TING! [SVR]

[Grayson Wyatt]

W E A R I N G

TING!

TING! TING!

T I N G ! ! ! !

What the hell? Grayson appeared to be making random sounds from the general vicinity of his ***, which was usually never a good sign when someone (namely him) was about to go on what amounted to a blind date. The advertisement for the event had apparently played on local television (though he hadn't noticed it), as well as in the form of those banner ads online. He'd been perusing some totally reputable web sites when he'd noticed the little hearts and had been intrigued.

The premise was pretty straight forward. Meet a bunch of people, possibly make some cash. Two things that Grayson happened to be all about.

His hands slipped down so he could reach into both back pockets (unsure which one held his phone) and which one held his wallet. He retrieved the device and in bright red bold font was:

YOU HAVE BEEN MATCHED!

And then as soon as he swiped to open the app, he was greeted with a mini-map of the event, along with a red dot indicating where the person he was supposed to meet up with was. He tapped the dot, and it gave him a mini-display of his partner's profile.

After getting very briefly lost (he went the wrong direction because he was trying to navigate using the screen), he began in her direction.

[Charlie]

WEARING

TING.

“Oh! Oh, bollocks!”

Where’d she put it?

“Mate, hold this...”

Charlie didn’t even look in Bug’s direction as she shoved her champagne flute at him and released the stem. The gadget continued to ping from somewhere inside her coat, long ago folded and set aside on a chair. Riffling through its pockets, she rescued the smartphone and unlocked the screen. A match, a profile, a prompt, a map. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out what came next.

“That’ll be me sorted then. Mercy buckets,” she announced, retrieving her coat and plucking the flute from Bug’s hands. Knocking back the remainder of champagne and disposing of the empty glass, she gave her thrall but a knowing glance before wandering away from the bar.

“Hello—” she called out upon seeing her match, smile impish and wide. Her voice took on a singsong quality as Lionel Richie scripted her follow up, the Scottish lilt entirely her own: “—is it me you're looking for?”

[Grayson Wyatt]

He caught her eye and she captured his attention with a little bit of lyrical work from the 1980’s. “I can seeeeee it in your eyes.” He returned, though that was before he actually managed to look into them. Blame it on his phone. He had been glued to it the entire trip over because his navigation skills left something to be desired. He could reference the device and walk in what he thought was a perfectly straight line, only to glance back down casually and note that he’d entirely fucked it up. So he had to basically tread carefully whilst watching his little blue dot move. He dropped his cell into the inner pocket of his jacket so that he could get a good and proper look at her.

His grin was irrepressible, big, and a little heavy to one side. “Well look at you.” He said, words which might have been ambiguous, though the way he said it made it clear he intended them as a compliment. His hand slipped out, as if he intended to shake hers, but he went right past that mid-point between them so he could drag the backs of his fingers across her arm, to feel the fabric of her sweater. It looked fluffy and soft, and it was his instinct to see if it was as luxurious as he hoped. Of course that meant getting just a little closer, which was how he caught the faintest whiff of alcohol in the air. Oh. She certainly was his type of person.

“I’m Grayson, and that means you’re Charlie?” He asked, before his shoulders straightened a little bit, when he pulled his hand back. “I guess that means I have you for the next little while. Are you a bumper cars kind of woman?” he asked, brows jumping up at the question.

[Charlie]

The allurist cocked her head to side to regard him. Her smile widened at the compliment, but she kept her thoughts to herself. He was fit. Stunning, even. There was something about him that was captivating. The eyes, she concluded. An air about him felt familiar, and she was immediately at ease. In him she sensed a kindred spirit. Not that she’d been particularly nervous about this, but the anticipation that’d built up over the past minutes had not led to an anticlimax.

“Aye, that’s the name a’right,” she replied, amused by his reaction to her jumper. That was the third person tonight drawn to the soft wool; Bug and the redheaded bartender had done the same just minutes prior.

Blindly pocketing her phone (which would make it all the easier to find later, no doubt), she stepped back to better regard him. With his shoulders drawn back, he looked as if he could easily commandeer a room. The leather jacket was strongly approved of. Her grin tipped at one corner as he spoke, her attention diverting from him to the activity in question.

“The dodgems? Haven’t been in one of those since I was a child... Doubt my driving’s improved much, but aye. I’m keen on anything, mate.” As a bartender, drinking and driving were intrinsically linked, and though dodgems hardly qualified as triggers, the thought did lead her to a question of her own: “Ye had somethin’ tae drink yet?”

[Grayson Wyatt]

Something to drink? An image flashed behind his eyes, as if his brain were taking a snapshot of something that hadn’t even happened yet. He could see himself wildly drunk and laughing like a madman, attempting to crash himself into the woman. It didn’t even matter if he was all that successful. And then another image of him retelling the story in the future, talking about how he’d spent the entire night ramming into people from behind. That the dodgems (a term he decided he liked) was involved need not be mentioned. Indeed, Charlie mentioned that she hadn’t played with them since she’d been a child, and already Grayson’s mind betrayed that he had never fully grown up. It sounded like an absolute blast.

“Not a sip, and now you’ve made me thirsty.” He probably would have stopped by the bar first, if he hadn’t been running late getting there. But that was very him. Fashionably late. In truth, he had no time management skills of which to speak. This may very well have related to his inability to hold down a job for more than a few weeks at a stretch.

“Shall I escort you to the land of the ****-faced?” He asked, his arm offered in the image of a man who was a lot more gentleman than he could properly muster. Though through the motion, he never quite broke eye contact, at least not deliberately. His own gaze was a boxed paradox. Excitable and yet subdued, inviting and yet aloof, warm and yet playful. He’d already decided that he liked her smile very much and aimed to see a little more of it.

His feet were moving without a real destination in mind. Well. A vague one at the very least, but people were always talking about it being the ‘journey’ and not the ‘destination’ that was important. It didn’t even occur to Grayson that they weren’t being literal. “Scottish or...Irish?” He asked. He’d had a lot of access to people from all over the world, growing up in New York - so he could just about figure it out, but wasn’t sure enough to make assumptions.

[Charlie]

Charlie guffawed. The land of the ****-faced. Aye, she knew that place well. Years after years of bartending had familiarised her well with its inhabitants. Some she preferred over others, most made for interesting social observation, and few were worthy of becoming a story. After all these years, the things that had amused or shocked her at seventeen rarely made it to her radar.

“Technically, both, but Glaswegian all the way through,” she said, taking the offered arm and following at a matched step. It was easier to keep up with her heels adding inches to her legs, though the dress was proving not as easy to walk in as she’d hoped. Oh well, she’d just have to hike it up when the time came. Not that she’d mind given the company she was keeping.

“What bout you, Grayson? What’s yer life story then?” the allurist asked, beaming up at him. There was that impish lilt to her voice, the kind that suggested small talk was to be reserved for the weak. If they had but a few minutes or hours to spend with one another, they might as well take the plunge.

[Grayson Wyatt]

Grayson noticed that Charlie’s dress seemed to be binding. It looked absolutely stunning on her, and having done some modeling in his time, he was all too aware that aesthetic could often take precedence over function. Especially in the context of dating. So he did what any gentleman (read as: Almost nobody) would have done. Rather than continue walking side-by-side with her, he instead easily looped an arm around her middle, and then slipped his arm right under her knees so that he could sweep Charlie off of her heels. The move was practiced enough that it actually came across as one smooth motion. “I’ve only ever been to Glasgow once, and it was only for an evening of shopping on Buchanan Street.” That had been back in highschool, when he and several of his friends had gone on a European trip.

They were nearing one of the tents with a bar, and Grayson could practically make out the olfactory version of the siren song that was a drink fruity enough he hoped it was some variation of Sangria. “As for me, believe it or not, I was not always the boyishly handsome, mysterious, and yet waggishly charming man you see before you. At one point I had…” He lowered his voice substantially. “...Braces.” His eyes widened then, brows lifting as he struggled not to grin and give himself away.

“Seriously though, I grew up with, what I thought at the time, were all of the normal aspects of a reasonable childhood. A nanny, vacation houses across the globe, weekend trips to the family ski lodge, competition horses, my own personal bathing fountain. Which is not as strange as it sounds.” He commented, only to very hastily add on. “Not that I think those things are all that normal anymore. I mean I live in Harper Rock now.”

Wait. That probably didn’t sound very complementary.

“What I mean to say is that I’m not rich anymore.”

And that just sounded pathetic.

“We are here!” He declared before seating Charlie on the bar. For a man who claimed to be charismatic, he totally had epic foot in mouth syndrome.

Super sorry for the delay. If I need to change anything, just poke me and I will <3

[Charlie]

“I should wallap ya heid aff fer that, ya div,” she bleated, voice still pitch high from the shock.

The threat was an empty one, for her body remained tensed as she did her best not to move at all. The last thing she wanted was to roll out of his grasp to the ground. Not even a cat could land properly in these heels.

One arm clung to his shoulders while the other gripped at her dishevelled coat.
There was no denying that this afforded her a far better view as he spoke.

“Not rich? I coulda sworn I sed I only was interested in someone minted,” she protested. Whatever attempt she made at looking put off was sabotaged by the slanted smirk she sported. “At least you’re braw, so I’ll settle fer that.”

If it’d been too sore a point, Charlie doubted he’d have brought it up. There were few things she was willing to openly discuss, and they both revolved around numbers. Her curiosity was piqued.

Being sat on the bar was new. Not that she’d never done it before, but by the time stools stopped being of interest there was usually far more alcohol seeping out her capillaries. As both a seasoned bartender and proud owner of one single article of white clothing, Charlie slid off the countertop with greater ease than she’d anticipated. At least they’d gotten themselves noticed. Before the bartender reached them, she glanced towards Grayson with a furrowed brow.

“What brought you here?”

[Grayson Wyatt]

Circa 2012 Grayson had been a peacock in a field of beautiful flowers. His style had gotten more understated over the years, but there had been a time when vibrant colors were par for the course. However flamboyant accoutrements were dull next to the accessory which Gray could not live without - that being people. As a teen, he’d never gone anywhere alone. There was always at least one of his numerous lady friends in attendance, hanging off one of his arms, pressed close. People often made the assumption that he was some sort of Casanova, a playboy. In truth, he was just most comfortable with teeming humanity around him. He liked to surround himself with pretty people and pretty things. This made him vain. This made him shallow. He knew it.

That had been the hardest part of trying to adjust to Harper Rock. He didn’t have his elegance. Didn’t have his social circle. He was a fish flapping around on the land.

“You probably shouldn’t. For all you know, I’m really into that kinda thing, and then you’ll have me all worked up.” He said, his voice playfully chiding.

“You and me both. You sure you’re not an heiress? Trust fund baby? Maybe the daughter of some important businessman? If so…” He trailed off, the terms deliberately ambiguous, and probably a little too heavy handed in how suggestive they were. She was slipping off the bar, and Gray was making up the physical difference by leaning over it to get a look at what was offered. “It’s freezing. Let’s have a strawberry daiquiri.” He commented, fingers drumming as he turned his attention back to Charlie.

Gray’s eyes themselves were the sort of blue that seemed like they could cut through just about anything. Like one might have made them out even in dense fog. “To Harper Rock? Uhhh. So there’s no really classy way to put this. I came looking to get laid. I started up this...thing, with a really cute guy over Instagram. Made plans to visit him and...honestly things get a little fuzzy after that point. It was like I walked through a fog for six months, and by the time I came out of it, I’d racked up enough debt that even my well-to-do parents were enraged. The money ran out, so he dumped me.”

By that point, his daiquiri had been served, so he took it and sipped. Yeah. Totally second date material here. Well. At least he didn’t live in anyone’s basement. He was an open book. Some of the pages of his story were just uglier than others. “What about you?”

[Charlie]

Charlie was not having a strawberry daiquiri. Rum was disgusting, and she wouldn’t be swayed no matter how many times clients tried to buy her a drink in hopes of challenging her palate. Champagne would do her far more justice tonight. After all, she’d taken the trouble to dress up fancily, and a flute in her hand would only heighten her fanciness.

The allurist was admittedly a little confused about Grayson’s predilections, but chose not to question him further. It was the term fuzzy that made gave her pause. It sounded a lot like a spell had descended upon him, and though it could simply be a figure of speech, she knew better. After all, Bug hadn’t come into her service willingly, not at first anyway.

“I—huh,” she paused, drawing a blank. Sipping at the champagne, she wondered just how out of practice she was to struggle over such a simple question. It was so customary for her to lie when asked, but there was a genuineness about Grayson that made her want to share her story. This whole event was an exercise in opening up, or at least trusting herself enough to have her own back should that honesty backfire.

“I came here as a backpacker two years ago and work as a bartender. I’d been in Australia for two years before that, doing the same. And in Scotland before that, saving up money to leave,” she said. Tilting her head to the side, she regarded him for a fleeting moment, before adding, “Mum died when I was young, and my da wasn’t winning any parent awards after that. He’s dead now, and even if he weren’t there’s nothing worth returning to Glasgow for, so...”