[Izzy Montoya] There’s a parking lot, near the river, and it is there where the non-descript unmarked police car is parked. On top the hood, reclined against the windshield, is one Detective Izzy Montoya. She looks for all the world like she’s stargazing, though there are no stars to be seen under the winter clouds.
What can be seen, however, is that she’s got a bottle in a paperbag, and she’s drinking. Steadily.
[Trent Brumby] Trent finds it ironic that he’s walking in this part of town in a pair of dark slacks, nice enough shoes and shirt beneath a suede jacket. Especially when he usually wanders around in the Magnificent Mile in jeans and boots with a simple sweater. He lives in the Green, closer to the Mile, which wasn’t where he was right now — no, he was heading to his sedan parked in the same parking lot that the Detective is drinking steadily while reclined, in the cold, on the hood of her car.
He’d been out for the night at a private party, and was walking into the parking lot with a long stride. It was cold out. He didn’t have his hat on and the scarf tucked around his neck was more for style then it was for practicality. The gloves on his hands were soft leather, but he found them stifling, and anything but practical when he wanted to have a smoke.
Fumbling in his pocket for the cigarette packet, he steps through the parking lot towards his car and catches sight of the lady and her friendly bottle. Soon enough, he’s heading in that direction, pausing only long enough to spark up.
“Detective,” he greets.
[Izzy Montoya] She hears the steps of someone headed her way, and lifted her head to look over in his direction. Recognition is immediate, and she simply drops her head back to the pillow of her bent arm on the windshield. She doesn’t speak first, in case he decides to walk on by.
When he pauses instead, and greets her, she lifts the bottle into something of a greeting. “Evenin.”
He lights up, and she makes looks over, and then nods. “Bum a smoke?”
[Trent Brumby] The packet that was on its way back into a pocket is offered out, flipped open to neat rows of toxic lines. He let her get one out herself, stepping close enough to the car that he was just shy of leaning into it. His own cigarette burned between his lips, forcing him to squint his eyes a little against the drifting sting of smoke.
Once she took hers, he offered her the lighter and put away the packet. He plucked his own free in his hand, pinched between glove clad fingertips. Even though she was smoking herself, he still blew his away from her.
“Long night?”
[Izzy Montoya] She plucks a cigarette from the pack, and it finds it’s way to her lips automatically, like it hadn’t been 5 years since she quit, like it hadn’t been a conscious decision to do so, to take control of that piece of her health. No, this feels familiar, comforting, right. She takes his lighter, her fingers chilled, and leans forward to put flame to tobacco and paper, blocking the wind with a cupped hand.
The first drag is heaven. Harsh scraping cough-inducing light-headed heaven. She coughs a couple times, then hands him back the lighter as she resumes her previously reclined position. “Every night in this fucked up piece of shit town is a long one. Somehow I’d forgotten that in my time away.”
A beat. “You?”
[Trent Brumby] Tucking the lighter into his pocket, he found himself shrugging lightly at her question, making light tone of his answer, “mine’s alright.” He didn’t want to rub it in. Obviously she was having a night. Then again, he didn’t know her all that well, and she was a little abrupt and heavy handed with the drink last they met too.
After a few puffs on his cigarette and glancing along the parking lot and the view around them, he found himself shooting a quick glance to her, to the sky, back to her, and to the ground where he ashed his cigarette. “You want to talk about it, Miss?” he asks quietly.
And as though it was no big deal, he was looking up again and taking a deeper drag this time. He hadn’t forgotten she had quit, but he doesn’t bring it up either. Trent has learned a few things around women.
[Izzy Montoya] “Now now now, I told you about that ‘Miss’ shit. It’s Izzy.” Her smirk is a wry thing, lopsided and sure, even as she takes another long drag, this one resting easier, finding a familiar home as she exhales slowly, into the air away from Trent.
She scrubs her fingers through her hair, then lets it fall again, until she sits up, and faces him, pulling her legs under her criss cross applesauce. “Not really. Same shit different day.”
She looks at the way he’s dressed, and then meets his gaze evenly, and cocks a brow. “So tell me about your night instead.”
[Trent Brumby] “Habit,” he tells her, but not without a brief smile directed her way. It was mostly true. He didn’t feel quite right addressing a woman without a title, but he’d try and keep her interests at mind. It was a conscious thing though, and would make him feel a little awkward.
When she asks to hear about his night, turned and giving him her full attention, he finds himself raising his brows back at her and meeting her gaze curiously. He’s not sure that’s the best idea, spilling out what he’s been doing all night.
“Is this off the record?” he quips, with a slight light in his gray eyes. He lifts the cigarette to take another puff, half smirking in the process.
[Izzy Montoya] “Well don’t hurt yourself or anything – but I’m no upper class whassut who needs such titles – unless i”m on duty, and then it’s simply Detective.”
Then he asks for it to be off the record, and she chuckles. That brow arches a notch higher, and the smirk warms, amused. “Now I definitely need to know what you’ve been up too.”
She offers him the bottle, and chuckles. “I’m off duty, so sure.”
[Trent Brumby] The warmth she shows is appreciated with a smile as he exhaled away from her, and that light in his eyes remains while she tells of her need to know. He absently flicks the ash down by his side and away from them both, before reaching with his free hand to take the bottle. “What’s in it?” He’s not stalling, yet. He sniffs the opening of the neck curiously.
[Izzy Montoya] “Whiskey.” Of course it is. It’s not the cheap stuff either, though not overly expensive. It’s somewhere in the middle and not bad at all.
“You wouldn’t be trying to stall, would you? Cuz then I’ll figure it must be something REALLY good.. and I might want to take notes…” There’s no mistaking the teasing behind the words, amused.
[Trent Brumby] His chuckle has an edge of something else to it, he’s thoroughly enjoying this line of conversation, but he doesn’t answer right away. He meets her gaze and takes a slow swig from the bottle. It burns but goes down smooth, and he sucked his lower lip clean of the taste while handing back the bottle. “Good stuff, Izzy.”
The leather fingers slip across the stubble on his jaw as he breathes in some cool air, then drops it down into his pocket, taking his sweet time smoking his cigarette and getting to details. He’s stalling, mostly because, well… another look at her has him arch his brow, “I was entertaining a lady.”
There, that sounded… polite and safe.
[Izzy Montoya] “Of course it is.” She takes the bottle back, and a swig for herself, before setting the between her thighs. She lifts the cigarette to her lips, takes a nice long drag, and then chuckles.
“Entertaining… entertaining? Or just… dancing all politely and safe?”
[Trent Brumby] For a moment she has the pleasure of watching him dance on hot coals, and he does his best not to shift his weight around too much. His gaze does flick off to the side with the excuse of taking another drag on his quickly disappearing cigarette, and exhaling it away from her, before he’s able to meet her gaze again.
“Let’s say… uh..” He flails a little.
Then finds himself chuckling at his own embarrassment, “It’s not what you think. I go there and spend some time doing what it is she likes to do.” He seems very reluctant in spilling out the more colorful details.
[Izzy Montoya] “Uh huh.” she says, clearly amused at watching him dance through fire, trying not to say anything, yet giving a lot away in his lack of explanation, just as much as if he had told her upright.
“Sounds so innocent when you put it that way. Things she likes to do – crochet? Knit? OH! Bowling…” She’s teasing him, it’s clear, and she doesn’t really expect him to go into details. “Wait! Ballroom dancing?”
[Trent Brumby] It leaves him laughing quietly, almost under his breath. He shook his head and stepped back, stooping enough to put out his cigarette on the ground. As he stood up, he slipped the used filter into his pant pocket and regarded her again. His eyes were still smiling, even if his mouth was fighting to stay neutral.
“If only she was,” he tells Izzy, clearing his voice to try and make it sound less amused and more somber. But he found that he was enjoying this. He didn’t mind that it was at his expense, her laughing and smirking at him was better then her thinking on worse things that had her sitting here drinking down her sorrows and breaking her non-smoking vows.
“Instead,” he goes on, sliding hands from his pockets to lean in closer to the car, “… she had me serving her dinner, fetching her drinks and rubbing her feet.” His brows raise as if to say and what do you think of that?
[Izzy Montoya] She tips her head slightly, studying him carefully, and then chuckles. “Nice. And tell me, what’s the going rate for a foot massage now days?”
Questions, always with the questions. Even now she can’t quite let go of her investigative nature, though it should be noted it’s in amusement, rather than the way she goes at a suspect. In fact, this is downright pleasant – and if she’s this quick with the questions, it’s no wonder why perps prefer to have someone else locked in the witness room with them…
” And did you cook, or just serve? And for you, is it a job, or just for fun?”
[Trent Brumby] “Going rate? Uh, well.. I wouldn’t know the rates in Chicago. But there’s some serious money to be made in the business,” he tells her, though he figures she might already know it. Detectives, cops, they’re all rather informed about the underground lifestyle, even those that weren’t really illegal but were considered a little shady.
“Cooked and served,” this is said a little more proudly, as though he knows that most would expect otherwise, but he says it with an edge of a smirk.
“And for fun. It’s something I enjoy.” Simply.
He leans back a little from the car, rocking back onto his heels and finding his gloved hands worming their way back into his jacket pockets.
[Izzy Montoya] She chuckles and lifts the bottle to her lips for a long swig, and then replaces it between her thighs, and leans back, bracing herself with a hand planted on the hood behind her.
“I can’t cook worth shit. Have a binder of all the takeout joints, though I can usually order without even looking up the number.”
It’s an easy fault to admit too. Sure, it’s one of many, but this one she admits without any remorse at all. “So what’cha make?”
There’s no judgment there, from her, about what he enjoys. They all have their little deficiencies.
[Trent Brumby] “Really?” He doesn’t find it all that surprising, that a detective couldn’t cook, they really didn’t spend a lot of time at home, from what he can gather, and had far more important things to worry themselves about. Take outs and police life seems to go hand in hand. “Maybe I could come over one night and cook you something,” he offered it easily and without innuendos.
Turning slightly, he leaned the side of his thigh into the side of her car, slouching his tall height. “Chicken chasseur with a side of wild rice and steamed vegetables.” Then he added, “her request, not mine.”
[Izzy Montoya] “Really.” And then he offers to cook, and she arches a brow and looks at him, and then nods, chuckling. “I’d probably like that. I’ve a friend that can whip some good stuff outa whatever leftovers I have hanging around, but other than that… Hell, I burn water.”
Chicken chasseur… rice and veges.. “Oddly enough, that sounds really fucking good. Where’d you learn to cook?”
[Trent Brumby] “Alright then,” more seriously, “you let me know where and when and I’ll come and cook whatever you’d like, Izzy. Just go easy on me, don’t make it something absurd to set me up to fail.” There’s a wink, quick, but given all the same, and his tone was of easy warmth.
“I helped in the kitchen growing up, and anything from there was from books.” A hand sweeps over his hair, scruffing through it much like she had done earlier herself. “Recipes really aren’t that hard to follow. Cooking is a mild science.”
[Izzy Montoya] “You can surprise me.” easy enough. “I’ll eat anything that’s not fucking moving too fast, so I’ll let you do the choosing.”
She chuckles, and shakes her head. “Nah, only one around here I set up to fail is myself.” She says it without filter, without really thinking about it, hell, half of her isn’t sure she said it out loud. She missed something. Something important. And the fucker walked. She’s not used to failure – of any sort.
“I just don’t have the patience for it.” Cooking, she means. “That, or I get involved doing something else while the pots are simmering or whatever and suddenly we got a 4 alarm fire.”
[Trent Brumby] He’s quiet as he listens to her. It’s not until she’s finished and the silence between them is enough to let her know he’s absorbing what she’s saying and not automatically answering. It gives him time to try and navigate the waters of an upset woman, a fellow kin nonetheless, who’s having a bad night.
“I don’t have any leftovers at home,” he’s suddenly telling her, explaining his train of thought, “… but I can stop at one of those all night gas stations and pick up some ice-cream, then take you home for a foot rub.” It’s an offer without strings, but also an offer without the undercurrent of sexual attention. There’s a distinct difference.
[Izzy Montoya] She studies him a long moment, and the differences between this offer, and any other offer she usually gets. And usually accepts. She finishes off the cigarette, and rubs it out against the bottom of her shoe, before sticking the butt into her pocket. She’d noticed he’d done that too. She doesn’t miss much, Izzy.
“Tempting offer. Though I fear I wouldn’t be very good company.” A pause, just a bit, and then she looks up at him, and nods. “But sure. If you want.”
[Trent Brumby] “You don’t have to be good company, Izzy.” He doesn’t ask her for anything, or have any expectations. Ice-cream and a foot rub is almost always a sure win with the ladies, and almost always gets them in a better mood. Sometimes it doesn’t work. Sometimes they want more. Sometimes they want to rant or use him as some target for their displeasure, but all that works for him.
Pushing off the car, he nods towards his own car, “You want to take mine, yours… or follow?”
“And your place or mine?”
[Izzy Montoya] She laughs softly. “Now there’s a question I’m used to getting.” She reaches into her pocket and grabs the cap of the bottle, screwing it back on.
“My place isn’t far. 420 Fullerton. You can follow me there.” A pause, and she lifts the bottle. “I promise I’m fine. It was already partially tapped before I started drinking.”
She slides off the hood of the car, and she’s steady enough as she stretches, then digs out her keys.
[Izzy Montoya] (Pause!)
1/20
[Trent Brumby] Trent had jumped in his own car and belted himself in. He’d tail the Detective to her place, driving out of Green and further away from his own home and towards Lakeview. His leather gloves were left on the passenger seat with the heat from the vents keeping him warm on the drive over.
Once they arrived at the apartment block, he’d find a spare parking space and lock up, before making his way back on foot. It gave him enough time to inhale a quick cigarette on the walk back.
[Izzy Montoya] It’s a nice building, 420 Fullerton. The lobby has a doorman, the security’s good, and it’s clean. It’s not ultra fancy or high end, but it’s enough that it’s safe, and clean, and the doorman isn’t a complete asshole.
Most of the time.
He’s also gotten used to seeing any number of men, rage filled or not, popping in to see Detective Montoya. Mostly he figures it’s for work. Mostly, he doesn’t ask. Mostly, it’s because Izzy kinda scares him – and she has a gun. Whatever the reasoning, it works.
Izzy waits for Trent by the door, and then walks with him into the lobby. She lifts a hand toward the doorman, who studiously pays attention to his magazine, and then she ignores the elevator, and takes to the stairs – all 3 stories of them. She doesn’t say why, doesn’t suggest there is something odd about it, she just simply takes the stairs to the third floor two at a time.
Once at the door of 3C, she pulls her keys from her pocket, and unlocks all four locks, and pushes the door open. “Come on in. There’s a coat rack just around the corner here.” In wha tlooks to be a walk in closet, though the doors are removed. She hangs her own jacket up, kicks off her shoes and kicks them into the corner, and then on the small dresser there, in the bowl on top, she places her badge, her keys, whatever change is in her pockets. Then, into the top drawer, goes her gun.
[Trent Brumby] He follows her into the lobby and glances to whom she waves. Trent doesn’t offer the doorman the same courtesy, and doesn’t mention nothing of the preference to the stairs to the elevator. He glances up the flights, exhales quietly to himself and follows in her wake. The view isn’t all that bad, but he keeps his wandering eye mostly straight on his way up to the third floor.
Inside the apartment he reached to help her take off her jacket, but she was already stripping out of it by that time, and he let her without word or fuss. His own jacket and scarf came off and were hung on the same hook. From the jacket pocket he took out a hand sized bottle of massage almond oil so he wouldn’t have to return to the closet later, and took a moment to take off his shoes and set them out of the way by the door. His socks were black, thin cotton rather then woolly.
He waits for her to lead him in, watching her slide her gun away.
[Izzy Montoya] Though the gun is put away, it doesn’t quite strip away the sense that she’s a cop, through and through. Even unarmed, she has that look, one she’s never been able to deny. It’s in the way her eyes sweep through the apartment, making sure everything is in place, right where she left it – from the xbox controller on the coffee table, next to an empty drink glass, the blanket on the back of the couch, tossed haphazardly, the mess that is the top of her desk.
“I’ll give ya the grand tour. Stand right… here.” she puts him in the center of the room, and then simply points. “Kitchen, dining room, bathroom, bedroom, living room. Tada.”
Simple enough. “Want a drink? I got… whiskey. And beer. And maybe some orange juice somewhere. And water.”
[Trent Brumby] Heading into the living room, he stood where she indicated without much thought of falling into line, and glanced to where she pointed before glancing at her. There was a definite smirk in place and a glitter of mirth in his gaze. “Water will do, thanks.”
He took in the living room again, from the xbox controller to the blanket on the sofa and everything in between. The oil bottle was placed on the edge of the coffee table, clear of any possible mess. His fingers were wiped clean on his pants before he slipped them into his pockets.
[Izzy Montoya] “Somehow I knew you’d say that.” Lips fall into that lopsided smirk of hers, as she heads into the kitchen, only to return a few moments later with a bottle of water for him, and a beer for herself.
She watches him a moment as he stands, comfortably, yet… not. exactly. They are from two separate worlds, these two – even in the little things it’s apparent as he’s respectful to the extreme and she’s…not. It’s different, to say the least.
She hands him his bottle, and then takes the corner of the couch, falling into the cushions with a whoosh of breath. Television shows always show the detective at their desk, making calls, eating and drinking and sitting on their ass. Not so the CPD. It seems to Izzy she’s always on her feet, always moving.
She opens her beer, and chuckles. “Relax, Trent. I won’t bite’cha. Unless ya ask nice.”
[Trent Brumby] He shares her smirk and takes the bottle from her by the base. “Thanks.”
Whether in jeans and sweaters or slacks and shirts, Trent almost always has that stubble on his face, sometimes its trimmed neater then other days – like tonight, but it’s always a shadow across his jaw. He manages to look comfortable standing there in his socks, and still neat, even though his black hair is a little messy. His hairstyle, careless and short, allows him that freedom.
“I always ask nice,” he’s telling her as he moves back to the other end of the sofa and eases to sit down. He doesn’t lean back and make himself comfortable, but leans one elbow against his thigh and slowly twists the cap off his bottle.
A small drink later and he’s putting the cap back on, and reaching to put it on the end of the coffee table. “There’s not any angry boyfriends to be expected later on, is there?” He wants to double check, throwing a look to the doorways before glancing to her with an arched eyebrow and a small, amused smile.
[Izzy Montoya] She stretches, arms high overhead, before she opens her beer and takes a long swallow, settling the bottle between her thighs as she unbuttons the cuffs of her blouse and rolls them up, and then tugs the tails from the waistband of her slacks too. An additional button is unbuttoned, and she starts to feel a lot more comfortable.
And he always asks nice. “Somehow, I don’t doubt that for one second. As for angry boyfriends – the short answer is no. I got rules that any boys need to follow or they never make it past the doorman.” It’s said with a chuckle, but there’s no doubt she means it.
[Trent Brumby] “Good,” he approves of that with a single nod of his head. Some tension leaks out of him, but it’s not all that obvious since he’s a rather relaxed and self contained individual to begin with.
He’s still glancing around her apartment, in that slow and distracting way, when he rubs his hands on his thighs and eyes off the direction of the bathroom. “Do you mind if I go and find a clean towel?” Another glance towards her has his eyebrows raised. He doesn’t get up to go yet, waiting for her permissions or questions, whatever comes first.
[Izzy Montoya] She watches him, curious. When she thinks he’d ask questions, he doesn’t. When she thinks he’d say something, he remains quiet. He’s so… different… then those she’s used to dealing with, and truth be told it keeps her a little off kilter. Not that that’s a bad thing, as it’s good to be kept on one’s toes.. but still. Off kilter.
She arches a brow, and then chuckles again. “Told ya, make yourself at fuckin’ home. I don’t got anything to hide.” And then, with a tip of her bottle, she points toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s there, clean towels in the cabinet under the sink.
[Trent Brumby] Giving her another small nod, acceptance of her offers and her instructions, he gets off the couch and heads across the living room floor towards the bathroom. Heading in the next room he goes to the cabinet without snooping anywhere else and opens it up. He glances through the shelves for the towels, and once they’re found he takes one out, and a washing cloth too, if there’s one there.
The cabinet is closed and the washer rinsed with warm water. He lays the folded towel over his shoulder and walks back out of the bathroom, making sure to flick the light off on his way out. Walking back over to the sofa he sits closer this time and lays the warm, wet cloth on the dry towel. It frees his hands to fold back the cuffs on his shirt, pushing them up his moderately hairy forearms, which still hold the remnants of a summer tan.
Then, with the bottle of oil tucked close to his leg, he sits so he’s facing her, sitting sideways on the sofa. “Feet.” It’s about the only order he’s ever uttered to her, and its light, demanded with a raise of his brows and a motion of his fingers in a come hither motion.
[Izzy Montoya] She watches him as he goes – and doesn’t even try to hide the fact. Her dark eyes follow his movements until she can’t see him any longer, and then once more when he returns. She’d listened to him in the bathroom, vaguely amused that he didn’t snoop in anything, not once.
Her eyes watch as he returns, over the bottom of her bottle as she lifts it for another drink. And then she laughs, outright, at the only command he’s given her yet.
“Yessir.” She shifts her position on the couch, and lifts her feet toward him, and wiggles her toes.
[Trent Brumby] Her laugh, again, makes him smile in that small way. It always shows more in his eyes, which are read far more easily than he would like. Her feet are placed on one of his thighs, the towel beneath, heels nestled over his leg so that the solid muscle fits the curve at the back of her ankle. The warm cloth is used to wipe down her feet, which he takes time with, both back and front. Her socks, if she’s wearing them, are obviously peeled off first and discarded on the edge of the sofa.
Her feet are dried off with the towel before he gets to work with some warmed oil in his hands. He’s done this before, many times over. His thumbs do most of the work. His touch is firm to prevent any case of tickles.
“You want to tell me about your day?” He asks this after a good while of letting her relax. Giving her time to getting used to having some stranger massage her feet, pampering her in her own apartment, without any expectations. He only glances up to her occasionally, keeping his eyes mostly on what he was doing instead.
[Izzy Montoya] She watches him, carefully. He certainly sets her off kilter, and she’s not quite sure how to act, which is a first. She is herself, certainly, but a differnt her. One that’s not quite sure how he’s going to react, or why he’s going to react the way he does.
When the oil and his thumbs begin to do the work though, she moans softly, vocal even now in expressing delight. She lets her eyes close, her head fall into the cushions, and like the wanton sensation slut she is – enjoys the moment completely.
Then he asks about her day. She doesn’t tense, not exactly, but her eyes do open just enough to peer at him through dark lashes before closing again. “I fucked up a case. Missed a key bit of info and the fucker walked.” it’s said calmly enough, but there’s a twist of frustration that weaves through her as she says it out loud.
[Trent Brumby] He listens without interruption and leaves enough space for her to continue to air any thoughts, but when none comes he speaks up himself, keeping his voice low and quiet. His hands are a good distraction, working out tension and stroking into relaxation. “Have you ever thought about using the Garou?”
“Not just for this case, but when you find yourself stuck for leads.. . ” frowning lightly at himself, “or.. whatever.” He realizing that he may have tread into dangerous territory there and quickly backtracked. The ‘whatever’ doesn’t quite suit him. Trent doesn’t ask for details on the case.
[Izzy Montoya] “Oh I use the garou alright…” It’s said with a playful leer, though she shakes her head slightly. “You know why I’m a cop, Trent? Because the fuckin’ Garou are sloppy. 90% of my work load is covering up for their fuckin’ messes. They don’t clean up after themselves, they leave fomori parts on a dance floor, they leave bones where they shouldn’t be left, bones that can’t be explained.”
She gestures with her beer bottle and sighs, deeply. “THat’s why I had to leave Chicago in the first place – the coverup got my ass handed to me. And you think any one of them fuckers had a nice word to say about it? No. Not even the current fuckin’ Jarl can see past the fact that I won’t submit just to fuckin submit. LIke I’m some sorta fluffy prissy weak-assed Fang.”
Even though she’s irritated with her situation, his fingers are effectively magic, and soothes it away almost as soon as she voices it.
[Trent Brumby] “They’re not human. They don’t think like humans and, ultimately, they don’t care about humans, Izzy,” Trent tells her this quietly, lifting his gaze to look at her. His thumb runs down the arch of her foot and back again, the rest of his fingers holding her foot steady and still. “I’m sorry to say that I’m not surprised that they don’t think on how their consequences can reflect on you.”
He pauses his words in a moment and changes tracks with his thought, moving on to the other subject, one which he seems more familiar with. The other conversation wasn’t going to get them anywhere, other then a vent, which she seems in need of more then he. But he had a feeling that this conversation was going to head in the same place. They were two different people, entirely. “There’s something to be found in submitting. Not that I’m saying that you should, not without good reason and want. But it’s something that has cropped up time and again with some male friends of mine, who always wonder how I could ever submit to a woman.”
“… there’s power in submitting.” He inhales slowly and looks back down to her feet, swapping which one he’s working on. “It’s often liberating and more a matter of perspective.”
[Izzy Montoya] “Yet they still expect us to cover their asses, cower before them, and make sure their secrets are safe while squirting out kids by the dozen in hopes of breeding more assholes. When they learn that they can only truly keep hidden by respecting their kinfolk, maybe things will be different. Nevertheless, I still do my job – both for the Nation, and the humans.”
a beat, and a chuckle. “Except for the squirtin out squallin brats part. That ain’t gonna happen.”
He pauses, shifts tracks, and she finds herself relaxing into his touch again. They are two different people, entirely, and his submission is unsettling, even when it’s just to ask if he can find a towel.
“I submit in one place only – and only part of the time. My life, my rules. That’s what they don’t understand, and frankly, why so many kinfolk are either terrified, pissed off, or in hiding. I won’t allow some 15 year old punk kid to tell me who to fuck, when to fuck, and how to do my duty. I’ve been doing it all my life. It’s all I’ve ever known.”
[Trent Brumby] “Good for you,” he says it and means it.
“There’s no reason for you to submit to anyone if that’s not what you want. We only ever follow those that we think are doing the right thing, and I’m sure that if someone proved to you that they are doing something right by you, that you’d have little problem with it.” His hands stray up her ankles and the back of her heel, rubbing skin and stroking tendons.
“I’ll be the first to admit, navigating the Garou society gives me gray hairs.” The corners of his mouth quirk into a soft grin and he gives her another glance, “I’m prematurely aging.”
[Izzy Montoya] Good for you he says, and her wry grin reappears. “Remember that at my funeral. These fuckers are either gonna kill me themselves, or just drive me to work myself to death.”
She doesn’t say anything else for a little while, just letting his fingers do the talking along her skin, enjoying the sensation, the relaxation it brings. “I respect those that claim their shit, that can admit when they’re wrong, and even that they’re stubbornly clinging to something they know might not be right. I don’t respect those who think they can own or control me. That just makes me want to shoot them. Repeatedly.”
A beat, and she studies him from under her lashes again, and chuckles. “Gray hair on men is distinguished. I have to spend a fortune on hair color…”
[Trent Brumby] His laugh is quiet, and just that side of a chuckle. “I will,” he promises her, “I’ll declare it at the funeral and speak it with pride. Providing that I don’t kick the bucket before you do and be strangled by one of the Crones.”
Shifting on the sofa, he sits a little more away from her to extend out her leg and make it more comfortable for the both of them. Mostly because he was starting to get an ache in his back from sitting sideways as he was. “You know that there’s some of them out there. I can’t say anything about Chicago, I don’t know many Garou here, and those that I do are young… well, young 15 year old’s as you pointed out. But there is a few Garou worth knowing and following. The trouble is everyone is too damn prideful, kin, Garou and humans alike. The world is full of ego.”
“I think you’d look fine with gray hairs, Miss Izzy.” It’s a compliment.
[Izzy Montoya] “And with that, Trent wins all the date slots the week before my standing hair appointment…”
He shifts his position, and she moves easily with him. It’s second nature, for her, and well -he’ the man with the strong hands.
“I don’t suggest I’m without pride – I got a heaping helping of it. I don’t like folks thinking they an control me. I’m smarter than most, stronger than some, and I’m not a complete moron when it comes to handling the public and fixing blunders. It’s a respect thing. They respect me, and I’m more likely to respect them. Just because they can literally bite my head off is not reason enough for me to scrape and bow.”
[Trent Brumby] “You’re right. It is a respect thing, and most don’t get that. I’m talking both sides of the fence. One always feels like they’re entitled to more than the other,” he agrees with her and continues on, “and hardly anyone is willing to compromise.”
“It’s like, in the subculture I enjoy, outside of Garou society this is. There’s hard lines and limits, those you won’t budge on because it makes you uncomfortable to the extreme, and there’s those limits that you’re willing to bend for the right person or the right circumstance. It’s all a negotiation so that both parties can get something out of it.”
“You’re right, it’s a respect thing. And… well…” His brows raise and he finds himself shrugging, glancing up at her, with her feet still in his hands, “… the Garou that can compromise is very few. But some do exist.”
[Izzy Montoya] Respect. “It is, and they won’t fuckin’ bend. That’s what galls me so fucking much. They say jump and all the good little kin parrot how high! – while I sit back and dare to ask why. I’m a damn good kin. I’m a damn good cop. I’m a damn good person. And rare is it that anyone can step past their desire to be RIGHT to see that sometimes, I’m just as right.” She snorts, and shakes her head. “When I’m wrong? I admit it. I take my lumps. I make moves to fix it, and I move the hell on. When they let me.”
A slight, that smirk. Amused, as he talks about the subculture he enjoys, that she’d already figured out. His not naming it causes that amusement to dance in her dark eyes.
“Those who can compromise are welcome here. Long as they don’t make me compromise my rules.”
[Trent Brumby] The massage ceases but only because he’s rubbing her feet now, with the palms of his hands, over the tops of them to her ankles and down to her toes. It’s meant to be a soothing motion rather then anything else, and begins when she starts to work herself up over the Garou, again, and her place with them. He listens, again, without interruptions. He lets her statements hang and offers a smile at her instead.
“Rules are rules. I’m not one to break those.” He considers rules hard limits and isn’t a rebel, despite how his appearance may confuse others.
“How’s your feet? Feeling better now?”
[Izzy Montoya] She laughs softly. “Somehow, I don’t think you’d even blink to know what my rules are.”
She tips her bottle back, and drains it by half, before setting it to rest on her belly, fingers loosely wrapped around the neck of the bottle.
And she answers honestly, with a smirk that’s dangerously close to a smile. “Feel amazing.”
[Trent Brumby] “You can humor me, if you’d like,” he says on her rules, offering her a broad smile that flashes a set of rarely seen white teeth. He has laugh lines that are half hidden under the dark hair on his face, but there’s fine creases by his eyes that indicate his humor all the same.
Nodding his satisfaction, and still smiling, he uses the towel under her feet to wipe them clean of any oil that hadn’t yet been absorbed by her skin and makes sure that its not pooled between her toes. Her feet are set on the sofa, with the towel underneath to prevent any staining on the sofa’s material. The, now cold, wet cloth is used to clean off his own hands as he shifts back to settle on the sofa properly, relaxing his back.
[Izzy Montoya] She watches as he cleans off her feet, taking care with her toes, then setting them done gently. It’s still weird for her, to watch it, to know. SOmething in her has always enjoyed the fight, the rage, the clash of wills. It’s a passion of a different sort, and she is clearly a very passionate person.
But she grins when he says humor him – but only if she’d like. She shakes her head and then lifts her hand and counts them off. “There’s only three. 1. Don’t fall in love. I don’t play that way. 2. Don’t try to fuckin’ claim me, because I’m not a toy. and 3.” and here her grin widens and she arches a brow. “no marks where I can’t hide them under my clothes – I’m not a teenager looking to impress her girlfriends.” A nod, a chuckle. “simple enough, right?”
[Trent Brumby] Listening, his face grew serious enough, aside from the slight sparkle in his eyes. The first rule had him head tilt to the side with an idea to disagree, but he didn’t vocalize it. The second he nodded at, slowly, as if he could understand that. But the third had him chuckle, flashing his teeth at her again in a broad grin. “I can understand that one.” Boy did he. But that was a different story.
“But I can’t agree on your love rule. Try as you might, love doesn’t follow the rules of logic or even your own needs. Love just… happens.” Not that he sounded particularly romantic or in favor of it himself. But it’s a fact that he believes in.
[Izzy Montoya] He grins at her, and hers in reply is just as wide, just as amused. “I’ll just bet you can…”
Then he goes on about love. And she shakes her head slightly. “That’s why I rarely go for a repeat performance. I’m a one night stand kind of girl. Get in, get mine, get out.” She lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “It’s a control issue, and it’s the only control I have. I’m not about to fall for a child who’s going to die inside a year.”
[Trent Brumby] This makes him think a little more seriously. He’s never considered falling in love with a Garou. He’s really not that way inclined in the first place. It was complicated, that part of him. But some bits were clear, and his earlier reference in which he said that Garou weren’t humans, is an indication of how he feels about them. It still makes his place as a Kinfolk awkward. Especially as a male in a female Tribe. But that wasn’t what he had in mind now, instead he glanced towards her, considering.
“Can I tell you something?” He waits for a small nod of acknowledgment or the like before he continued.
“There’s a lot of women like yourself in the scene,” the scene sounds like something specific and not general, he knows she’s figured it out and even if she didn’t he wouldn’t choose other words, these come naturally and without too much thought to them. He’s speaking more freely, “and it is about control and fears and boundaries. It’s about ownership and truth.”
“And if you’ve figured out that this is how you want to live, then all the power to you. But do you think that this is a control issue or a fear of heartache? You know, you.. not wanting to fall for someone that has a short and violent life? You’re not working behind a desk yourself, might I point out. You’re living the hard life, too.” He’s observant too, just more quiet about it, usually.
[Izzy Montoya] Izzy is a very perceptive creature. All her life she’s trained herself to see the little details, to find what other people miss, to see a single hair in a sea of evidence, to see a fleck of blood that leads the way to a conviction. She knows people. ANd she knows how to listen. Never once, in all their conversations, has there been a sense that she’s not actively listening and cataloging what he’s saying, sifting through it, thinking on it, deciding on what it means to her.
She listens now. “I don’t like the term ownership. The only person I own is me. I won’t be owned, I won’t own another. And that’s sort of the crux of the matter, you know? I am not a possession. I can be a toy…” and there she grins and shamelessly winks at him “..but I’m not owned by anyone but myself.”
A pause, and then with a sigh. “They don’t do love. Claiming is just another form of ownership and possession. It’s the ability of the garou to stand up and beat his chest and say that we are lessor, that we belong to them, and they can do as they please.”
[Trent Brumby] “I think I’ve lived too long in the community and outside of the Garou society,” he says with an exhale of slow air. He hears what she’s saying and understands it, but it doesn’t seem to register with the ideas and ideals from which he comes. A hand slides up through his hair and he lets his head roll back and rest on the wall behind the sofa.
“I think that’s the differences. We respect each other,” using the term we as the subculture, “.. and there’s protocols and understandings. You’re right on the Garou society being different. But if they could work it the same as they do in the scene, there would be a lot less misery and misunderstandings.”
“With ownership comes a lot of responsibility, and I don’t think many of the Garou I’ve met, understand that either.” He glanced towards her, “And from what you’re saying, I’m guessing that you’ve come across the same. It’s a shame. It really is.”
[Izzy Montoya] “Let’s just say I’ve been around that block quite a few times. They want me to breed for them. They’ll do anything – and I mean anything – to ensure that I spread my legs under someone they deem worthy, in hopes that I bear the next hero to the Nation. Likewise, I do everything in my power to prevent exactly that from happening.”
She chuckles softly, and gestures absently. “The current Jarl – who’s just a fuckin kid still wet behind the ears, so raw and ‘roided out he has zero control over himself, let alone anyone else – if he had any idea who I shared my bed with, he’d kill me. Straight up, no questions asked, fuck my breeding, I’d be dead. He already wants to kill me because I dared refuse to bow to a pointless order. I won’t show him my neck. I won’t bow to him just because he kicked the ass of every other dickhead in the tribe. He wants my respect, then he’ll quit treating me like a possession, and like a kinfolk that pulls just as much weight for the nation as he does.”
[Trent Brumby] Lifting a foot off the floor, he crossed it over the other, resting the side of his shin across his knee/thigh. He doesn’t cross his legs like a girl, he has jewels between that makes that awfully uncomfortable. But it’s a sure sign that he’s relaxing more as she talks, head still turned towards her, and becoming more comfortable in her presence and their conversation. “You know, the Sisters would have a fit to hear it, right? Many of them would tell you to come and join the Black Furies. But I don’t think that’s the right answer either. There’s some hypocrites in the Tribe.” A whole lot of them really, but he’s not going to get into that tonight, either. If ever. Its a no win situation, a bit like what they’re talking about now.
“No matter who you are, and what you are, no one should force you to do anything. Whatever else happens, that has to be made clear enough. If they can’t respect that… then, Izzy, Miss, I think you’re doing the right thing.”
But then he adds, “I do think your demeanor can give others the wrong idea though.”
[Izzy Montoya] It’s the last that causes her to laugh again, and she moves her foot to nudge him in the thigh. “What, you mean because I come of as a raging fucking bitch?”
She shakes her head, and chuckles, amused. “See, you have this extreme respect toward women – good for the tribe your in, probably good all the way around. I was raised by guys, and I joined a male dominated field. I had to BE one of the guys to get where I am today – where I can do what needs done for the Nation, too. That means being the bitch that can hang with the boys, taking no shit, and giving a whole lot of the same. It’s what was necessary, what is still necessary. I don’t bow down. And I won’t ever. Someone wants a whole mutually respecting relationship? That’s different. But that ain’t ever gonna happen – not with the blood of Fenrir screaming through my veins.”
[Trent Brumby] When her toes jab him in the thigh lightly, he grinned at her and reaches slowly out to wrap his hand around her ankle. His fingers don’t grab for long, but seek to rub along the top of her foot again, resuming a light rub and caress.
“You know, I think it’s a shame that guys are like the way they are. I get a lot of shit for it, and I don’t go exclaiming it to every guy at the bars or that I rub shoulders with, but society really fucked up along the way.” He’s looking down at her foot rather than meeting her gaze now, but really he’s more thoughtful then paying attention to the way his hand automatically strokes along her bare feet. “.. I believe in female supremacy. Long before I knew I was one of the Tribe, too. But maybe that’s because I was raised that way, or that it feels right. I don’t know which comes first.”
He looked at her now, “But that you feel you have to act like a man is wrong, and I know there’s plenty of women that are forced to do it, but that’s what’s wrong. You should be allowed to be women and respected for it.”
[Izzy Montoya] He rubs her feet again, and she smiles, watching him through lowered lashes, listening. Then she shakes her head slightly.
“It’s not that I act like a man – i don’t have the balls for that.” …rimshot! she chuckles briefly, and then shrugs. “While I talk a certain way – act a certain way around the guys, I’m still undeniably female. That don’t change the way I am, what I am. A lot of men, their first comment in being faced with a strong woman is that she acts like a man. I don’t act anything – I’m just me, and the world can fuckin’ take it or leave it. I don’t hide behind anything. What ya see here? Is exactly what you get. And that’s something most men can’t even say, because they’re too busy measuring dick size.”
[Trent Brumby] He cleared his throat and raised his brows at her. “Not all men,” he corrected with a light smile. “Just like not all women are like you. We all come from different places, are going different locations and have our own motivations. Don’t go lobbing me in with those with cock issues. I’m fine with my own, and no – before you ask, I’m not a stallion that doesn’t have to worry about it.” Yeah, he’s saying it with a good deal of wry amusement behind that.
Leaning forward, he keeps her foot on his thigh, hand wrapped over it, but stretches with his other to grab his water from the table. When he sits back he lifts his hand from her foot to open his bottle and take a long drink.
[Izzy Montoya] “Point taken” she says, with a smirk, though once again her gaze drags over him, as if discerning that for herself. She watches the way he moves, the easy way his hand slides over her skin. She’s been with a lot of men, but somehow sitting here with him is different – unsettling a bit, and different. He has no ulterior motives, no strings attached, and as big on control of a situation as she is? This is strange waters. She knows how to deal with a Ragabash who likes to unhook her bra unseen while she’s on the job. She knows how far she can push an ahroun before sex becomes something worse, something dangerous and unhealthy. She knows how to check the steam in the bathroom mirror after a shower for sneaky spirit messages from Theurges. She knows how to appeal to a Galliards vanity, in letting him talk her into bed and pretend she’s another conquest. And she knows how to argue law with a Philodox until he can’t do anything but take her to bed to shut her up.
But Trent…
Trent keeps her off center, off kilter. It’s not all together a bad thing, just different.
“It’s not the size that matters anyway. Long as ya know how to use it.”
[Trent Brumby] The shirt he wears is black, it’s nicely buttoned and fits him well. He has shoulders that are broad enough but easily overlooked. He’s no hulking mass but he keeps more then fit, he does work out, he likes definition and has some of his own vanity to take care of. The slacks he wears had been pressed, but over the coarse of the night they have become more relaxed on him. He wears a watch on his left wrist, Jag if she’s looking that closely, but with a black leather band instead of silver or metal. His fingernails are cut and clean, the hands they belong to are strong and have done enough hard work that the skin is calloused but not rough, just thicker in parts. He does take care of himself. He’s neat. He presents well to the world, just not over the top.
Wait until she see’s him in jeans, work boots and beanies. Trent looks like a regular dock worker then.
He’s quiet and self contained. That’s easy to guess, that he seems alright with the world. He’s the sort that, if he has a problem, he’d keep to himself and try and work it out. He’s probably got pride, too, enough to be stupid about it. But he doesn’t swing his weight around or need everyone to hear his balls knocking to make himself feel good.
He’s perfectly content to sit with a stranger, in her home, and give her a foot rub without thinking it was weird, or odd, or needed to go anywhere further.
He drank more water before capping it and setting it back on the table. “Don’t tell that to a man. They will always think that you’re being polite and that they have a small cock.” Although he finds that amusing, he’s still serious about it.
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, chuckling. “Oh I know. Trust me, every man who’s dipped his wick between these thighs leaves knowing he’s the best I’ve ever had.”
As vocal as she was about her enjoyment of the foot rub, soft moans and delighted sighs, contentment, it’s not to hard to push that idea a little farther and realize she’s just as vocal in other situations as well.
“And if he behaves, I even let him back for a repeat performance.”
[Trent Brumby] “Oh yeah?” He’s laughing quietly, “What happened to that lecture before? About not bringing them back a second time for fear of falling in love?” He hadn’t forgotten that and thought nothing of bringing that back up. It showed he was listening at least, and that he could also take some fun at her expense. There’s no doubt he’d apologize if he ever stepped over the line though, and he trusts she’d smack him back behind it if there ever was a need.
[Izzy Montoya] She nudges his thigh again, chuckling. “They still have to obey the rules. And oddly enough, it’s usually the Ragabash that come back for seconds. They tend to be irreverent and fighting control themselves, so they understand.”
She nods toward the xbox, and chuckles. “Fuckin’ ragabash has doubled my game collection too. Those boys do love their games.”
[Trent Brumby] “Point taken,” it was his turn to say it, which he did easily, and with a smile.
He followed her gaze over to the xbox, his hand still roaming over her prodding toes, “I’ve never really taken to them. I’ve played, but.. ” he shrugs, “..not my thing.”
“You got a favorite? A shooting game, I’d guess.”
[Izzy Montoya] “Guilty as charged.” Of course it’s a shooting game. “Nothing like a long night of killing zombies to make a girl feel right with the world. Keeps the cost of my ammo down too if I’m not at the shooting range daily pretending to shoot my co-workers.”
She tips her head, slightly. “You gotta piece?” A gun, of course.
[Trent Brumby] “Me?” He looked slightly alarmed at that, glancing towards her. “No, no I don’t. I can point and shoot one, but I’m not in the habit of carrying around.”
“But that reminds me. What did you think of that Kinfolk meeting? I have to say I was surprised to see you there.” Shifting on the sofa, he sat more into the corner so he could look at her more easily. This put her feet down onto the sofa instead of on his lap. It also put him out of poking distance. But it let him rest his arms on the back of the sofa and face her directly.
[Izzy Montoya] “Around here you might want to get into the habit. If you need a permit, I can help you get one. Shit comes after fuckin kinfolk all the time, and well – sometimes a little protection is better than none.”
He adjusts his seat, and she finishes her beer and leans forward to put the empty bottle on the coffee table before relaxing back into the corner of the couch. What does she think of the meeting…
“I think that as soon as we started making suggestions, Ms. ShadowLord shut it down very quickly. While I’m not opposed to having a more stable kinfolk network, I think she sees herself as the head of it, and will accept nothing less. And the way she shut down suggestions so quickly makes a bad start to something that could be helpful.”
She chuckles and nods. “You were one of a couple faces I was surprised to see. One’s another CPD detective – turned out to be Fury.”
[Trent Brumby] “I take that into mind.” But it wasn’t likely that he was going to start carrying it around. Sometimes it takes something to happen to one before they take real notice. Its not that he didn’t believe, but there was always that whole won’t happen to me syndrome.
He likes the way she thinks, and as he thinks back on it, he nods as though he’s just now realizing that she was right. “I don’t think there needs to be some network. We already are a network, of association. I don’t think anyone will reach out and ask for help with something official or not. ”
[Izzy Montoya] She nods. “It makes sense on one level – but on another, even Danicka was all about making sure we had “permission’ to do this. Sorry, but that ain’t gonna fuckin’ happen. The Garou around here want their kin to be rarely seen, never heard. IF something happens, rule number one is to run – which is the smart move, but not always feasible. They want us protected, but have a war to fight and don’t have the time to do so. In that way, it’s smart for us to teach each other.”
She lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I’m shit for hand to hand, when it’s more than your basic criminal take down. But I can shoot circles around anyone who sat in that in that meeting. Teaching what we’re good at, and learning other skills is never a bad idea. Where it breaks down is if everyone is involved in each of her three areas, then the whole thing falls apart. It has to be organized if it’s to work at all.”
[Trent Brumby] “Do you really think that there needs to be so much organization behind it? A few get together’s over a few drinks on a regular interval, exchange some numbers and teach whomever wants to be taught, that’s all that’s really needed. All this head of this group, and members of that group, I think it’s a bit over the top.” This is his opinion anyway, and not really all that surprising considering that he spent his life as a drifter and without too much planning behind it. Trent likes the flexibility.
“I think it’s about communication more then about order and who answers to who. And I think you’re right on the woman, the hostess. I can also see why she’d see it that way. It is her brainchild. Her modesty was an attempt, but it’s not what she really wants. It’s her making a show of being humble.” Apparently Trent can make some snap judgments.
[Izzy Montoya] She nods. “Exactly – but then again, most of us have contacts now, and still it’s not being used. You think I’m fuckin’ stubborn? Wait till you meet some of the others.” She runs her fingers back through her hair, lifting it off her neck and letting it fall to the cushion behind her.
“I don’t think it’ll come together exactly like she hopes – but if it does have the side effect of added benefit of more communication, then that much is worth it.” And then she chuckles and nods. “Danicka is a ShadowLord – mated to the head whohaa of the tribe. It was an admirable attempt, but I don’t think she’d know humble if it jumped up and bit her in the ass.”
[Trent Brumby] This has him laughing, quietly. “I’ve never met many Shadow Lords. I haven’t met many of anything really. But I’ll say, I try not to judge them on Tribe.” Tilting his head to the side, he rested his ear in the palm of his hand, elbow leaning into the back of the cushion. He was still watching her, calm and casually.
“There’s plenty of stereotypes, though, and they’re hard to ignore. Are Shadow Lords really as bad as everyone says?” He seems to value her opinion.
[Izzy Montoya] And here her grin goes lopsided. “Depends on the shadowlord. My gaming buddy, he ain’t so bad. Course, he’s sneaky as all shit, and delights in scaring the fuck outa me jumping from the shadows. There’s one named Ezra – creepy little fucker. He’s already threatened to kill me, because I told him to fuck off. He comes after you, you shoot first, as questions later. I haven’t met Danicka’s mate, but I’ve heard stories. Some say if you dare spout off about him an’ his, he’ll find ya and beat the shit out of you. He don’t like being called out on his shit. I try not to judge ’em by tribe either.”
A pause. “Except fuckin’ fangs. I ain’t never met one of them fuckers I didn’t want to kill within minutes.”
[Trent Brumby] She had him listening, all very solemnly and seriously, nodding to her words as he took them in, right up until that last bit where she went on about Fangs. The laugh followed his low snicker and he lay his head back with the belly’s chuckle. It wasn’t so much what she said, but how she said it.
“Izzy… you’re such a sweet thing,” he tells her, still chuckling under his breath and letting his head roll forward again. He’s still grinning as he gave a slight shake to his head. “I can imagine you butting heads with just about every Tribe, but particularly the Fangs. It’s the arrogance, isn’t it?”
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, chuckling. At least she owns her own shit – she knows exactly who she is. “There’s this one dude, Fons Snooty McSnooterton or some shit.” Well, at least she says the first name right. “That dude demands you submit for just walkin’ by. I won’t. He don’t like it, and usually hits me with this glare that makes me wanna fuckin’ run for miles – takes all I am to stand my ground, then walk on my own terms.” She shakes her head, muttering. “Next time I’ma just shoot him first.”
She thinks a minute, and then.. “Oddly, I get along with Gnawers almost all the time. They don’t put on airs – they’re exactly who they are, and are happy with it for the most part.” a beat. “And they don’t expect me to conform to their pointa view.”
[Trent Brumby] Fons. He’d remember the name. It wasn’t a hard name to forget anyway, and he’s sure that if he came across someone like that, that he’d spot them without trying. She didn’t paint a good picture of this unfortunate Silver Fang, and for a moment Trent is left wondering if there were many of these so called unfortunates in the city. So far he’s met all babies.
When she speaks of the Bone Gnawers, he’s left nodding his head. “They’re a good bunch, from what I know. Honest to a fault.”
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, and chuckles. “And of course, be careful getting into a drinking contest with the Fianna. They even drink my ass under the table. But they’re a hell of a good time, long as ya don’t piss them off.”
She shrugs, slightly. “Most of the stereotypes exist for a reason, they’ve a nugget of truth in them that grows into the general opinion.”
[Trent Brumby] “I agree. But I was curious to know your opinion of them. You’ve got a sound ear and a good head on your shoulders.” Easing to sit forward and properly on the sofa, he ran both hands through his hair. “I’m not really looking forward to dealing with many Garou, to tell you the truth. I deal with them as I need to and just do my own thing. If they need some help, I’m theirs. But until then, I’m a bit like you and keep to my own agenda.”
He plucked the bottle from the table and tipped it back, finishing off the water that was still in it. When the last drop was gone, he capped the bottle and put it on the table again. A moments silence let him take in the living room again, and everything that he’d learned about her.
[Izzy Montoya] She grins at him. “That’s just another thing I’ve never been shy in sharing – my opinion.”
She watches him as he shifts his opinion, and looks around – without a trace of shyness, or sense that she’s hiding the fact that she’s still trying to figure him out. He’s surprised her, that much is clear. It’s not necessarily bad, either. Truth be told – she’s never had a male friend that was just a friend. Course, there’s no telling where this might go, just yet, but right now, it’s comfortable. If.. different.
“It’s a smart way to go, truth be told. Just make sure you keep my number handy if you need help.” It goes without saying that that includes Garou Gone Mad.
[Trent Brumby] “Trust me,” he shoots a look her way, “I’ve got your number on speed dial.” Something he did when she gave it to him. It had more to do with the fact that she was a Detective then that she was a woman. She may have given it for other purposes then what he intended to use it for, but it found its way into the phone all the same. Police were handy to have on the phone, especially in this lifestyle. He just hopes he never has to call it. But if what she says about this town is true, he has a sinking feeling that number will be called out of necessity sometime.
“I’ll give you my number before I leave here tonight. I may not have anything snazzy up my sleeve, but I’m an ear and a hand if you ever need one.” Trent didn’t have a spectacular career or was a whiz at anything in particular. He was pretty average when it came to the crunch and had nothing to boast about. But he was reliable and trustworthy and that counted for something these days.
[Izzy Montoya] “I’ll just bet you do…” She grins and nudges his thigh again, before she adds to his lists of pros…
“And a killer foot massage.” She winks at him, and then pulls her feet in, turning to sit on the couch proper, as she grabs the empty beer bottle and his empty water bottle. She stands and heads toward the kitchen.
“You want another?” Water, she means, though if he wants to switch to something else, she’ll return with it along with her beer.
[Trent Brumby] That made him smile, liking to be appreciated, even in small ways. But he doesn’t need to say anything on it, and watches her leave the room. He’d admit to watching her backside if he was asked, and admiring the way she walked, but he doubts he’d be asked and there’s no witnesses to catch him out anyway.
He really should go.
“Water, thanks.”
But he doesn’t. He finds himself relaxing back on the sofa again, tilting his head back to lean it against the wall and watches the ceiling with fingers laced and resting across his stomach.
[Izzy Montoya] Oh she doesn’t need to catch him staring at her ass. She assumes he is – well, she assumes every guy does. 90% of the time she’s right, as long as they’re straight. Edward told her once that she walked like a guy, but he’s since amended that to ‘while on the job’. He actually got her to dress nice enough for a fru-fru brunch, and was almost startled to discover that she can clean up well.
Anyway, she reappears a moment later with another bottle of water, and her beer in hand, having already opened and taken a swallow before she flops to sit on the couch next to him, and offer him the water.
“So…” she nods, slightly. “We’ve talked about my fucked up day, my opinion on the tribes, and garou, and how sexy my feet are covered in oil. Your turn. Tell me about you.”
[Trent Brumby] “Thanks.” The water was taken from her and placed on the table. He doesn’t drink straight away from it, having recently polished off the other bottle. Water quenches thirst, unlike the beer she’s drinking down with startling ease. He’s seen her drink whiskey like it was nothing, and had already made up his mind never to challenge her to a drinking game.
When she asks about him, he rolls his head and rubs the back of his neck, casting a side glance at her. “What is it you want to know?” It’s about the only time he really looks awkward, when he’s put on the spot.
[Izzy Montoya] She wiggles her brows. “Your deepest darkest secrets.”
Then she chuckles and shakes her head. “Whatever you want to tell me. You said you weren’t raised with the Furies, right? How’d that come about?”
[Trent Brumby] “Oh, well..” the story of his life if what she was after. He’s not sure there’s much to that. “I am raised by the Furies, but not the Garou. My mother is Kinfolk. It’s not until my great great Grandmother that the Garou genes show. So I’ve been raised practically normal, I’d guess. Just some slight differences in the way I’ve been taught to respect women.”
“You know, Izzy,” here he goes off on a small tangent, something that she’d come to recognize over time, “.. there’s some places and in other times that society was better. I know that there’s been a lot of progress for women in the workforce today, but there was some communities that appreciated a woman. Take Southerners for example. There’s some pig heads around, some male arrogance, but they look after their women. Not that women need looking after, that’s not what I’m saying,” he’s quick to rectify, “but I mean that.. . men looked out for women. You don’t see that anymore, and I guess, that’s the way I was raised, with a step further.”
“Would you say that I was raised by Black Furies then? I guess so.”
[Izzy Montoya] She listens. She listens as closely and as carefully as she has all night, and that little lopsided smirk is clearly amused at his tangent.
“And if the women don’t want to be looked after? See – that’s where the problem with me and the fuckheads comes in. I don’t necessarily want to be looked after. I do allright on my own. I’m not opposed to them saving my ass from some fucked up fucker that can’t keep his claws to himself, but that’s because I know my weaknesses as well as my strengths. But I don’t wanna be no one’s little woman. So how would I fair in that little idealistic community you speak of?”
Curiosity, mostly. She is who she is, and nothing will change that, and she’s certainly not judging him for believing in the supremacy of women.
[Trent Brumby] This was something he could talk about, was comfortable talking about, and in a way it has directed away from him personally, even if these were ideals that he held close to his heart and thought about often. Turning slightly in his seat had him facing her again and had his arm resting into the back of the sofa. There’s a little more light in his eyes when they talk about these things, as he tries to explain his view to sate her curiosity, and maybe to let himself be understood better. Everyone always got the wrong idea.
“It’s not idealistic, but it is simple. There’s a difference between looking out for someone, and looking after them, then dictating what they should be doing or how they should be living,” he begins there, the easiest place, “.. It’s about knowing your weakness and accepting that someone can do it for you. Sometimes it’s about not wanting to do something because you can’t be bothered and having someone that would do it for you. But it’s more about that communication that we were talking about earlier. In this idealistic scene, as you like to call it, everyone is up front and honest. If you don’t want a hand, and you say so, you’d be respected for it. I’d grumble but accept it, and bite my tongue should all go sour. Instead I’d pick up the pieces.”
“That’s how it works for me, and there’s quite a few men that work the same way.” He finds himself smirking then, arching his brows at her, “You might like my lifestyle, Miss Montoya.”
[Izzy Montoya] She shakes her head, chuckling. “I don’t know. Don’t think so, really.” She pauses, giving herself time to put the thoughts in line. It’s gotten late, and she’s had quite a bit to drink, so she takes the time to make sure she’s saying what she intends.
“To be honest, I big part of me is that fight, the clash of wills and the wrestling for responsibility. Fenrir are known for being warriors first, and everything else a distant second, and often times their kinfolk are the same. Doesn’t mean there aren’t some folks I really care deeply for… there are. But there’s an inherent challenge when you take a garou to your bed, and demand that he obey your rules first.”
…a beat. “Huh. Maybe it’s not so different really. Cept for the whole they can pop into claws n jaws thing…”
[Trent Brumby] A hand upturns as if to say well there you go and he seems pleased enough that she’s thought how similar that the lifestyles are. He added, “.. and that you can’t really walk away from a Garou, and you can a Mistress. If they break a hard limit, you can call it quits. I really can’t do that with the Black Furies. Which is why I, like you, don’t intend to be claimed.”
Izzy can say he’s heard his dark secret tonight too. Several of them, really. He’s only this honest to those that ask, and not many do, they’re far too interested in their own life to be concerned with his. Trent likes it that way, though, it works for him and makes his life less complicated.
[Izzy Montoya] She chuckles, and tips her bottle back for a nice long swallow or four, and then rests the bottle on her belly lightly, as she lifts her feet and braces them on the coffee table.
“Yeah, Garou get pretty pissed if you walk away. Even if it’s that, or you’re gonna shoot them, or they’re gonna gut you for daring to speak your mind. It’s a very careful line to tred, and I’ve been on the wrong side more than once.”
[Trent Brumby] “That’s not that hard to do. They’re a volatile bunch, and from what I’ve witnessed so far, and from what you’ve said, you’re hardly the sort to back out gracefully, especially if you’re right.” There’s a light smile that threatens, tugging at his lips, and mirth creases the corner of his eyes. “And we all know that women are always, always right.”
He expects to be elbowed for that, now that her toes are busy on the coffee table.
“Are you working in the morning?” Trent turned it to some more immediate issues, “couldn’t hurt to get some shut eye.” It was a gentle suggestion, an open ended comment really, on some uncertain grounds.
[Izzy Montoya] And elbowed he is, but its light, playful. “Absolutely always right.”
He mentions work, and she groans and lets her head fall back onto the couch, as her eyes close. “I do. And it probably couldn’t hurt. I’ve got a mound of paperwork to go through that’ll make me want to shoot myself by the end of the day…”
She must be tired, admitting that he’s right – even in this little thing.
[Trent Brumby] “All’s fine in jest, but if there’s going to be shooting, don’t let it be by your own hand. Go out with a bigger bang.” His hand found her leg, closer to the knee then the thigh, giving her a slight squeeze before he eased himself up and out of the seat. The second water bottle he hadn’t touched. She was free to put it back in the fridge.
“Thanks for the company, Izzy, and I hope you’re feeling better then earlier.” He speaks with an easy sincerity, and glanced her way, “I’ll show myself out. Don’t overwork those feet before you have to.” Speaking of which, he reached down and snagged his massage oil from the table with a wink and began for the closet that held his jacket, scarf and shoes.
[Izzy Montoya] His hand falls to her thigh, and squeezes gently, and her’s falls to let her fingers trail over his fingers as he stands up. She watches him through dark lashes, as he makes his way toward his coat and scar, and gets ready to let himself out.
“I am. Don’t forget, you promised to cook for me sometime too…” And she’ll hold him to that. She doesn’t ask him to stay – it’s not his style, and as he’s noted before, she’s a very perceptive person. She even remains where she is, and gives him that much, not overworking the feet – even if after that massage she feels like she could run a marathon.
“Drive safe, Trent.”
[Trent Brumby] “I remember. You just tell me when,” and with that, and a smile, he closes the door behind him, waiting to hear it click locked before he turned and left down the hallway, stowing the oil bottle in his jacket pocket again.
[Trent Brumby] (ooc: had fun! Thanks for that.)
[Izzy Montoya] (me too! thanks for the play! :) )
[Trent Brumby] (ooc: anytime. you too, owl. ;) )