6908/You Buyin' What I'm Sellin'

You Buyin' What I'm Sellin'
Date of Scene:	12 July 2021
Location:	Lux
Synopsis:	Felicia meets with a contact - only to learn of a doublecross!
Cast of Characters:	Lucifer, Felicia Hardy

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Lucifer has posed:
The pulse of Lux beats comfortably and warm, a seductive dark quality to the music and the lighting this night. Sources of light are small on each table, like isolated little night-lights from childrens' bedrooms, making each table intimate and private: a spot clustered around that little spark.

From the main stage, a seductive and skilled dancer is at work, moving across to use the spiral stairs as part of her act, to enrapture the viewers further. Most eyes are aimed that way, or they are reserved to the small conversations at tables and allow the music to paint a slippery backdrop beyond.

Yet at the bar, to one side, Mickey Jepps is seated, curling his fingers into a napkin idly, and scanning the crowd for a particular woman. Still, his gaze lingers on the dancer instead, and jumps a bit when the bartender clears her throat next to him. "Mickey," she says reproachfully, her voice like a slightly burned, red velvet cake, "He's still not happy with you. Hope you brought an offering."

Felicia Hardy has posed:
A flip of a phone in-palm to confirm a counter-text to earlier. Ambient light gleams from the screen as its owner then slides it away into a quality purse only just big enough for such a piece of technology. In no terrible hurry, the purse-wearer struts along the balcony entrance eventually ending in stairs leading down to the half-curve of stairwell.

Heeled shoes are a cinch to walk in and each step down evinces a starlet's sense of poise. The platinum-blonde wearing the strapless sheath dress in a striking pattern of ink-black and spring-green descends the steps -- down and down, slinkity-sly, she's certainly coming and wants to get to her buyer. Nestled in her purse is a naughty little collection of ill-gotten goods which would be much better suited screwing over someone else when they get caught selling them over again.

Her emerald-green eyes, lined in kohl, scan the crowd. Negative. No sign of -- ah, there he is, by the grand confection of bar in oiled wood and metal. Fingers gloved in black rise to twiddle at him as her ruby-red lips lift in silent greeting as she approaches.

Lucifer has posed:
"I did... and here she is," Mickey says aside to the bartender, who snorts immediately, then lifts her eyes to Felicia as well. "Mmmmmm," is the bartender's only comment, slid through the partially pressed together lips. Her gaze on Felicia isn't judging - no, the way she scans her an then looks dubiously at /Mickey/ shows that the only judgement being shown is toward Mickey, not Felicia!

Mickey lifts his (empty) drink towards Felicia to return the greeting, then discovers it empty, and indicates with a thump of fingers on it for a refill from the bartender, who is attending the customer to his left. She'll get to him when she /does/.

"Do we need a private room?" Mickey asks as Felicia approaches. "Or just a table?"

Felicia Hardy has posed:
"Mickey, Mickey...always ready to get down to business. That's what I like about you," the platinum-blonde all but purrs. The bartender is considered and given a polite smile in passing while Felicia brings her travels to a stop; her hip bumps against one of the stools with all the nonchalance possible in order to then lift and set upon it. "A Cosmo, please," she asks when she's got the bartender's attention, if only in passing.

"And it'll be a private room. A lady doesn't show off her goods publically," comes the additive thought with a somewhat haughty look over at Mickey. Complete with arched brow, it begs him to think twice about the idea.

Lucifer has posed:
Mickey clicks his teeth and nods agreement. "No, never. I wouldn't suggest it... only what the lady's comfortable with. Besides, no sense me sayin' prices in public either, wrong ideas all around," Mickey says, amused to say THAT in public, though. He thinks he's funny.

The bartender is really the only one in range, though, and she isn't amused in particular anyway. "No sense of humor," Mickey says with a stab of thumb towards the bartender who refills his drink. Bartender isn't amused by that either, and gives Felicia the ordered drink with a reserved disinterest in getting involved. Still, she supplies, "There are no scheduled events upstairs tonight; take your pick of any open room."

Mickey grins at that, and gets to his feet. "Better claim one while everybody's staring at that dancer," he says, while staring instead at Felicia. He does get up, though, and doesn't touch Felicia at all, but does open his arm in a sort of 'after you' towards the private rooms on the second floor.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Felicia's smile wouldn't allow butter to melt in her mouth. It purses her ruby-red lips perfectly while not reaching her eyes in the least. She's apparently on the same page as the bartender. Not too distracted to take up her delivered drink with a light and polite, "Thank you," she then sips at it through one of the petite straws leaned within it. Mickey gestures and she swans past him towards the staircase leading towards the second floor.

Outside, she might be as aloof as a show-bred Persian. Internally? She's thrilled. Finally. FINALLY -- she'll be rid of that socialite's earrings and maybe Mickey will be able to make dumb jokes while the cops cuff him in the pawn shop.

Up the stairs and to the third door, its internal setting revealed. Everything appears quite plush, as expected, even the two chairs tucked to the small table. Felicia drags fingertips across the table's surface while she saunters to one of these chairs. "Take a seat, Mickey, let's talk shop," the thief suggests.

Lucifer has posed:
Except ... the door doesn't QUITE shut fully behind them. It was smoothly closing, but then it doesn't click, and opens out again. Mickey doesn't notice at first, but the room changes in 'feel' extremely rapidly, as the aura surrounding the club owner floods into the space adjacent to him.

It's not a scent (although yes, he has a smokey cologne), it's a sort of ambiant charisma that makes it easy, relaxed, pleasant - just to be in his space.

"Mickey, I /thought/ I spotted you," Lucifer's upbeat intensity declares, his grin a flex of strange, somewhat overwhelming charm. There's no danger shown visually, but Mickey jerks around as if he were threatened by it.

"Ah! Well yes, I am here. Not sneaking," Mickey laughs quickly, a bundle of anxiety really rapidly.

"...Hello," Lucifer aims smoothly at Felicia, taking her in with a deliberate and confident measuring... that is also gentle and non-judgemental. Measure, yes; but judge, no. "I don't mean to interrupt your business, do accept my apology."

Felicia Hardy has posed:
At first, Felicia, now seated comfortably upon the plush-cushioned chair, pauses and stares as one might when private business is interrupted. Her drink drops from her lips, its sip never taken, and she eyes the interloper something fierce, a censorous gleam in her emerald-greens.

This look lands upon Mickey when the interloper -- nice cologne and suit and all -- appears to //know// Mickey personally.

And Mickey begins to dig himself a nice hole with his reaction of nerves.

Felicia's narrowed lashes are nearly predatory until her glare at Mickey is interrupted by the man. Her expression slips neutrally innocent as she's greeted, but it doesn't remain this way. Her smile at him is plainly pleased for his suave nature of speech and address. "Apology accepted, mister...?" While she doesn't offer out a gloved hand for a knuckle kiss, her tone all but insinuates one.

Lucifer has posed:
"Lucifer Morningstar. Lux is my establishment," Lucifer replies smoothly, with an inclined head that copies as if he HAD kissed a raised hand. Yet nothing physically transpired. Still, his smile answers her magnetic voice with his own response.

"So yes, I was not--" Mickey begins, offput.

"'Not Sneaking' I heard, Mickey," Lucifer says, without looking at him yet: still focused on Felicia. Enjoying the sight of her, perhaps. But then finally drawn with slight dismay to look at Mickey instead. And suddenly the heat ratchets up in Mickey's head, from the stare, as Lucifer leans on him just a little.

It doesn't look like anything, though, just a steady look. Yet even with that, there's a presence. Lucifer's something gnarly when he focuses his gaze, even if it isn't something easy to quite put a pin on.

"If not sneaking, then what /are/ you doing? Something with this young lady?" Lucifer queries.

It doesn't take long. "I'm working with the cops, I'm supposed to buy anything any of my contacts have, and turn it over, so that I do less time," Mickey says rapidly, all in a rush.

Lucifer lifts his brows, looks at Felicia. "Well, that's unfortunate," Lucifer says, with a sort of mild empathy for her.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Watch those pale brows start to try and disappear into the beautiful coiffing of Felicia's hairline. She reaches up to tuck a lock behind her ear, the better to flash diamonds at ears and neck, surely, and has her mouth open to greet the owner of the club, this Mister Morningstar when --

Poor Mickey. He digs himself a nice deep hole, deep enough for some lime and a tarp.

"Wha - !!!" It's no more than a breath of affront, but how //electrically murderous// her regard has become, sharp as a knife aimed for the slats of ribs.

Mickey first gets the entire contents of Felicia's drink dead in the eyes across the table. Surely it stings. It has an eerie accuracy to it, not too unlike a spitting cobra.

"You BASTARD!" Her voice rises as she does, purse left on the chair. "How DARE YOU?!" Striding around the table, she has Mickey by the front of his jacket by //one hand// and drag-lifts him out of his chair. "You know who's going to love finding you, Mickey?"

A beat.

"Kingpin, Mickey, because I know //exactly// who called the cops to his last poker game. You should've thrown your burner phone in the river, not the garbage," the platinum-blonde hisses.

It occurs to her that the...club owner. Mob boss? He Of The Gaze of Great Truthgazing. -- he's still standing there. It doesn't mean she puts Mickey down. Lucifer is then given a thin smile while she silkily says, "Excuse me, Mister Morningstar, for my manners. I'm grateful for your assistance."

Lucifer has posed:
"I'd hardly want you to do anything you might regret with a witness here," Lucifer answers Felicia evenly, his tone smooth and lightly playful. No shock in it, which probably just increases his vibe of being something... off.

"So, by all means, do it without any witnesses," Lucifer concludes, with an even smile, and exits the room, neatly closing the door behind him.

Mickey was yelping, wiping liquor from his eyes, and his fingers just sloooooowly move down his cheeks as he looks at the door, and then at Felicia. HE can't believe he admitted that either. "....!"

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Felicia's smile does go slightly concerned for the initial response, though it doesn't fall from her mouth. In fact?

It broadens in what must be some form of newly-discovered conspiratorial //glee// when Lucifer all but blesses her actions to the simple, truthful excuse of: so sorry, officer, I simply didn't see.

The door closes. Felicia looks back at Cosmo-soaked Mickey and slooooowly sets him down again. "I know... He's weird, but I like him. There's something...mercilessly charming about him," she murmurs in a false platitude. "But the thing is, Mickey? You were going to screw me over...and nobody does this."

From inside the room, the yelp from Mickey is suddenly silenced with a bodily thud to follow. A dead body? No. Felicia emerges from the room about a minute later, brushing down the immaculate fit of her sheath dress, and then closes the door behind her. Out comes her phone -- away goes a text -- and off the Black Cat saunters to retrieve another Cosmo given poor Mickey's apparently going to wear her last when the Kingpin's goons arrive.