Jeans and a dress shirt adorned the man’s broad frame as he sat, hunched over the bar, an outsider amongst the many gyrating bodies of the Masquerade Nightclub. Asher looked better suited to a side-alley, hole-in-the-wall kind of place, the sort that ran football on a T.V. and didn’t have any kind of dance floor or stage. But he was here for a reason, and if he had to be a little uncomfortable and out of place, then so be it.
Raising his arm to signal the bartender, he held up two fingers and pointed to his tumbler, assuming that the staff would know he meant he’d like another double. He’d been there for a half-hour already, drank enough to run up a tab, and though the place was bustling with activity, he’d been steadily earning his lonesome place on the only corner of the bar that was no longer sticky. By now they knew his preference in bourbon, and it was brought to him not too long after the gestured request. In the meantime, though, he was scanning the crowd.
Occasionally, his hazel eyes would pause on one body or another, their depths sparking with what might have been intrigue or desire, but he never moved to fulfil whatever it was he saw.
Moments later he’d return to his drink, filled whilst he ignored whoever poured it. Asher drank with a measured patience, as though the amber liquid was some kind of elixir that would give him the answers to the questions he posed of the ignorant crowd, and swilled the glass at regular intervals. Everything he did was slow and considered - quite the contrast to the people who milled around him. Still, whether or not he stood out was likely predicated on how much one had to drink - which, by the looks of it, meant that he’d draw no more attention than a shadow on the wall for the rest of the night. Or so he thought.
Raising his arm to signal the bartender, he held up two fingers and pointed to his tumbler, assuming that the staff would know he meant he’d like another double. He’d been there for a half-hour already, drank enough to run up a tab, and though the place was bustling with activity, he’d been steadily earning his lonesome place on the only corner of the bar that was no longer sticky. By now they knew his preference in bourbon, and it was brought to him not too long after the gestured request. In the meantime, though, he was scanning the crowd.
Occasionally, his hazel eyes would pause on one body or another, their depths sparking with what might have been intrigue or desire, but he never moved to fulfil whatever it was he saw.
Moments later he’d return to his drink, filled whilst he ignored whoever poured it. Asher drank with a measured patience, as though the amber liquid was some kind of elixir that would give him the answers to the questions he posed of the ignorant crowd, and swilled the glass at regular intervals. Everything he did was slow and considered - quite the contrast to the people who milled around him. Still, whether or not he stood out was likely predicated on how much one had to drink - which, by the looks of it, meant that he’d draw no more attention than a shadow on the wall for the rest of the night. Or so he thought.
