Three guys walk into a bar...

He would have preferred Bacardi rum, and not the weaker substitutes sometimes distributed in mixed drinks—no, Atticus wanted amber magma that scorched his insides and left him thinking he could breathe fire like a damn dragon. That was the good shit. He grunted, glancing down at the empty bottle in his hands. Too bad he had to settle for beer. A few bottles of this barely took the simmering edge off of his aggravation; by now he was certain that Nantan had picked up on the fact that there was something more to his anger than just mindless irritation with customers. At one point his friend had cracked a joke, but Atticus had only mumbled a half-hearted reply before pressing on with the conversation, one arm slung over the back of his chair. Now, discussion over, he was leaning forward, the lip of his latest bottle perched between two of his fingers, his eyes set on the floor below his feet.

“What was that?” Atticus growled, jarring out of another somber mood. He slid his gaze in Nantan’s direction, glancing over his shoulder, and he waited hardly a second before something in his expression eased up. The tension in his shoulders slackened and he released a breath, pushing up from his seat to grab the black jacket he had tossed over the back of it. “…like I’d turn down free booze,” he finally said with a half smile. “I’ll go, but on one condition. I’m not driving back.” He picked up his empty bottle again, ignoring the slight ache behind his eyes, and tossed it into the closest trash can. At least this trip would give him the opportunity to forget a few things.

Before he finished zipping up his jacket, Atticus tenderly grabbed the gold chain around his neck, tucking it—and the ring dangling from the bottom—under his shirt. He then swept his still charcoal-dusted fingers, courtesy of his latest art project, through hair and sighed. Screw it—what did people at a bar care if he had streaks in his hair or black dust on his fingers? “Tell you what. Since you’re buyin’, I’ll cover the tip,” he added to Nantan on his way out, momentarily grinning. As if paying tip money would spare his friend the imminent, soul crushing plummet Nantan’s bank account was about to take. Ah well. What are friends for?

He’d return the favor someday anyway.

However, Atticus stiffened in his seat when the car finally jerked to a stop outside of a place he didn’t know. He might have been more concerned about the sudden stop if his mind weren't so preoccupied elsewhere. His gaze searched the building before he decided to get out of the car, frowning. This…didn’t look like some of the bars he was used to. There were more lights, and…were those bouncers or damn mountain trolls at the door? Jesus. Atticus growled under his breath. The measures these days that some bars had to take in order to keep kids under 21 out never failed to surprise him. At one point, Atticus glanced up at the sign on the building, but his eyes skimmed over the details other people would normally take in, like say, the name of the place. The only comprehensible thing that he could make out from such a quick glance was the number 4 at the beginning. 4 what? His dyslexia twisted the other letters into snarled gibberish—though maybe those beers didn’t help either—and before he could give himself a headache attempting to decipher them for what they were, he quit, looked at Nantan and shut the car door behind him.

“You said half off, right? No wonder. This place is about as shady as a strip joint,” he joked. “Where’s this guy of yours?”

Time Stamp: April 28th, late night-ish
Notes:

Did that kid just call this place foreplay? As in...? Well that was just grand, wasn’t it? It certainly explained why club oh-so-cleverly had a 4 in front of all those letters Atticus hadn’t bothered to read. Real cute. He withheld a distressed noise, but just barely. Nantan was answering his question, and as Atticus expected, attempted murder, much less actual slaughter, was highly inadvisable. Something about premeditated this and crime of passion that. It all sounded like a bunch of excuses and useless jargon, especially with the way Nantan was stumbling over his words.

“So in short,” Atticus continued, pressing his thumb and forefinger gently against his eyes in an effort to massage an oncoming headache away, “I should have kept my mouth shut.” He contemplated for a second longer before adding, “You know it seems to me this ‘premeditation’ you’re talkin’ about relies fairly heavily on the fact that there are witnesses to attest to it in the first place.” He breathed a small laugh, as if the prospect of mass murder was a classic joke, but in reality, his shoulders squared. He removed his hand from his eyes and fought the urge to glare down at his pipe as he pulled it out from between his teeth. Smoke plumed from the surface. “I’m kidding, Nantan,” he growled under his breath as a consolation, “but a strip club? A strip club? I ought to kick your ass. I’m married.”

Atticus glanced at Marcos again a second later.

“M-membership?” He managed in a strangled breath. Atticus froze in his seat and stared at the exuberant young man, his pipe sitting limply in his hand, forgotten. All around the club, people seemed to be genuinely easing up and having a good time, but nope—not Atticus. He was in the midst of a panic attack. The longer this went on, the more his nerves frayed, and he wasn’t naturally a nervous creature, which probably didn’t bode well in the long run. His gaze darted from Nantan to Marcos, as if to ask one or the other if that statement were supposed to be a joke.

Isn’t getting drunk off our asses in a strip club interesting enough? Nantan had said. Well apparently not.

Atticus stared, almost blankly at the two men in front of him until something in his body posture eased up; his eyes seemed to come to life again. They sparked devilishly. “You know what,” he said slowly, offering up a pleasant shrug, “why not?” The pause was likely long enough to cause some concern this time, but a small, renewed energy seemed to be affecting him. He appeared to be taking it all in stride. “You’re right, my friend,” he said to Marcos. “Let’s make it interesting. Nantan.” Atticus picked up his latest shot, raised it and downed the contents in one gulp, as if in a toast. The grin on his face was almost wicked. “This was your idea, right? You’re funding my drinks, but I did say something about paying tips. Might as well kill two birds with one stone and get you a lap dance or a strip tease while I’m doing it.” He paused, fished out his wallet and casually began to count the money inside, flipping through meager bills, eyes flashing. “Or maybe your friend has a better idea,” Atticus growled. “But there's enough paper in here to cover a good show either way, so consider yourself lucky.”

Or cursed.

Time Stamp: April 28th, 10:00pm-ish
Notes: Lol Atticus is agitated. xD

Atticus rubbed another crisp bill between his thumb and forefinger, the scent of cash—half a day fresh out of a local ATM—only building upon on his list of problems. In fact, he wished he didn’t have it. He sighed to cool his rising aggravation, ignoring Nantan’s sarcasm, and swept the back of his hand across his forehead. If someone, especially Nantan, had told him this morning that he’d wind up spending good money in a strip club, he wouldn’t have believed a damn word of it. Nope. Not one word. Yet, here he was, and it was going to take a hell of a lot more drinks before he could feasibly forgive himself for remaining in his seat in spite of how confused he felt. He stilled for a moment, contemplating exactly how much cash he should waste on this little scheme before he simply shook his head and gave up. Screw it. Part of him wanted to laugh. Nantan thought he was being funny, but it wouldn’t seem so funny when his offer turned out to be serious.

“I’d worry more about your own clothes if I were you,” he retorted. “Because a stripper will be taking them off soon.”

What did Atticus need the extra money for anyway?

However, before he could growl another warning at his friend, his gaze drifted and he noticed a shadow of movement out of the corner of his eye; Marcos seemed to be rising from his seat. This freed Atticus for a moment to order another shot of his favorite Barcardi, but when he grabbed the glass and prepared to lean back in his chair and wolf it down, he noticed exactly what Marcos was doing. Or rather, where he was going: straight to the stage, where one of the club’s apparent favorites seemed to be taking her turn working the crowd. He barely noticed Marcos slide up next to her, in fact, Atticus almost looked away, irritated, but his glass paused, the edge tipped forward on his bottom lip. The amber liquid licked at the very tip of his tongue—he could taste its bitterness, enticing and foreign, but a movement, or perhaps a flicker of fire, drew his gaze to the woman on stage and held it there in a vice. His heart jerked. It pounded feebly in his chest and his breath caught momentarily.

He found himself forgetting—a distant, musing glaze in his eye. She was a beautiful woman, of that there was no doubt. Customers were practically shivering into stupors at her expertise and he couldn’t blame them; but they were idiots. His brow rose a bit, intrigued by how effortlessly she played her audience, how confidence seemed to sing in her gestures...her dance was more complicated than most probably realized. She had the grace and charm of an exotic cat—but she wasn’t like most young women, ridiculously skinny to the point of unhealthy, and impulsive in her routine. No, her dance seemed natural, but somehow feral and controlled at the same time. In some ways it reminded him of the nimble and angry controversy of capoeira and—

And the legs.

Damn.

Atticus nearly seized up uncomfortably when Nantan broke the involuntary trance she had placed him in. He instantly downed the latest shot and let the burn settle as his friend’s words finally struck home. “He?” Atticus questioned, confused. He? Just who in the hell was Nantan watching? He raised a brow, resisting another growl as the necklace around his neck felt a little heavier. By the time he had finally discovered—or stumbled upon—exactly what had intrigued Nantan, he was speechless. His eyes had narrowed and he looked sharply at his friend before staring at the stage again.

Only to discover that the woman he had been admiring a moment ago from a distance was now dangerously close. Deep down, something in him bristled—and maybe not in a bad way. It was more or less a sense of awareness, and he tensed, yet again plagued with a conflicted heaviness in his chest that suggested he didn’t understand—much less shouldn’t—understand why he found her so fascinating. But the problem was, he did understand. It wasn’t the beauty that drew him, it was her mettle and the bold depth to her movements, the passion and the strange twist of normalcy in her brown eyes.

Damn, damn, damn. How could she ask him that?

Atticus found himself reaching for his pipe. He couldn’t remember setting it down on the counter behind him, but he must have. As she took a seat, he considered what should be said very carefully, and aggravatingly enough, required a long draw from his pipe once Nantan offered his jacket to her. Something about that unsettled him. Worse, there seemed to be a desperation in his friend’s eyes, but Atticus closed his own and breathed out an indifferent—or seemingly so—train of smoke toward the floor. It took barely a moment for him to come to a conclusion that would maybe appease everyone, though his gut clenched at the decision. Hopefully…he hadn’t read something wrong. And Nantan did deserve some trouble for his carelessness.

Didn’t he?

Atticus opened his eyes again and stood up. “I’m doing this for your own good,” he said mysteriously, flicking his gaze toward Nantan before heading for the stage. He bit down on his pipe and counted out a few bills. By the time he reached the stage and stood at the end of it, Marcos seemed to be winning over the crowd Naomi had given up. Atticus crooked a finger at the kid to summon him. “I’ll give you fifty bucks to show him a good time,” he said, jerking his thumb back toward the bar. Atticus could only half wonder if Nantan could even guess what he was saying from over there. It might make some customers unhappy to have Marcos away from the stage, but he added, “At least think about it. Might be fun—he’s been watching since the moment you left the bar.” And then, with a spark in his eye, he grabbed his pipe, let loose another rush of smoke and…surprisingly came to a stop barely a few feet from Naomi.

Exactly what was he going to do with her?

His fingers clenched over the bottom of his pipe briefly. “…Nantan don’t think you’ve dodged a bullet.” What bullet was there to dodge, anyway? Atticus’ eyes glazed over again, unable to look away from Naomi. “But,” he said slowly, “….I guess…if you don’t mind…”

Damn. Couldn’t even bring himself to say it, even if the intention was apparent.

Time Stamp: April 28th, late-ish
Notes: I apologize for how long it is! Obviously, nobody has to match it. I just had to set up some stuff to progress the thread. xD And lol Atticus. I didn’t expect him to react the way he did.