig a Moleskine notebook out of his bag. "I'm not saying you'd /tell/ them. But it's risky. They could find out." He shrugs. "Suit yourself. If you get your ass beat, don't come crying to me." Not like she would!
"They won't find out anything," Toni tells him, placing both palms on the bar and leaning toward him. It's probably not very intimidating. At all. It might work on sorrier types. "Assuming you don't tell them. Then we'd have a problem, wouldn't we?"
"Why the fuck would I tell them?" C.B. squints and drinks more bourbon. Almost done now. "I never even talk to those assholes. I'm just giving you some fucking /advice/. Jesus." Then he ventures: "What's your name, anyway?"
Toni straightens up some. "People are stupid about this shit," she tells him. "I usually assume people are stupid. That way I'm not disappointed when I'm proven right." Her nose wrinkles. "Do we have to exchange names?"
"Well. I'm not stupid. Sorry to disappoint you." He's clearly not sorry. Then he just shrugs, reaching into his jacket for two things: a pair of silver, oval-shaped wire-rimmed glasses, and an expensive fountain pen. C.B. puts the glasses on and opens his notebook as he drains the last of his bourbon, beginning to write away in it instead of looking at her. "Nope."
"We'll see," Toni tells him, with regards to intelligence. Presumably. She gives him a sort of grimace-smile hybrid, humourless, and strides further down the bar. No names! He can write in peace.
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