[b]Nathaniel[u][/u][/b]

[hr]

The Sunset Lounge was a common location, but with too much attention typically set to it's front door. Nathaniel knew other avenues, even if it meant using a long pinky nail to unfasten a steel grate, and push through while being careful to refasten said screw--the Native had made it quite clear the group didn't want the properitier of the Lounge getting bent out of shape, though no one but the Native seemed to know the whys, and she was being typically tight-lipped. He'd met Nosferatu looser-lipped than that woman, an unusually irritating trait for a Toreador, with all their pretty and flash. He would've muttered more about it, but getting out of the Lounge's basement freezer took precedent. 

The black weathered to dark grey hoodie zipup sweater was unzipped, allowing a clean, freshly laundered, black longsleeved cotton collared button up dress shirt to peek from underneath. A strange item to pair with the foul smelling black trousers soiled with grime and overuse and age, but one of the damned Toreadors were responsible for stealing his appropriate smelling, dirtied, clothing and replacing them with cleaner, perfurmed, versions of their former selves. Yanci was too kind to do such a thing, so it left the bombastic blonde, or the Native. Considering the heavy artificial scent of cotton candy left behind in their wake, Nathaniel's bet was on the bombastic blonde. 

"Staff Only" read the door he exited out of onto the main floor of the Sunset Lounge, dehooding to reveal a face as long as his jagged, yellowed, nails. Pale with eyes sunk deep, beady things that seemed as prone to violence as they were paranoia, darting here and there. He passed the back booths like a Coterie he belonged to wasn't sitting there, feeling their gaze as he passed, before the weight of stranger eyes distracted him from the weight of the familiar. He stole a quick look at the Native, so fast and so quickly moved away, as she rose from her booth and head for the touch screen juke box. Nathaniel snorted; he preferred the old style of jukebox. Then agian, he preferred the old style of everything to the current plastic consumerism versions of the modern world. 

"Sympathy for the Devil" by the Rolling Stones played. It caused another peek from Nathaniel towards the Native; a knowing smirk on her face as she stared at the touchscreen. What did it mean? Everything with the Native had a purpose, nothing was ever random. She knew something he didn't...and there were precious few things in this world that irritated him more. Nostrils flared once, twice, before his focus returned to the mission at hand: the fellow Nosferatu sitting at the table off to the side, by himself. 

"NATE!" the cotton candy scented annoyance called out, and he ignored it. She was teasing him. She liked to tease. But two could play at that game; imagine the disturbance a pack of rats rampaging through a private party hosted by the annoyer attended by Hollywood starlets and their entourages could cause? Nathaniel knew. The very memory nearly drove him to smirk. Instead bloody-gnawed lips flattened into expressionlessness, his thin frame moving into the seat across from the still hooded Nosferatu. Dark eyes met dark eyes, and after a few awkwardly silent moments, Nathaniel nodded stiffly. 

"Trask. We have something to discuss, although I insist you keep this close to the ves--" Nathaniel abruptly stopped speaking, eyes narrowing as the scent grew closer and closer. Ignore her, it seemed, and you only dared drawing her closer and closer until there was no ignoring her. If the unlife was good, he would rip her throat out, and smile while disfiguring her gorgeous golden image, silencing her forever and ever. Alas. It was petty, it was petulant, but it felt good when he reached over to the chair situated next to him, and knocked it over before she could reach it.

He heard it picked up from the ground, and re-situated; closer to him than it had been before, backfiring on him. "Nate." The tall California blonde bombshell was suddenly in the seat next to him, interjecting herself where she was not welcome, where she did not belong. It didn't just irritate him, either, he could see the way Trask shuffled in his chair, the way his eyes moved here and there, suddenly, as the blonde put more attention on them than either wanted. But it wasn't as bad as what she did next, sliding her arm over Nathaniel's shoulders, and leaning closer and closer, big sparkling blue eyes on Trask, smiling sweetly, before she moved those eyes back on him. "Hi, honey. You didn't hear me. So I--"

"--I heard you."

The pout was overdramatized. "Aw, why would you do such a thing, Nate?"

"I can see why your acting career struggled. At least the one where clothes were required."

Pretty blue eyes narrowed on him. He almost smiled. Almost. "HA! I saw that smile. It was there."

"No, it wasn't."

He felt her index finger poke at the corner of his mouth, his nostrils flaring, his eyes twitching at the touch. "Right [i]there[/i]."

"Go away, you insufferable--"

"--be polite, Nate."

His eyes rolled, a long, heavy, pained sigh coming all the way from his chest to his lips to the air of the Sunset Lounge. [i]God dammit.[/i] "Trask, Gwendalyn Parker, one of the vampiric overlords of current day Hollywood--likely the reason they produce such mindless, but pretty to look at, drivel these days."

Gwen smiled big, ignoring it, long lashes fluttering a second as she extended her hand to him, palm up. 

Trask's eyes briefly stared at the blonde from under his sunglasses. A handshake from such a pretty vampire? Formalities after all. He extended his right hand out, then grasped hers firmly.

"It's a pleasure to meet you." He said calmly with a friendly smile.

The blonde's eyes stared at Trask's eyes even a second longer than the second longer than it should handshook lasted, letting Trask break the touch, not her. Only then did she turn to Nathaniel, and whisper in his ear a whisper loud enough for Trask to hear. "A pleasure, Trask, don't be a stranger...and [i]you[/i]," she said, poking Nathaniel in his ribs, "behave yourself. You boys have fun."

He waited until she was gone to lean in, letting his voice lower. "My apologies for the pushy, daft, woman. I have something important, but you must keep it quiet, report back to me, and [i]only[/i] me, Trask. I do not joke when I say this. Not doing so could be risking both our necks. Do you understand this?"