Franka has no idea what the man’s name is, too softly murmured in the loud bar. But she doesn’t particularly care. No one goes to Greene’s for conversation. No one that she knows, at least.
No, she doesn’t really care what his name is. The important thing is that he’s smiling, watching her; happy to slide his hands around her waist and pull her onto the dance floor.
The crush of bodies pushes her up close, hips flush against her partners. He grins at her and moves her with a firm hand on her waist. Its just enough to let all her pent up energy loose. Hell, she just needs someone’s hands at this point, someone she’s not serving drinks to, someone who looks nothing like Boyd.
She definitely doesn’t want to see anyone like Boyd, purposely picked out one of the tall guys in the bar, the one with dark hair and eyes. His lips, she decides after a few moments of consideration, aren’t anything like Boyd’s either.
Franka tightens her fingers in his hair, pulling him down so she can reach better. He might have started the kiss, but Franka quickly takes over. She parts her lips, moving against his, darting her tongue out, just a fleeting touch against his bottom lip before moving into his mouth.
Tastes like gin and vermouth and salt and god, Franka needs to do this more often. She presses closer, the movement of her hips the only remaining pretense of dancing. Their tongues slip-slide against the other until Franka pulls away enough to nip at his lower lip. If the fella is in any way shocked by her hunger, he doesn’t show it. He just grips her hips harder, rubbing the rough fabric of her skirt under his fingertips.
Abruptly, the music stops – or maybe it wasn’t so abrupt. Franka’s not quite sure. She’d nearly forgotten where she was - which admittedly, was what she was looking for. But not so soon, she didn’t think it would happen so quickly. Then again, she was doing everything quickly tonight. Drinking quickly, meeting people quickly, forgetting Boyd quickly. Yep. Completely forgetting him.
“Let’s get out of here,” her still nameless partner says, the languid look in his eyes incredibly tempting.
Franka grins quick and tips her hips, leaning close enough to nip at his lip again, and then licks the spot quickly. When she pulls away, the surprise is evident in his eyes. She amusedly watches them quirk in confusion as she puts more space between them.
“Not just yet. But save me a dance.”
She walks off the dance floor, forcing herself not to turn around and look back. She’s not ready to be anyone’s plaything for the night. She is, however, ready for another drink. Another one and she should be feeling right good.
The rest of the bar isn’t quite as crowded as the dance floor, but its not far off. Franka is rather adept at weaving her way through a crowd though, and doing it slightly tipsy is much easier than trying to navigate through a bunch of drunks sober. Couldn’t ever really predict their movements. And it a hurts a lot more when you bang into them sober – and with a full tray of drinks.
Predictably, now that she’s off the dance floor her thoughts race, running back to Lord’s. Not that her thoughts are ever far from there. Pathetic.
Everything goes back to that damn bar though – especially lately. If she’s not there – which is unusual in and of itself – she’s on her way there or coming home. And even away from work, she thinks about it all the time, tension running up her spine when she thinks about her argument with that damn customer, guilt eating away at her when she spends Andy’s money, and as always, the predictable twist in her stomach at the thought of Boyd.
At least the Boyd thing she can change. She’s no lovesick child. She’s going to beat this ridiculous attraction into submission. Starting tonight.
Franka gives the bartender a distracted smile and orders a new drink, all the while scanning the bar. Her dance partner – what’s his name – seems to be enjoying himself well enough with a new little girl – probably no older than the girl Boyd was with. Looks similar too. Same hair. Different face, but the eyes carry the same expression. She can see it from here. Predatory. Hungry. Amused.
Those eyes – Keira’s– will stick in her mind for a good while. Franka closes her eyes tight and takes a gulp of her gin, waiting for the burn of the alcohol to wipe away the image for a little bit.
It doesn’t do quite as well as she hoped. Neither does the next. Fifth drink of the night, and nothing. Bastards. Alcohol’s probably watered down all to hell here. Lord’s didn’t do that. Viggo runs a classy place – minus the alleyways and storage rooms, of course.
Franka whips her head up to call the bartender and…oh. Well there’s the juice. The room tilts for just a second, and is slightly fuzzy around the edges. Perfect. The bartender looks at her questioningly, but she smiles rather than chewing him out.
“You make a good drink,” Franka offers the man as he wipes his part of the bar down. The bartender looks up and – shit, did they teach that look in sleazy bartender school? The up and down - how would you like to spend the rest of your night, or at least twenty minutes of it, in my back room – look.
Even in her slightly drunken haze, Franka’s not stupid enough to take him up on it. No no, she needs to get up and leave the bar. Alone – a pity – but fucking another bartender to forget hers? Just sad.
She so caught in her thoughts, her mental pep talk on how she’s going leave here and never think of Boyd outside of work again, that she doesn’t hear the call of her name until its right in her ear.
Turning around with the drink in her hand, and a hand on her shoulder, and very little room to maneuver, doesn’t leave much for coordination, and she trips forward in the middle of it, spilling a good portion of her drink on the perfectly clean white shirt in front of her.
“Oh...shit,” she says, with a half-giggle, watching as the alcohol soaks through plastering the shirt to a really familiar looking fella. “I’m so sorry,” she says, trying to keep a straight face as she searches for napkins.
The guy waves her back, tells her to ignore the napkins, but Franka’s on a hunt. They have to have the napkins around here. For the love of Christ, what bar doesn’t have napkins? Pitiful.
Finally, she steals the one that had been under her drink – hadn’t been cleaned off yet, even Boyd would have done that - and bounces back. He stares at her, amused as she dabs at the spot and then…it hits her.
“Ryan! You’re Ryan, right? I know you!”
He nods slowly, a smile sliding across his face, and it’s a good smile, a nice smile, a smile she wouldn’t mind seeing again. Bea was right. She should have tried to see him again. Go out with him. Have little tiny babies and live in perfect happiness.
No, no, Bea said that about the other guy. Erik something. Ryan, however, Bea said she should have fun with him. Fun.
“I’m sorry about your shirt, Ry,” she says, patting at the spot – which only makes it worse really, but what did men know about that sort of thing? Nothing.
“It’s quite alright, Franka,” he answers back, putting a hand on her shoulder, which is rather helpful for the not swaying back and forth thing. He, however, doesn’t stop her ministrations. Smart man. “I haven’t seen you around much. I thought we were going to get dinner.”
“Oh, we should. Get dinner. I’ve just been working. Working all the time, you know. So much work. Feels like I’m never out of work. Do you ever feel like that? Like you can’t get away from it?” Franka stops patting the spot and looks at him earnestly, wondering if everyone else has the same problem. Well not the exact same problem. Franka’s kinda hoping Ryan doesn’t have a bartender he wants to fuck. That would cause totally different problems.
Ryan nods and shakes his head and generally laughs at Franka, but it doesn’t make her all that upset, since she’s laughing along too. Why, she’s not sure, but its funny.
“You’ve had a bit to drink, haven’t you?”
Franka grins at him, and tilts her head. “Me? Gosh no, Ry. Why would I do that? I mean…we’re in a bar. An illegal bar,” she whispers, and covers her mouth with her hand in mock surprise. “Have you been drinking?” she asks him, trying not to laugh and ruin her outraged look.
“All night, actually,” Ryan lies through his teeth, and Franka knows it. He doesn’t have the look of someone who’s been drinking all night. She knows she probably does. Potente family rule. If you’re going to drink you might as well do it right and do it quick. Never do things halfway.
But she doesn’t correct him, just nods and smiles, studying him. He’s not tall. But he’s a good size, bit taller than her. Lanky. And pretty, and has a nice smile, and there it is again.
He’s saying…something but Franka hasn’t been paying attention, so she nods in agreement. Whatever he said, sure sure, uh huh, that.
“…So I’ll get us a car then?” he finishes and yeah Franka caught that. And she doesn’t know exactly what she agreed to before, but really, whatever it was, she’s pretty sure she’s okay with it. He doesn’t seem like Jack the Ripper, though Jack the Ripper probably didn’t seem like Jack the Ripper when he wasn’t doing Jack the Ripper murder things.
She cocks her head and thinks about it. Oh hell. He’s not Jack the fucking Ripper. “Sure. Get us a car.”
She turns to put the napkin down, and goes to pay the bartender, but Ryan puts a hand on hers. “Put hers on my tab, Richie,” he says over her shoulder. And the bartender nods, doesn’t even ask her if that’s what she wants, just grins and nods.
Normally that would get her all riled up, but…oh fuck it. She doesn’t have the money to be wasting on drinks if pretty men want to pay for it instead. Instead she turns around and places a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth, to his obvious surprise.
“Quite gentlemanly, Ryan. Now, about that car?” she says with a grin and then turns her back, weaving her way to the exit, pretty sure he’d follow.