The scrawny street kid, dressed in cast-off clothing that no one wanted, walked right up to John and said in a voice thick with phlegm, "You Benandanti?" Without waiting for an answer - or a bit of coin that might be offered in exchange for what he held clutched in his filthy hand - the kid thrust a small, ivory-coloured envelope out at John and scampered away, only to be quickly swallowed by the crowd.

On the front of the envelope, in an elegant, feminine hand, was written John's name. The envelope smelled slightly of vanilla and jasmine and had been sealed with old-fashioned wax. The seal that had been pressed into the cooling wax was in the shape of a half-moon and had the initials RBO in bas-relief inside the curve of the moon. The envelope contained a single, expensive piece of stiff paper, also vaguely scented with vanilla and jasmine. Written in the same elegant hand in straight lines across the paper was this:

Dear John,

I sincerely apologise for hurting or offending you in any way last night. It was certainly not my intention. Giving people nicknames is my way of extending an offer of friendship to them, and I realise now that perhaps I go too far in selecting those dubious monikers.

I would like to extend an open-ended offer of dinner, at a place of your choosing, as a way to make up for my bone-headed behaviour. Just let me know when and where (and if!) the next time we see each other.

Again, I apologise for being such an a*sshole.

Sincerely yours,

Riley O'Rourke

((Posted with permission))

Riley had dressed up for the occasion, putting on a strapless black silk dress, three-inch black Louboutin pumps, and a shell-pink cashmere pashmina. Her hair and make-up were perfect. The hungry looks she received from the men on the shuttle from Rhydin City to Star's End assured her that she was smokin' hot tonight. She hoped John appreciated it. After arrival, she wandered the space port for a little while, taking in the sights and sounds and smells of the place. It was her first trip out and she felt a little like she'd just fallen off the turnip truck and had wound up in the Mos Eisley Cantina.

She found the place and stood for a long while in front of it, staring up at the facade and going over the many possible outcomes of tonight's...whatever it was. John could have asked her out on a date, like a real date, the kind she hadn't had in... well, it had been a very long time. He could have asked her to meet him out of some sense of pity. Maybe he even asked her out because he wanted to be friends. Whatever the reason, she certainly wouldn't discover it by standing out here like some sort of imbecile.

She took a deep breath, muttering something about breaches and friends, and pushed into the Bar and Grill, heels clacking against the floor even as caramel brown eyes swept over the crowd. Awesome. There was a group of mostly men and a Fae woman squaring off in the corner. The tension in the room was so thick you could cut it with a knife. That would do wonders for her never-ending battle with the Cat. And then she spied John and arched a brow. He was wearing a black hoodie, a white t-shirt, black jeans and black and silver Chuck Taylors. Suddenly she felt horribly, horribly over-dressed.

Everyone who was not John received a cool, distracted smile as she headed towards John's table. Before she arrived, she'd plastered on Mask Number 24 - friendly, calm, collected. Why, even her voice was masked with the same banality, as she said pleasantly, "Saving a seat for someone?"

"Hey, pretty fa--" and then he caught sight of what she was wearing, and his brows shot up over the frames of his glasses. He looked at her with her little black dress and her sexy little pumps. He looked down at himself. He looked back up at her, his gaze making the journey from head to toe and back again. His grin was equal parts appreciation and rue. "I feel horribly under-dressed all of a sudden. You look incredible."

She sat down, setting the Prada clutch on the table, and gave him a sheepish smile. "I think I assumed something that's not the case."

"Well, here." He poured her a few fingers over the rocks and passed the glass over. "Put up your heels," he said, patting the chair across from her. "Take a load off. Tell me about what's up in the world of Riley."

She took a lady-like sip of the scotch, successfully resisting the urge to slam it back and hold out the empty for another. She took a deep breath and gave John a little lop-sided smile. "I bought a building. But wait...you knew that already, didn't you?"

"Kind of. What's the story there?" He took a drink, watching her around it. There was something in the quality of his gaze that suggested he was reading the urge to booze it up in her. "Bunch of rumors going around. I'd rather hear it from the source."

She gave him another rueful, lop-sided grin followed by another neat sip. "Well... It's like this. I got it into my head that I wanted to make money, right? So I could pay for stuff? And then I got the brilliant idea that it would be easy to be a land...lady? Lord? Whatever. But then I thought, hell, the lofts might not rent out, so I'd better have another source of income." She paused to take another sip of whiskey. "So, then I thought about hanging out that shingle, only to discover that there's like noooo legal system here. At least not anything that I'm used to. And that's where the yoga and dance studio came from.? She nodded and then finished the drink, holding it out to him for a refill. "And now you know...the rest of the story." She laughed at her poor Paul Harvey impression.

He absorbed that through the telling, then busied himself for a moment with refilling her glass while he considered the implications for her. He sat back and said, "So you bought the building, and it's got lofts. And...a yoga and dance studio. Are you teaching, or is somebody else?"

She saluted him with the glass and took a slightly bigger sip than the ones before, caramel gaze on John. "Me, and some others. There's a bunch of people running around here who know how to teach tango and Bikram yoga."

"Bikram? I don't know a whole lot about yoga." His grin disarmed the comment.

"Yeah. Done in a room with an ambient temperature of 100. For like two hours straight."

"That sounds pretty hardcore. So is everybody bringing in an established clientele?"

"Pretty much. It's nice. I teach ballet to little girls, and yoga at dawn."

"Hmm. Any bites on the lofts yet?" The group over by the bar received a single sharp-eyed glance.

She nodded, taking another sip of the whiskey before setting it down on the table in front of her. "Yeah, two or three." She followed his glance bar-wards and did a double-take at one of them. She blinked and then slowly shook her head, looking down into her glass.

That earns her a fresh study and an arched brow. "It's early days, yet." Then, soft and low, "We need to head out? I wanted to find someplace quiet to talk to you."

She raised her eyes and met his boldly, a little shake of her head. "Nope. We're good." She crossed those long legs and leaned her elbows on the table, cupping her chin in the palms of her hands. "What's up?"

"Well, I wanted to find out about what you were doing with the building, and see if there was anything I could do to help, to start." He hitched an elbow over the back of the chair and slouched a little, examining her between sips.

She gave him a soft smile. "If you know anyone who's looking for a place, you can send 'em over."

"Okay." The glass dangled from his fingertips. He wrinkled his nose at it, then leaned in for a refill. She was watching John, half an ear on the conversation at the bar. Politics and religion. Two things you did not discuss...at least not in public. There were brave souls afoot tonight.

"How old are you?" he asked, changing subjects without preamble.

She blinked, her jaw dropping a little, clearly stunned. "What? How old am I?" She frowned then, though her tone belied the stern countenance. "Didn't your mother tell you never to ask a lady her age?"

He grinned at that. "I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours."

She cocked a brow and smirked. "I'll be thirty-one in a few months."

"I'm thirty-five. Thirty-six in June." His focus on her was distinctly speculative. "Old enough to get into trouble, in other words. So who's the guy?"

One hand dropped to wrap around the whiskey glass and bring it to her lips for a drink, caramel gaze on his face. Her heart skipped a beat at the question and she blinked, breaking eye contact and looking down at the table for a moment. "What guy?"

"The one who has been following you around." His gaze was steady and solid as granite, in contrast to hers. He swirled the slowly melting ice in his glass and took a sip.

She remained silent for a long time as she considered how to answer his question. Finally, shrugging a little and replacing the glass on the table, she said softly, "My past coming back to collect a debt." The muscles at the corners of her jaws flexed a little, and something...inhuman...ghosted through her eyes. That dragged a frown right out of him for a couple of different reasons. Time for a refill. He hadn't had dinner yet, despite the hour, so the whiskey had already gone to his head.

She narrowed her eyes, appraising him for a moment. "How'd you find out?" she asked, her voice still soft, almost expressionless.

He hitched a shoulder and glanced up from under the edges of that frown. "I followed you, too."

She went utterly still for a brief moment, not breathing, not blinking, just...frozen. She looked at him, an expression rather like a stalking jungle cat's on her face. And then she blinked, forcing another lop-sided smile. "Now, why the hell would you go and do something like that?"