Workin' It

[morg]

--open

The pretty brunette flashed her work ID at the bouncer, and entered the club without any reservation. Several of the employees had already gotten to know her, and smiled and waved. They'd all learned by now not to bother with offering her a drink. While the girl might appreciate it, their boss certainly wouldn't. At least, not until after the performance.

Morgan still couldn't believe she'd agreed to do this. She shed her coat, offering it to a coat checker that Rae had recently hired. It had occurred to the rockstar that she needed someone to handle bulky outerwear, especially with the onset of winter.

Thus prepared, Morgan mounted the stage.

"Gonna be performing tonight, Cavan?"

"What's it look like?" retorted Morgan. she began readying the stage for her.

"You're always so hot when you do this. You sure you want to keep that boyfriend?"

"Positive, Mick, thanks for the attention though," Morgan winked and continued to gather up her things. Soon several instruments were situated, and everything was in order for her performance.

Morgan picked up a guitar, strung it around her neck, and let her fingers go to work, traveling down the strings and coaxing a beautiful melody from it. Cheating, yes, but still wonderful.

After all, if you've got a Gift, you might as well use it.

[Duke Bell.]

Duke hated Masonville. If it had proved to be worthwhile, he would have gotten Judas to buy out Masonville; that way, he could have added a brothel and actually make something of the stupid town. There was always the option of leaving the Academy, and attending an Ivy League school elsewhere, except he'd already tried that and it hadn't turned out too well; it had been hard to explain to Princeton exactly how he had survived a fifteen story fall.

He wasn't sure what time it was, but he was on his millionth glass, at least. He'd been there, at his table for one just to the side of the stage and near the restrooms, ever since some time around midday. Band practice had been scheduled for eleven in the morning, but when his idiot drummer had broken the drum kit, most things had gone downhill from there. He'd walked the familiar steps to the Cave and hadn't stopped the flow of rum since. It didn't do him much good though, because his body was absorbing and flushing out the alcohol at a much faster rate than usual; he figured stress had something to do with it, except he didn't stress.

He was wearing his least favorite Marc Jacobs blazer, thank God, which allowed him to lean an elbow on the table where he'd made a small mess involving peanuts. Head resting in a palm and the most uninterested look on his face, Duke watched a girl get on the stage, guitar in hand. Not at all curious, he maintained his half-asleep posture while mentally mutilating the night's entertainment. Too short; though he knew that wasn't at all relevant, too learned; which at least, was mostly true, for all he knew.

"Sing us a song, sweetheart," he called, seconds wasted in his mind. He waved her a hundred from his pocket, and despite noticing how young and familiar she was, he wondered if he gave her another hundred, if it'd be enough to have her take off the rest of her clothes.

[morg]

There were times when Morgan wished she wasn't effectively whoring herself out. she took little joy in playing, as she knew she did little more than copy. At least it sounded good. Good enough that Rae was willing to pay her regularly, and that people were willing to give her nice tips.

Rae had argued that they'd probably give her more tips if Morgan bothered to dress up for her performances. But the Almasy simply couldn't force herself to pretty up for a bunch of leering strangers, no matter how much money they flashed. Then again, she was the sort who'd be a stripper if she needed the money.

Odd line of thought, given the request and waving. With little preamble, Morgan darted forward and snatched the bill from Duke's hand. Her eyes barely took in the denomination, and she only knew that it was more than enough to warrant her attention for several moments. With that much, she could scrape together bargain Christmas gifts for most of her family. Maybe even get Jon something.

"I don't sing very well," she offered, shrugging, "I just play, mostly. But if you want, I'll sing whatever."

She let her fingers play along the strings, imitating something she'd seen Santana do in a YouTube vid.

God bless YouTube.

[Duke Bell.]

Duke almost laughed; the girl wasn't doing much to improve his opinion of her, and women in general, and he honestly found it to be amusing. Despite everything, there was a small, minute part of him that desired to be proven wrong. He didn't like very much thinking of girls and women and maids and nurses and doctors and lawyers and Hilary Clinton as being money-hungry stank hoes; hell, it pained him on most sober days to think of his mother as nothing but an expensive courtesan with hardly any taste. This girl, this slightly off girl, because he knew there was an observation just out of reach, was something similar to irony, or the unfairness of every situation that forced his hand.

She was Cavan, or Almasy, or whatever; he'd seen her around school and remembered her to be the other Cavan's kid sister. Being Duke Bell meant that he knew exactly what disturbed was, he knew of wrong and messed up and just plain wtf, backwards and twice over. It wasn't so much that he cared terribly, or at all really, or that he was austere in his values; it was that this girl was probably the same age as his twin younger sisters, and he knew for fact, that he wouldn't have wanted them anywhere near an establishment that served just about everybody. The Night's Entertainment or no, it wasn't a title he'd give to just anybody.

His movements were restricted, but he stayed as he was and there was an indiscernible shake of his head; thoughts of the other hundred fading fast. He was sad, he realized, or at least something close to it.

"Imagine," he said, that trademark soft, broken voice of his barely carrying over, "Lennon. I want you to play it."

[morg]

Even if Morgan could read Duke's mind, she wouldn't care what he thought of her. Not because the youngest Cavan wouldn't want someone to like her, after all, the she was a bit of an attention whore. But someone like Duke didn't phase her, barely registered on her radar. She just smiled at him, pocketed his money, and moved the guitar around.

"Slow song to start with," she murmured. Fortunately she'd seen a few performances of this one. John Lennon could always please, and Morgan couldn't help but admire him. Her fingers danced along the strings, coaxing the song to life.

Since the request had been to sing, Morgan tried. Her voice wasn't the powerhouse Rae's was, for that matter, it barely qualified as tolerable. The song came out oddly reedy, almost too thin. But the effort was apparent, and she wasn't about to give up just because she couldn't do something perfectly.

"Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today..."

The beauty of the song had a life of its own. Even carried by the amateur with the guitar. People still talked, but nearly everyone listened.

"Imaginethere's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace... "

Morgan wished she could actually sing. Do this song justice. But that wasn't her Gift. The playing was perfect, but the voice just fell short. Still, she continued...

[Duke Bell.]

He was polite enough, at least, to wait out the entire song. Throughout it though, he was slumped against the table, face glued to the palm of his hand as he regarded her in the most offhand manner. She was all right, he could suppose; her singing wasn't worth much but her playing was technical and hard to fault. He allowed the melody of the song to waft through him, blocking out all else as he took the chance to study her. She was interesting, or so he hoped.

"Hey girlie," he called to her again, more muted and docile now, "there's something else."

He rose into a more presentable posture, looking frank as he beckoned at her mildly. She was a kid, still in school, and he for one, was actually curious enough to want to know why she was in a place like this. He couldn't imagine her playing for the sake of playing, without any profit in mind. Of course, it was easy for him to say; he was a trust fund baby, he didn't need to make any money. Duke was of the strong belief though, that had he been born anywhere else in life, he would still end up the same way as he was then; not depraved, but completely infatuated with music.

"Take a break," he suggested, knowing full well she'd just started her night, "I'll pay you to talk to me."
A strange proposition, but he wasn't sober enough to drive home yet, and he needed a more worthwhile way of passing his time.

[morg]

Had she really been that bad? Yes, she didn't have much of an ear for music, and yes, her voice was rather weak. But Morgan thought she did perfectly well for an amateur. Besides, you couldn't fault her playing: it exactly imitated what she watched.

Pay to talk? Morgan wasn't about to turn something like that down, and she knew full well that Rae wouldn't complain overmuch. So she set the guitar on the stage, and slid off. Soon she was situated into a seat near Duke, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Works for me," she offered, shrugging. "I warned you though, I'm not that good at it. I just need to make some money, and I've got good fingers."

Really, she had cheating fingers, but it didn't feel right to admit to that. Morgan never claimed to be a high-class performer. She was a guitarist squatting in a club in the middle of nowhere.

"Name's Morgan, I'm not a whore, and I go to school locally," she offered, nodding. She didn't bother to extend a hand. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

[Duke Bell.]

He waved off her talk with one hand, feeling polite and refraining from scoffing. Her playing had little to do with his decision; he'd been bored and selfish, preferring real conversation to a stage performance meant for everyone. He supposed that made her special, but then, not quite.

"Duke Bell," he returned; fingers taking to drum a beat on the table. He needed a cigarette but he loathed to light up near other, less healthy people; second-hand cancer and all that business.

There was a lull when he stopped, taking a full moment to consider her; not appraise her, because he was a man of good standing, honest. Morgan Cavan was branded and her brother had made sure of that, but Duke being Duke, he was hard-pressed to actually maintain his inner, way deep sense of respect. His eyes swept to his glass then, and all lethargy, he raised it to his mouth to knock it all back. He gestured for water before turning his attention back to Morgan.

"I know who you are," he told her, and it was difficult to make out what he meant; the hazel of his eyes focused for those five words, and then he was wandering the room again, "I've been drinking since midday, Morgan, but I'm about ready to stop now, it's just that I can't drive home yet, and I don't want to call a cab."
He played with his peanuts and the flaky skin that had accumulated, flicking it over the table to see how far he could throw them. His amusement faded fast and Morgan was the priority once more.

"I want you to entertain me," he said, the ever indifferent look of his face making his intentions unclear, "but not with those fingers;" a ghost of a smirk formed then left, "tell me about your day.

[morg]

Most of what Morgan had expected about Duke was quickly proving to be true. Drinking since midday and appraising her with half-lidded eyes. His name sounded vaguely familiar to her, something she'd heard in passing most likely. Rarely did Morgan pay attention to rumor, but she could hardly ignore Kenneth when he ranted and raved. Besides, how many guys were named Duke?

Then again, this was the Midwest...

"You want me," she raised her eyebrows, "to tell you about my day?"

Shrug, "Suit yourself. It's your money." Deep breath, shift, "I woke up early and took a run like normal. Kinda chilly, what with it being December and all. Uh, took a shower after, threw on some jeans and stuff. Studied a bit, since we've got presentations coming up soon. Ate lunch: burgers and fries. More studying. Played a bit on this PSP I borrowed, beat my old record on Need for Speed."

She tapped her own fingers on the table, wondering if she could order a drink. Not necessarily alcohol, but something would be nice. She shifted to try and catch the bartender's eyes.

"Practiced a bit for tonight, watched some YouTube," also practice, "and then got ready and came down here."

She shrugged. "That's pretty much it."

[Duke Bell.]

"Interesting," he commented, wearing a half-smile that spoke of secret amusement and not much else; of course, it could have just been borne from the rum, but he hadn't ever been one to do something without intention. It appeased him, in a really strange kind of way, listening to her speak of her day. It was interesting, despite his bastard demeanor, but he couldn't go about asking her for a rundown of all the other days he missed.

"You're athletic?" he noted, accepting the water when it came and then halting the busboy while waving in Morgan's direction.
"That's really;" he thought for a moment, mulling it over a drink from the glass, "extraordinary. I don't know many girls who are."
Which wasn't a fair assessment at all, given his criteria, but Morgan was fast proving to be normal and not, you know, a whore; which despite her earlier statement, he was disinclined to believe, just because.

"And you play," he added, not yet impressed but it was something else to add to her list of achievements. If he'd been the real cheesy type, or regular at all and trying to flirt, he would have said that that was all on top of her being pretty too; a well-rounded girl, something of envy and triumph. Except he wasn't, and so there was a silence in between his words as he thought of how he could have acted, but had chosen not to.

"Does this honestly pay better than an average job?"

[morg]

Interesting? Yeah, this guy had clearly had about five too many. That water was definitely needed, that's for sure. Morgan watched the drink arrive, remembering her own thirst.

"Just a bit athletic," she offered, shrugging. Understatement, given the girl's history and behavior. Morgan Cavan practically lived for competition and physical exertion. But no reason to tell a stranger that, even if she did have a slight urge to scare him away.

"You clearly hang out with the wrong girls. I know tons who are," she added, nodding. "Then again, I've been on sports teams, so that makes sense."

Play? Yes, she played. Or at least ran through the motions. Cheating. Again that word came to mind.

"I copy, more than anything," she clarified, "and no, it probably pays the same as a real job. But it beats the hell out of waiting tables or asking if you want fries with that."

She smirked then, leaning on the table. A barmaid arrived with a juice, setting it before Morgan. Nodding her thanks, Morgan took a drink, leaning back.

"Do I get to ask questions to, or is this your show? You're the one paying, after all."

[Duke Bell.]

It would be terribly inappropriate to make a lesbian joke, and so he didn't though girl teams who took themselves seriously were just too much to pass up. His face found purchase in his palm again and he looked about ready to drop off; he would have too if it weren't for the fact that passing out was a bad idea, especially in company.
"Girl's aren't athletic, except for athletic girls," he said to Morgan, coming out mumbled as he spoke squished against his hand, "they like comfort, simplicity. They want exercise bikes in front of their televisions; they'll buy Adidas just to look good and gym bags wont be used until a year from purchase."*

He yawned, but smothered it with his other hand, and blinked; his face was void of any contempt for once, and it was just plain boy, no semblance of Duke Bell at all.
"But what do I know?" he asked to no one in particular, cocking his head as best as he could in his position as he considered what she said; copy? He supposed he could understand that; she must've been a cover artist of sorts, classifying 'playing' as something wholly original.

He wanted to tell her that while waiting tables, she could meet new and interesting people, but then realized the same could be said for her current line of work. He would have said anything though, to change her mind, and the only reason he didn't was because he was falling back; it wasn't in him to care much, or enough to want to make a difference. It was depressing, but he dealt.

"You can ask questions, I don't mind; we are supposed to be having a conversation."

*this is tru fax as based on statistics.

[morg]

"Boys aren't athletic, except for athletic boys," countered Morgan, "they want to pop a drink and stare at a screen for hours. They'll get gym memberships, show up to work out for a half hour every other day, only to give up after two weeks. Then they'll claim they're macho while their guts grow."

She smirked confidently again, convinced she'd thoroughly countered Duke's assertion. Really, he'd gotten dangerously close to striking a nerve with his statement. There were times when Morgan seriously doubted how feminine she actually was. What with her dominating personality and tendency towards athletic, "manly" events.

"Do you play?" she asked. She jerked her head back to the guitar, just in case Duke couldn't figure it out. "I mean, you just about called me out when I was up there, so I figure you must know what you're talking about. Maybe you mentioned it, and I already missed it."

She shrugged. "Still, you almost look like a musician. Then again."

She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table and smirking again, "what do I know?"

[Duke Bell.]

"Aggressive," he noted in that same tone without inflection; he wondered what she was compensating for, and if it was wise if he asked her.
"Why? Did I say something to offend you?"

It occurred to him that she talked a lot too. She was either making an attempt at conversation like he had mentioned, or it was just how she was; talking about anything under the sun and in circles. She had something of a shoddy memory too, and it was either that or an excellent one; he couldn't even remember what he had said to her while she was on stage, only that sitting by himself had become tiring fast and he had wanted something human to surround himself with. Bar patrons weren't his favorite, if he even had any, but she was unlike them, and he supposed that was what drew his initial interest in her.

"I do play," he confirmed when staring at her in puzzlement grew boring, "and you wouldn't know because I didn't mention it. You can normally see me with a guitar though, it's like an extension of myself."
He been so close to saying 'soul,' but that would have been an incredibly poncy thing to do, and so he had avoided it like the plague. It wouldn't do him well at all to suddenly develop a sense of being, be normal and acquire feelings; just the thought of it made him want to grimace and order something stronger.

[morg]

"Not quite," retorted Morgan. She templed her hands and looked at Duke through the created arch. He was certainly something else, and the definition alluded Morgan. Honestly, she didn't care overmuch: this was a guy who'd paid to talk to her in a bar, after all. "Just got near dangerous ground."

Another drink of her juice, "'sides, I can't help it."

She set it down, looking at it as she listened to his response. A musician. She'd pegged that much. But apparently he was a deep musician. One of those who lived to play an instrument or write the songs. all for the love of music, of course. Not for the fame or fortune it bought.

People who talked about instruments as extensions of themselves, got drunk early and paid girls to talk to them. Oddly enough, Morgan found Duke just charming enough to tolerate the flaws.

One hundred dollars bought a lot of leeway from her anyway.

"Figured you for a musician," she admitted. "You kind of look like one. Shame you don't have a guitar, we could duel."

And she'd perfectly imitate him, and he'd get it.