BEXLEY BRIAR
but if i gave up on being pretty,
I wouldn’t know how to be alive
I wouldn’t know how to be alive
Bexley is used to this kind of attention. Used to having eyes on her—in this case, both Emersyn’s and those of the men that murmur at the tables behind them. Watching with their stupid smirk, with lecherous, batting eyelashes. She feels it like a light breeze, or a little kiss of sunshine, a pleasant warmth that she’s been accustomed to since the first of her memories, when she hadn’t even understood what those glances and smiles meant. It’s a balm that buffers the strangeness of the world around her. A return to the normalcy of being wanted, of being alive.
She smiles a little at how the stranger responds. Anything she wants she gets. As it should be. (But also how it hasn’t been in quite a while: being widowed has certainly puts something of a damper on your self-confidence). Enjoy it while it lasts, that’s the plan, and as Bexley watches the dark-deep of this girl’s blue eyes through her dark lashes she gets the confident feeling that it’ll last quite a while.
Watching the cocktail come to life is therapeutic. The bartender is good at her job. Watching her peel away the freckled skin of the orange in one fell swoop is comforting in the way watching a doctor perform surgery is comforting—the reassurance that they’ve had eons of practice making this particular type of magic with their hands. The air is tense and hot, but Bexley pretends not to notice it. She makes a concentrated effort not to let any of her muscles tense up as she purposefully (coquettishly) keeps her focus trained on the drink instead of her company. The clanging of the ice cubes. The sweet, dark slosh of liquor hitting the glass.
Bexley pulls it towards her and inhales. The musky smell of the room is now pleasantly suppressed by the scent of citrus and alcohol burning at the edges of her nostrils. From the corner of her eyes, she catches the stranger’s demure smile and smiles back. (Though on her bone-white lips, it is always a sharp thing, sharper than it needs to be. More like a drawl or a smirk than a real grin. Part of the whole wolfish charm, she likes to think.)
“You’re funny.” She laughs a little at Emersyn’s question, blue eyes narrowing as her grin deepens. Though maybe funny isn't the right word--cute? Cocky? It doesn't matter; Bexley knows that anything she says can and will be the right thing. Her head tilts. “I’m not here for anyone. Although…”
And she drops her gaze over Emersyn again, this time slower, and with extra weight. “That could change. I’m Bexley.”
Solterra’s exiled golden girl nods, as if confirming her introduction, and without waiting for a response knocks back the first sip of her drink.
