[Izzy Montoya] {123 not me! aka – you start. Hee!}
[Trent] (ooc: lol, no fair. okay, okay. on it.)
[Izzy Montoya] [Hahaha! I never start if I can help it. :) ]
[Trent] It’s always the coldest at this hour of the morning, where the sane are curled up fast asleep on top of electric blankets and in warmed apartments. But for someone like Trent, who’s out an about in the new city and in unfamiliar streets, they’re feeling the weather creep right under their skin. He’s pretty certain that if it wasn’t for his heavy set jacket, he’d be freezing his nipples off – and he’s not even a woman. As it was he was cursing his own foolish want of staying out this late, but he really hadn’t expected to be held back as late as he had been at an acquaintances place three blocks back. His car is parked another two away.
He’s hoping there’s something open along the way. He could use a bourbon rather then that earl tea shit that he can still taste on the back of his tongue.
[Izzy Montoya] There’s always something along the way. This time, it’s yellow police tape fluttering in the wind, and the taillights of police cars as they pull away, the uniforms having done their job tonight, the hearse driving off to deliver the body, all gone but for the non-descript car still parked at the curb. It practically screams unmarked police car, and it’s currently empty, as not everyone is gone.
Just inside the open doorway stands a slender woman, her hand on her hip, her head down, chestnut colored hair a curtain that hides her face. She’s staring at the chalked outline further in the room, and seems to be doing nothing but… listening.
She’s visible from the sidewalk, both through the window of the establishment, and the opened doorway. Her dress is business casual, with a long leather coat over it all, worn open. The look couldn’t scream ‘cop’ any louder, and it’s a certainty that she belongs to the aforementioned unmarked car.
[listening indeed – that’s what we call it these days…]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 3, 3, 4, 5, 7, 7, 9 (Success x 3 at target 7)
[Trent] Police tape always grabs the attention. The first thought is to wonder what the hell happened, closely followed by what is happening, and third is if he says anything is he going to be some suspicious suspect rather then a curious citizen. In the moment it takes him to walk the path and to absorb the details of the unmarked police car and the woman in the doorway, he decides that he’s more curious then concerned and that could never bode well for opening his mouth.
But the fact that its leather fluttering in his proverbial face overrides that logic, (it’s a guy thing), and he comes to stand on the curb, deliberately a distance away so not to incriminate himself as some glory seeking reporter.
He’s just stuck at what to say, and that glimpse of chalk beyond her feet slaps him quickly back into reality. Enough that he glances away, down the street, and runs a hand across his short, dark hair, almost self consciously.
[Izzy Montoya] She is still as the man comes and stands across the sidewalk, unsure what to say. She looks for all the world like she’s listening intently – though it’s clear she’s alone. She finally takes a breath, straightens her shoulders and nods, as if she’d confirmed something to herself. Her phone is pulled out of her pocket, dialed, and when the other end answers, her voice is low. “What do ya got on the Girlfriend, Finn? Don’t ask me how I know, I just fuckin’ do – I want the report on my desk first thing in the morning. FIRST thing Finn. With a Latte if ya know what’s fuckin’ good for ya.”
She snaps the phone closed, shoves it in her pocket, and turns. She has all she needs. She stops short to see Trent, and arches a brow. She’s no great beauty, Izzy, but she’s pretty enough – even with the look of hard ass cop practically written across her forehead.
“Help you?”
[Trent] Girlfriend? Girlfriend did this? Maybe? Too many cop shows, Trent.
His hand has dropped from his hair, stowed into his nice pressed jeans, and by the time that he’s deciding to hike it out of there, and that it’s not the best idea to be eavesdropping on policewoman whilst on duty, she’s already caught him out with that accusation tone (that he might be imagining).
“No Ma’am.” He makes the effort of sliding one hand from his pocket and hold it up, palm forward, in a quick gesture of peace. Trent even takes a small step back, as if to turn on his way.
What else could he say?
You want to use your cuffs, Miss? I got a pair of hands willing.
No. No, he doesn’t think so. At least not in this scenario.
[Izzy Montoya] She studies him, and then smirks, the expression familiar and lopsided as she shakes her head. “Relax, man. Ya ain’t fuckin’ anything up. Unless of course you know anything about this…” Her brow quirks upwards again, questioningly – though she isn’t accusing him of anything.
She starts to search her pockets, which is when she remembers the badge that she wears on a chain around her neck. She slips it off, wraps the chain around the ID and tucks it into the pocket of her coat. If she’s wearing her gun, it’s not immediately apparently where it is, at least not until she flips her coat back to check her back pocket – the gun is holstered at the small of her back. She finally comes up with – not smokes, as might be the first guess – but a pack of gum, and goes about liberating a piece and folding it into her mouth.
“What one?”
[Izzy Montoya] What = want
[Trent] He shoots a look to the doorway and then back to the police officer. “No Ma’am,” his reply isn’t quick or as flustered as before, taking her suggestion to relax well into stride and effect.
Stalling his fleeting feet, he waits and watches her flip open her jacket – has a momentary lapse of concentration as he visions latex boots and lace thigh highs, before he snaps quickly back into reality with a clearing of his throat. The gray earl was worth it, he decides, and nods to the offer of some gum. “Don’t mind if I do.”
He waits for her to offer it before reaching out and taking a piece for himself. The packet is handed back by cool fingertips of clean, though larger hands, and the gum is popped into his mouth to be chewed by back molars.
“Thanks.”
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, and tucks the pack back into her pocket – a different one, of course, which is why she’ll have to repeat the searching process again later. “This fuckin’ city is gonna make me start smoking again, I swear.”
She drags her hand through her hair, holds it back from her face then lets it fall free once more. She tucks her hand into the pocket of her slacks then as she moves toward him, and past, before turning to lean against the fender of her – well, the city’s – car.
“S’your name?”
[Trent] It takes more then a few chews to get the gum to that softer, more pliant consistency, worked away in the back of his mouth and with the muscle of a tight jaw. His stubble has been trimmed and tidied, but he still likes that gruff appearance rather then the smooth shave of a baby’s bottom. Men are meant to have hair in these places, or so his motto goes. Really its just easier to keep it like this then it is to have to shave every goddamn time he wants to step out.
“Brumby,” he offers her, “Trent Brumby.”
His hands are back in their jean pockets. The jacket he wears is black suede, neat and just that side of casual, and the boots he wore earlier have been foregone for a pair of casual dress shoes. It makes him fit better in this side of town.
[Izzy Montoya] She nods. “Pleasure. Detective Izzy Montoya – CPD Homicide.”
She doesn’t look away from him, studying him as he moves, as he talks. It’s second nature, and she does it without thinking about it, filing away his mannerisms, his looks, the way he moves and talks. It’s all filed away effortlessly, as easily as she breathes.
She’s a damn good detective.
“So tell me, Trent, if I were to suggest you take me to that bar on the corner and buy me a fuckin’ drink, what would you say?” Oh, the mouth on her…
[Trent] Beneath the collar of his jacket is the collar of a shirt, folded in rather then over the jacket’s collar itself. The shirt is black, and not the faded kind either, and there’s a hint of the polished black buttons that do it up. His hair, black, has a kink at the edges but its cut short enough that it gets rid of most of it, in a no nonsense hairstyle that needs nothing but a wash and a quick comb through in order to be maintained. He’s 6.2″ or there about and his build is solid enough that its clear he’s active, whether work or gym would be a good guess.
When she asks the barbed tongue question, he glances off towards the corner and the aforementioned bar, before looking back to her with his brows slightly raised. “I’d ask what it is you drink,” he answered easily.
[Izzy Montoya] And with that, she grins, and pushes away from the car. “Good answer. Come on. After what I saw in there, I need a drink or ten.”
Assuming he falls into step with her, she heads down the walk toward that bar on the corner, her steps purposeful, though unhurried. She walks with a destination in mind, no hesitation, no second guesses. It’s natural, as if it’s simply the way she moves. She clearly isn’t the type that puts on airs.
“And the answer would be whiskey, straight up. You a Chicago Native, Trent?”
[Trent] Of course he falls in step with her, matching his long leg stride to fall in with her purposeful pace and not the other way around. One hand finds itself in his pocket, opposite to the side to which she walks. He keeps an eye on the street rather then on her feet or the chestnut of his hair.
“Seattle.” The answer is simple and easy, but there’s not much in it. He doesn’t think too much on where he’s been. He moves, a lot. Chicago was just another city with more opportunities of much the same. But it was better then looking at the same neighbourhood time and time again. He liked to be on the move, for reasons he hadn’t yet fathomed, or cared to.
Whiskey is stowed away. It’ll be two of those, probably followed by another round.
“How long did it take you to quit?” He raises a question to a remark thought long forgotten.
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, slightly, another piece of information filed away. Her hands are loose at her side, though the right hand is always just under the edge of her coat, keeping it away from her hip of long practice. She’s well used to needing to draw her gun, and even in Lake View, it’s awfully late to be walking without a weapon close at hand.
“How long ya been in town?” A beat, and then with his question, the smirk returns to it’s familiar place across her lips. “Smoking?” She doesn’t miss a beat, this one. “Started when I was a fuckin’ rookie – spent the better part of the last decade in fuckin’ Miami. Managed t’quit there, though it took me almost two fuckin’ years before the cravings weren’t so bad – was clean for almost five years then three months home, and I’m cravin’ nicotine like a motherfucker.”
[Trent] “A week, give or take a few days,” he’s not keeping tabs, but it seems about right. Maybe closer to two weeks if he really thinks about it, and closer to a week in his apartment. But that’s neither here nor there.
Her swearing, attitude, or something she says has his mouth up turn and a quiet chuckle with held in the back of his throat. He glances over the street to cover it, but however slight and low volume he may be, cop sights would pick it up, and when he talks there’s a hint of his amusement in the tone. “It doesn’t fill me with high hopes. I think I’ll keep nailing another into the coffin.” Trent likes his cigarettes.
Like Izzy, there’s no need for flashing airs around Trent. He seems a quiet type, self contained, and yet perfectly at ease in a social situation with a stranger – even a cop with a mouth of one.
[Izzy Montoya] She catches it. She doesn’t miss much, truth be told. It’s part of what makes her such a damn good cop. The other part is what got her ass transferred to Miami until the powers that be were no longer pissed off at the power of Izzy. As brash, crass, rude and mouthy as she is, she inspires confidence, and the boys in blue follow her lead, easily. The brass would never admit it – but they’re damn glad she’s home.
Even if it makes her crave cigarettes like she’s enjoying the worlds biggest case of afterglow.
“What brings ya to this neck of the woods?” Curiosity, mostly. Moving to Chicago in the winter was not one of her best ideas – finding another that did it willingly? Odd. “And don’t write me off as a model fuckin’ smoke free citizen yet. I’ve not quite succumbed to the coffin nails.”
Yet.
[Trent] “Change of scenery,” he answers it easily and without much a pause for thought. It’s about the only answer he has, and it comes quickly, because it’s an honest one. It’s also a common question to have been asked.
The door of the bar would be pushed open when the arrived there, he picked up his pace in preparation of doing so, moving a step ahead at the last moment. When he does, he throws a glance to her face, pulling the door open for her. He’s smiling in that ironic sort of way, with a twist of good humour that almost makes it a smirk. “Reformed smokers are the worst.”
He lets her go in first, without any fan fare.
[Izzy Montoya] [Pause! Bed time for tired Lessa’s!]
[Izzy Montoya] Change of scenery he says, and she nods. “Understandable.” She’s only been home a few months, and is considering it herself – if not for the other things that keep her in Chicago, that drew her back. A vacation though- everyone can use one of those, right? Right.
He opens the door for her, and she smirks, amused. The comment about reformed smokers being bad, gets a snort of good humor, as she moves into the bar before him. A nod to the bartender, who she clearly knows, and she’s weaving her way through people and tables till she finds one in the back that’s relatively quiet and secluded. Once there, she peels out of her coat – and that bulge at her lower back is proven to most definitely be her gun. She tosses her coat onto the seat of the booth and slides in after it. She takes a moment to run her hand over her face, and then back through her hair. She’s tired, and in that moment she lets it show, before her shoulders straighten, and she leans back again.
“So, what is it you do.”
[Trent] The door swings shut behind him, and he watches to where she wanders as he heads to the bar. A wallet is pulled from the back of his jeans while two orders of straight whiskey is given to the bartender. He leans lightly against the bar, unbuttoning his jacket to let it fall open, and waits on the orders to be filled.
Drinks paid for and wallet returned to his back pocket, he grabs the glasses and heads through the crowd to find her at the back table. He sets a glass before her and slides into a chair with his own, taking a sip from it the moment he’s seated. The jacket stays on, for now.
“Bit of everything,” he answered, placing his drink down. “Working security a few nights a week at the moment, until something better crops up.”
[Izzy Montoya] He sets the drink in front of her, and she wraps her fingers around the glass, lifting it and draining it by half in one shot. She closes her eyes as the burn works it’s way down to the pit of her belly and spreads… slow and hot. She clears her throat, puts the glass back on the table, spinning it idly between her fingertips as she listens to him.
“Security huh? Where?”
Even as she questions, it’s without the sense of urgency that she would normal question someone with in the line of duty. It’s idle conversation, curiosity. Nothing more – but that’s not to say she won’t remember every word of what he tells her, either. Because she will, easily.
[Trent] “A pub in the Mile.” He looks over at her. “Nothing flash, just busy and a rowdy type.” Trent’s been there and done that a few times before. Security was one of the easiest jobs to pick up in every new town. He had a clean record and a good eye for trouble. His quiet style was appreciated by employers and overlooked by troublemakers. Sometimes it worked against him.
Sitting back in the chair, he glanced across the room, taking in people and the atmosphere.
“Are you around here often?” he asked, glancing back to her with a half bemused look at his own cliche question. It wasn’t how he meant it, but it was too late for that now. He didn’t bother fumbling with words to make it right and offer a more thorough explanation. He had mind on the crime across the road, but it hadn’t come out that way.
[Izzy Montoya] “That’s a sad, sad pick up line, Trent.” She’s amused though, that much is clear. “Often enough Doug – the bloke behind the bar – recognizes me. My place isn’t too far from here, so I tend to stop in on my way home from work. Specially on a day like fuckin’ today.”
Living close by explains why she’s well known here, even though her job carries her all over the city. Add that to the fact there’s also a diner across the way, and she can’t cook to save her life, and this block has several of her normal haunts on it. That crime scene was on her home turf. Doesn’t make for an easy day.
“Security ain’t a bad gig, specially not this time of year. After the Holiday rush and shit – most folks are partied out.”
[Trent] It sets him laughing, low and quiet. “What can I say?” he flips a hand over on the table, palm up, as if to shrug it off. “I’m out of touch.” with the pick up lines, that is. “Besides, I liked yours better.” His hand wraps around his glass, and he glances down to it, tipping the liquid one way before lifting the glass from the table.
“Working through the holiday season is what got me here. It’s good cash.” He pauses to sip his whiskey. It’s burned away the taste of tea and the mint gum he swallowed earlier, and warmed his insides well. “But it’s shit for the social life, working all those nights.”
“I don’t know how you do it. Not just the hours, but the job.” He’s watching her closely from across the table, setting his glass down without letting go of it. “How do you cope?”
[Izzy Montoya] She chuckles, and shrugs. “I get a lot of practice. I’m a one night fuckin’ stand kinda gal.” She might be kidding. She doesn’t clarify.
Then he asks how she does it, and the smirk becomes wry, tired. “Used to be Vice, but transferred to Homicide when I got shipped off to Miami for a few years. It ain’t easy – all i can think though is if somethin’ happened to me or mine, I’d wanna know what happened.”
And be able to cover up what needs covered up easier from the inside.
“My folks were cops, and I come from a long line of folks involved with the Law. It was sorta expected. That, or squirtin out kids by the dozens, and I ain’t the fuckin maternal type.”
[Trent] He likes listening to her talk, that much is obvious by the way he’s attentive. His gaze doesn’t stray anytime she’s got something to say, but only wanders when he’s musing over his own thoughts and what should be said in return.
There’s not much of a reaction to both statements, as far apart as they are in topics. He’s getting to know her through her admissions and sharing of family history, along with their expectations, and as such gives a small nod to let her know he’s listening and encourage her further.
“Every woman is the maternal type, ” he dares to disagree. “It’s bred into the genetics.”
“But!” A half smile appears as he eyes her, “… there’s not always the right time, and society doesn’t make it easy for a woman to be able to embrace that part of her.”
[Izzy Montoya] Ah, he dares to disagree, and she snorts, for she’s also the ladylike sort. Not. “Fuck that shit. I threaten to shot folks on the street who fuckin’ piss me off by lookin at me. I don’t think Child Services would look to kindly on an exasperated woman who can’t handle fuckin’ rugrats.” She gestures, absently, before taking another drink – smaller this time than her initial swallow.
“I don’t have the fuckin’ patience for people in general, let alone kids. Genetics be fuckin’ damned.”
She’s not offended, more amused still than anything else. Especially as she smirks. “Besides, my tits are too fantastic to risk gettin fuckin babychewed and saggy.”
[Trent] Without quite meeting her eyes, he had glanced across the bar again, trying to refrain from laughing at her remarks or imagine anything about her tits while sitting across from her. The leather jacket had been enough earlier on, and the highlight that she’s a police officer with a brazen attitude is just a highlight.
“On the other hand, ” he stays with his own views, suppressing his grin to a smile, “that you look after your own by taking up this line of work, and respect your own family traditions by continuing it, tells me that you’d be a great Mother.”
“Who better to look after their offspring then someone who’s willing to shoot for the cause?” His brows lift at her and he takes a sip from his drink. Its times like these that he can look at her straight and without any problem.
He wisely stays away from any bodily comments.
[Izzy Montoya] “One who won’t shoot the offspring.”
She’d gotten to him, and she knows it. She’s the perceptive sort, which makes her damn good at her job. It also makes her slightly ahead of the game when it comes to deciphering the expressions that flitter over their face, through their eyes, across their lips.
She’d definitely gotten to him.
“Other’s can raise the fuckin’ kids. I’m keepin my girlish figure, and my ammo for bigger things.” A beat. “And how many kids you got, Trent? Family? A Mrs. that’s gonna kick my ass for mentioning my tits?”
[Trent] There’s really nothing he can say to that, not without stepping into deep waters. He finishes off his drink instead and leaves the empty glass to the side of the table. A second round would be coming up, the moment there’s an opportunity to flee from this dangerous line of questioning. So far he can keep up without too much mess, and takes it in his stride.
“No Mrs.”
“Maybe a few kids,” he could be serious about that one, hard to tell with the way he cocked his head in thought.
“And the only ass kicking that will be happening won’t be to yours for mentioning tits. You can talk about them as much as you want.” There’s a slight spark somewhere in the eyes, but he’s really trying to be serious.
[Izzy Montoya] Deep waters – her favorite kind, clearly. She reaches for her glass and tips it back, easily finishing what’s remaining. If one were to guess her Tribal affiliation based soley on her ability to hold her liquor, she’d be Fianna for sure.
She’s not. She’s just had a lot of practice.
“That so…” She can talk about her tits as much as she wants. “But that wouldn’t be half as fun as you seeing them…” Incorrigible, Izzy. She warned him, though…
[Trent] “I can’t fault that logic,” he agreed, with a raise of his brows and an honest smile.
The glasses are plucked up from the table and he eases out of his seat, rather then rushes and makes a run for it. He manages to look at her face, keeping his gaze steady, as he asked, “Another of the same?” The two glasses are held within one, broad hand.
[Izzy Montoya] She laughs, and leans back into the seat, as he gets up with the empty glasses in hand.
“Sure. If you’re trying to get me drunk to take advantage of me, though – there are easier ways. I’ve the drinking constitution of a raging Irish alcoholic on Saturday night before Sunday confession.”
She meets his gaze evenly, her dark eyes sparkling with a hint of mirth, definitely more than a hint of mischief. She’s clearly enjoying baiting him.
[Trent] “I take advantage of no one,” he tells her with a wink, “especially not one with a badge, a gun on her hip and a penchant for shooting people that look at her wrong.”
With that, he took the glasses with him and moved through the room to place them on the bar. Another two were ordered and he took the moment to distract himself from titty talk and a woman with the love of leather. It wasn’t long enough though, by the time he paid up and was carrying the glasses back, he still had handcuffs stored in the back of his mind.
A drink was pushed in front of her and the before his own seat. He took off his jacket, sliding it off his shirt and lay it across the back of his chair before he sat down again. His shirt was black, and the buttons were small, black and polished. “So what’s your advice to a new guy to Chicago? Anything at all.”
[Izzy Montoya] “Good plan.” She nods, chuckling.
He takes a moment as he goes to try and gather himself, and get their drinks. She watches him the majority of the time it takes, but for when her gaze sweep the room, automatically placing who is where, making snap judgments, and basically assuring herself she has the feel for the room. Always the cop – even when she sleeps.
She returns her gaze to him as he sheds his coat, eyes drifting over him once before she meets his gaze evenly again. “Advice…” She gives it a moment’s thought, and then shrugs. “Mind your manners when appropriate, and if ya see anything really fuckin’ weird, run. Or call me.” A sharp nod. “Been some weird as fuck shit happenin around the holidays – so keep ya wits about ya, and don’t fight when retreat is the smarter fuckin’ option.”
…as she says it though, it seems like she doesn’t understand the word Retreat. At all.
[Trent] He takes that in, along side a good gulp of liquid. There’s a pause as he considers weird shit and all the things he’s been exposed to over the last few years. He’s sure that’s not half of what she has seen. Another look at the tired lines on her face makes him secure in the knowledge she’s seen more horrors then he can imagine. She was a tough woman.
“Does that mean I’m leaving here with your number?” Trent decides to lighten the mood rather then go head first into the world of troubles around them. She came here for a drink to escape it, not to muse over it, he suspects. He can deal with that, being the distraction. There are worse callings.
[Izzy Montoya] She smirks at him. “I was implying that you were leaving here with me.”
She pauses, and takes another gulp of the whiskey, resting the back of her hand against her lips as she waits out the burn before she speaks again, amused. “But either way you can have that number – before or after breakfast.
[Trent] “I’ll take the number now and leave the breakfast for another day.” Relaxing back in his chair, he leaves his glass and draws his hands to the edge of the table. They’re relatively clean hands with faint patches of darker hair along the fingers.
“As tempted as I am,” he continues, “I’m going to have to give tonight’s offer a miss.” There’s no explanation, but his tone is kind enough.
[Izzy Montoya] “Chickenshit.”
But it’s said with a grin, as she’s clearly not offended by his pass. She’s been turned down before, likely more than she’s taken up on any offer. She reaches into her back pocket, pulls out a slim case, and opens it. From inside, she grabs her card and slides it across the table to him with a nod. “The cell number there is my personal phone. If I’m unable to pick up – leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” She’s not always in a place she can answer the phone, obviously. Sometimes the job takes precedence.
[Trent] Chickenshit he can deal with. His conscience and regrets in the morning, he can’t. This was the easier way out and sometimes it was better to retreat, even if she wouldn’t. He takes the card from the table, flips it over to glance at both sides and nods to her. Rising an inch from his seat has him slide his wallet from his back pocket and opens it up to find a place to stow her card away.
“I’m gonna call this and have some burly police sergeant pick up, aren’t I? I best keep my heavy breathing to a minimum.” His wallet slips back into his pocket with another lift of his ass.
[Izzy Montoya] She laughs and arches a brow. “That’s why I pointed out which one was my personal line. You call me at the copshop and that’s your own mistake.” A beat. “But keep the heavy breathing – espeically if Finn answers. He likes it.”
And will kill her should it ever happen – he’d know it was from her.
[Trent] His chuckle is low, “I may just do that,” he jests with a growing grin. The idea makes his eyes spark in a way they really shouldn’t. He’s getting a kick out of their conversation, enough to make him seem like he’s becoming more relaxed. Not that he was uptight before, but he’s sliding into a less formal role with the woman across from him.
[Izzy Montoya] Izzy doesn’t do formality well. She’s also doesn’t do things like submit easily to authority, the status quo, or sessions where she shouldn’t cuss. She’s worked since she as 18 in a field dominated by men, and worked long and hard to be accepted by them for who she is – brash and crass and loud. One of the guys.
But with a better bod.
“Finn’s a newbie on the force. Thinks I’m something special or some shit – keeps dogging my ass. If you’d do that, I just might buy the drinks next time around.”
[Trent] Raising his brows at her, he picks up his drink and salutes her, “I’m doing it from a payphone.” The last thing he wants is some cops showing up on his door as some pervert. He can just imagine what would happen if it got back to the Sisters. It would ruin any sort of reputation he had.
He drank down the good half of his drink before lowering it down again. It almost made his eyes water, or perhaps it was the thought of what they’d do to him if they thought he was one of those sick, perverted phone-sex pests.
[Izzy Montoya] “Good idea.” She laughs, and shakes her head – then laughs harder as he gulps and his eyes water. She assumes it’s for the drink, as she’s no reason to believe it’d be anything else.
For her part, and possibly just to one up him, she drains her glass with a quick couple of gulps, and sets it down on the table, empty. A hissed breath, let loose in a “whooo.” And she nods. “Speaking of Finn, I’d best get back to the car, and to work. He should be hitting my desk with the info I asked for any minute now. He’s nothing if not eagerly efficient.”
And since she doesn’t have any better plans tonight – work it is. She grabs her coat, and starts to scoot from the booth… “Thanks for the drinks, Trent. It’s appreciated. I’ll return the favor soon.”
[Trent] At least he can have a small chuckle at himself, which he does at her full burst of laughter at his expense. The rest of his drink is left alone in the wake of her downing the whole glass of hers. He didn’t mind being shown up. He had to drive. He probably shouldn’t have ordered to begin with.
“Let me walk you out.”
He doesn’t wait to be told no, but grabs his jacket and heads for the door before she can get there. He’ll fumble his jacket on once he’s out the door and walking along side her. Never mind that the car is just down the road from where they’d been drinking.
Once there, he gives her a small smile and nod of his chin. “Take it easy ma’am.”
[Izzy Montoya] “Call me ma’am again and I’ll shoot your ass.” There. She promised she’d threaten to shoot someone tonight – and now her evening’s fullfilled. “Take it easy, Trent.”
And with that, drink or no drink, she’s behind the wheel – in complete control – and off to work.