He hadn't called, not that this didn't surprise Elle. She had his number buried under a pile of take-out from the past few days that seemed to burn a hole through everything she put on top of it.
She hadn't spent the last few nights staring at the approximate place where she'd left it, only half-watching whatever mindless program or infomercial was on at five o'clock in the morning when she finally got home from work.
That was stupid. Naive. Pathetic. She wasn't going to call him first, or at all. Wasn't it like, some sort of unspoken social agreement that since she stupidly put her neck out on the line and invited him over the first time meant the ball was in his court now? Not that she cared if he took the shot.
She didn't at all. She hadn't thought about him. He was like all the other guys, it was obvious now. Fuck and leave. He probably said all those dumb things like she was special and he liked her because he was a sadistic narcissist.
Speaking of, she was currently dancing on the lap of one--some disgusting greasy "talent agent" that came in every week to pinch her ass when no one was looking and buy her drinks. He was a scam and everyone knew it. She was smiling of course, because who doesn't like some jackass asking if she ever considered "modeling."
"You'd make a lot of dough, sweet cheeks," he was saying, downing his whiskey.
"I bet I would," she said, grinning like a pro. And gracefully turning around to rub against his chest to avoid his rank breath. Maybe if she rubbed him raw he wouldn't pay for a second.
"It's easy," he gasped, and Elle discreetly rolled her eyes and turned her head away, dancing against him. "You just come in, you take it off, we snap some pictures..."
She wasn't listening to him anymore, because her eyes had settled to few tables back, and her patented smile started to fall, her eyes flashing and her jaw clenching.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2010-02-05 09:36 pm (UTC)She hadn't spent the last few nights staring at the approximate place where she'd left it, only half-watching whatever mindless program or infomercial was on at five o'clock in the morning when she finally got home from work.
That was stupid. Naive. Pathetic. She wasn't going to call him first, or at all. Wasn't it like, some sort of unspoken social agreement that since she stupidly put her neck out on the line and invited him over the first time meant the ball was in his court now? Not that she cared if he took the shot.
She didn't at all. She hadn't thought about him. He was like all the other guys, it was obvious now. Fuck and leave. He probably said all those dumb things like she was special and he liked her because he was a sadistic narcissist.
Speaking of, she was currently dancing on the lap of one--some disgusting greasy "talent agent" that came in every week to pinch her ass when no one was looking and buy her drinks. He was a scam and everyone knew it. She was smiling of course, because who doesn't like some jackass asking if she ever considered "modeling."
"You'd make a lot of dough, sweet cheeks," he was saying, downing his whiskey.
"I bet I would," she said, grinning like a pro. And gracefully turning around to rub against his chest to avoid his rank breath. Maybe if she rubbed him raw he wouldn't pay for a second.
"It's easy," he gasped, and Elle discreetly rolled her eyes and turned her head away, dancing against him. "You just come in, you take it off, we snap some pictures..."
She wasn't listening to him anymore, because her eyes had settled to few tables back, and her patented smile started to fall, her eyes flashing and her jaw clenching.