( soft, lilting — a masterclass in faking interest, no different than men who speedrun a dinner date to get in your fucking panties (as if they care what your favorite color is, or how much you hate your boss), except ani has the finesse of an expert. you don't skip past the main course just to get to the dessert, even if the burning swirl of nicotine has her mouth watering for a fix of a different kind, halfway to bartering for a cigarette to turn her nerves to ash, instead. her eyes skip down the length of him, more assessing than elevator-eyed. real fancy, button-upped type, with his sticky fingers in dirty secrets — big shot ceo, maybe. politician, wall street, banker. just as likely to hoard his treasure than to buy favor with it. 50/50 aren't bad odds. )
Yeah, ( she agrees, decisively. what she wants to say: you look like shit. what she says instead: ) You look the type.
( in this next masterclass: sweetening an insult to sound like a compliment, like she isn't thinking of ivan's father, like she wouldn't use nikolai zakharov's picture to piss on for target practice. she taps the edge of one long, bejeweled edge against the round, plastic shell, the sly curl of a smile playing at her mouth. )
Ain't you ever heard? If it's free, you're the product. ( just look at her, bought and sold, bartered the same as a diamond. ) Your diamonds would look better on me.
no subject
( soft, lilting — a masterclass in faking interest, no different than men who speedrun a dinner date to get in your fucking panties (as if they care what your favorite color is, or how much you hate your boss), except ani has the finesse of an expert. you don't skip past the main course just to get to the dessert, even if the burning swirl of nicotine has her mouth watering for a fix of a different kind, halfway to bartering for a cigarette to turn her nerves to ash, instead. her eyes skip down the length of him, more assessing than elevator-eyed. real fancy, button-upped type, with his sticky fingers in dirty secrets — big shot ceo, maybe. politician, wall street, banker. just as likely to hoard his treasure than to buy favor with it. 50/50 aren't bad odds. )
Yeah, ( she agrees, decisively. what she wants to say: you look like shit. what she says instead: ) You look the type.
( in this next masterclass: sweetening an insult to sound like a compliment, like she isn't thinking of ivan's father, like she wouldn't use nikolai zakharov's picture to piss on for target practice. she taps the edge of one long, bejeweled edge against the round, plastic shell, the sly curl of a smile playing at her mouth. )
Ain't you ever heard? If it's free, you're the product. ( just look at her, bought and sold, bartered the same as a diamond. ) Your diamonds would look better on me.