Ivan Press

[Ivan] A quality establishment like the Kitty Kat Klub doesn't advertise across conventional means. It's all word of mouth here, which means sooner rather than later, Ivan hears about it. He might not be a terribly diligent Warrior For The Cause. He might not be a very pious son, and he's certainly nobody's devoted father -- but he has money, and money buys connections, and those long elegant claws of his are in half the pies in this city.

Heard about it, actually, a few months ago. Just didn't get bored enough, didn't run out of other things or women to do, until tonight. When he arrives, though, it's a goddamn production. Three cars pull up. Two are black Escalades, and they match down from hood ornament to wheel rims. The third is something far more exotic: a Lamborghini that costs more than most american households save up in ... well, ever.

The Kitty Kat Klub isn't exactly a swank deal; not some postmodern, boutique 'gentlemen's club' on the North Shore. No, this is a seedy old place with a long colorful history. The bouncers elbow each other. The customers filing in stare.

Some six or seven people climb out of the trio of cars. Most of them are dressed in dark, sharp clothing -- uniform without being a uniform. Two are large men; they stay by the cars, hands clasped before themselves, eyes watchful for would-be vandals. A few others stay in the cars. In the end only three enter the club: a gaunt, dour-faced man; a thin woman with an unreadable lovely face,

and Ivan.

It's the woman that takes care of the accounting -- pays the cover, puts down information for the bar tab. Ivan strolls right in, pausing a few steps within to survey the pickings. And to hold his arms up and a little to the sides, so practiced it's almost unconscious, so that the other man -- his valet, perhaps -- can take his coat and check it.

Then it's just a silk suit. Modern-cut, edgy and lean. His shirt underneath is a pale, icy purple; his pocketsquare matches, and his watch glints. Money is like a scent around him, all but oozing from his pores. It's in his thousand-dollar haircut; it's in the clearly tailored cut of his clothes; it's in the way he looks at all the flesh for sale as if he could, in fact, afford it all.

There's a black cigarette drooping negligently from his lips. Such things are illegal in public spaces, but he'll just pay the fine. He clips it between his lean fingers and uses it to point to a sprawling corner booth, currently occupied by a noisy crowd of 20-somethings just off their shift at ... whatever dead-end job they might hold.

"Could we have that table," he says to his valet; not a question. The valet speaks to the bouncers. Money changes hand. The bouncers close in on that unfortunate table; there's a brief commotion, and then the drunkfaced 20somethings find themselves rather forcibly reseated.

[Gina McClaren] *Gina does not smell like money. Gina smells like road dust. She smells like the coconut liquor she stole from the last trucker she hitched a ride with. His cab smelled like old cheese, and Gina needed something stronger than a tictac after that ordeal. Still, she's better for wear than she would be if she hadn't stopped for a shower somewhere along the road, and to those with right senses - she smelled of spices and sand.

She'd been on the hunt for semi-legit employment in a club, and had come up empty every time. Now she's leaning against the bar, five feet of caramel curvature wrapped in a "silk" shawl of teals and purples. Looking to the stage where a thin blonde girl dry humps a pole like it owes her money, and if this woman was any indication of what the place was looking for, well - Gina's search would be continuing. Her expression incredulous as she waits for the woman to be done so she might have her shot.*

[Ivan] It's not possible to miss that scuffle - drunk young people shoved aside like so much chaff, bouncers swayed by cold-hard-cash clearing the way for a trio of more, hm, refined customers. Two of them clearly work for the third, and clearly have for a long time; the third has the indolent air of a spoiled young prince, which is, in fact, pretty much what he is.

Vodka is ordered, ice cold. Cognac as well. While these details are being attended to by 'his people', Ivan is studying the working girls to try and find the least disease-ridden of the lot. Frankly, he's starting to doubt the taste of ... whatever unimportant person referred this place. A few seconds' survey, half-interested at best, and then his eyes stop on Gina waiting her turn. She sees him looking at her curiously; his head tilts a few degrees. Then he beckons a waitress over with a snap and two fingers, speak to her for a moment, then nod in Gina's direction.

The waitress comes Gina's way: stringy blonde hair and an old wad of bubblegum she keeps popping. "Gent over there wants to get to know ya," she says. "He asks for a dance, club gets a 60% cut or Sammy 'n Marty over by the door'll have a word wit'cha whether or not you're hired."

[Gina McClaren] *A darkly arched brow lifts curious as Gina rolls her head towards the young man requesting her attention. Usually she liked this sort of barter with knives tucked up her sleeves, but there wasn't much in the way of coverage in her jingly little belly dancing outfit. The pikey gives a noncommittal roll of tawny shoulders and begins her sway towards Ivan.

Ivan of the intense gaze, and little more, his rage held as perfectly in check, as much controlled by his will as the females at his side. Gina tilts her chin, looks out the top of brown eyes, playful and predatory, long hair swishing with each kick of her hips, settling as the Strider kin leans against the corner of his booth. fingers dancing across her collarbone.*

Hello Hello.

Whats this then?

*A flicker of her gaze up and down the entitled gent, lips playing at mischeif. A woman of intimate charm.*

[Ivan] [AIM died, but i'm still here.]

[Ivan] The booth is little more than a large semicircular padded bench of questionable sanitation around a small, round surface the size of an endtable. Just enough room for drinks, money, and a tabledance. Ivan has the center seat; one foot is up on the edge of the table. Stage. Whatever one chooses to term it.

He watches Gina come closer. Hair swaying, hips swaying. There's an unabashed appreciation in his eyes, which are pale green flecked in gold. Feline, feral - lupine. He begins to smile as she hello-hellos him; there's a faintly cynical edge in it.

"Now, I'm hardly implying that you're some classy society dame, so don't take offense. But miss, you seem a cut above the other -- entertainers here." He takes a drag off his cigarette, then motions to the two on either side of him. "This is Max. That's Dmitri. I'm Ivan."

To his left sits the lovely blankfaced woman, Max, who seems no more interested in Gina than she is in the young man she works for. Or anything else, for that matter. Her dark eyes sweep the Strider kin head to down and up again, then move aside, dismissive. The man on Ivan's right pays her a moment's more notice, but then also looks aside. That's more respect for the age-old lines between master and servant than anything else. No matter how casually Ivan may treat them, no matter how friendly and generous he might occasionally feel like being, Dmitri doesn't forget his place. The lesser-bred kin of Falcon, who live largely by the grace of their more blessed cousins, can't ever forget.

It's Ivan that draws the eye and holds it, though, magnetic in the sheer assurance that immense wealth and privilege brings. He sits up, leaning forward to tap ash into one of the empty shotglasses that have been brought to the table at some point. Ivan doesn't notice these things - shotglasses appearing, vodka being poured, his personal assistant paying out of his bottomless accounts - all the tiny minute details that make his life of luxury possible. He'd sure as hell notice their lack, though.

"You were waiting a turn on the pole," he goes on to observe. "Most the dancers do that backstage. That must mean you don't work here yet. Job-hunting?"

[Gina McClaren] [Gina upturns a table and turns into Medusa. End of - or Pause of - Scene!]