The bartender raised an eyebrow at the girl as she set a box on the counter of his bar. “You’re that Summer girl, right?” he asked absently, and then nodded as he stepped away to find his employer. Several minutes later, he returned, “Vex’ll be out momentarily.”
And several moments later, the Mesmer appeared, walking over to where Summer stood at the bar. He was dressed in his finest. “‘Ello, Precious,” he greeted, “Ya called?”
A chuckle escaped the Mesmer’s lips as he commented, “Drunken ‘ookers are ‘ardly plans, love.” There was a pause as she laughed, and he found himself smiling, “Yes, I am, now c’mon, lets go upstairs, baby.” It wasn’t a common one, but the pet-name fell from his lips affectionately as he offered her his hand, the other moving to pick up the bakery box.
“Drunken hookers?” Summer repeated in a vaguely offended tone. “And don’t call me that, I prefer ‘precious’.” Nevertheless, she put her hand in his and let him pull her upstairs. She felt under-dressed next to him, in plain black jeans, white peasant shirt and low-heel ankle boots. Then again, they’d never matched well in looks, only contrasted.
Vex smiled good-naturedly at her, “Just kidding, of course.” He pulled her up the stairs almost eagerly, glad to be with Summer today rather than alone. “And good, because so do I,” he replied, which was true; ‘precious’ felt much more natural. He pulled open the door to his private room upstairs and let her inside, shutting the door behind them. He stuck the red velvet cake in his mini-fridge, and then took a seat on the leather sofa. “C’mere,” he said simply, casting a smile her way.
“You had better be,” she scolded. Hands on her hips, she strode across the room to stand between his knees, hipshot. “Imagine, preferring hookers when you could have called me.” She frowned down at him before reaching out and rapping him on the top of the head with a fist. “The cheek of you. That’s what you Brits say, right, cheek?”