Poison Hemlocks

Ch. 02 - Hush

A café branch isn't the only establishment Hemlock runs to bamboozle the authorities into thinking they're a good, honest business. It's coffee brew, packs of teabags, randomly picked lo-fi music and sickly sweet couples butting noses by day.

And it's loud house music, blaring neon lights, getting three sheets to the wind, poisoning your own bloodstream and dancing with demons by night.

It just so happens to be night at the time. The club's booming music is muffled through the walls but it definitely could be heard a mile way. These other establishments must have an angel's patience for not calling the cops on them already, or they simply know what'll happen if a single word about it slips out.

It's the same music every night, the same rhythm following his heartbeat, the same reason screams erupt from the overcrowded hall.

If this Hush guy escalates things, and the plan falls off the rails, then people are gonna end up screaming for different reasons.

Hush has reserved a private room in the back of the club. String doesn't want to know the means, though the crates of beer, toys he wouldn't want to know where they've been, and the readied pack of condoms on the bedside table gives him a fairly good image.

Waiting for the man of the hour to arrive, String indulges in a few beers while he still can, sitting on the bed with a hand propped behind him to support his weight, feet tapping impatiently.

And the woman (Minthe, was it? He couldn't care less.) watches him from the other side of the room, eyes bore, lips quirked down, judging him, like she didn't indulge in a beer or two herself.

String's head is tilted back, but his eyes return her unpleasantries. He brings the beer bottle away from his lips, holding it loosely in his hand. "Got a problem?" He says in an irritated tone, and indeed he was.

She sighs, turning her head away. "How much did you bribe to let us in here?"

It seems she's deciding to change the subject. Were they to be here under circumstances not involving Paper's orders, String would've purposefully called that out just to get a rise out of her.

But alas, they're on a mission, and String puts Paper above all else.

"Didn't have to," He answers her question, putting the glass bottle close to his mouth again.

She tilts her head in confusion. "Thought this club is known for being discreet."

"I'm an exception. Hemlock's mine."

Her brows raise, only for a moment. "Wait. You're the boss here?"

String contains his smile upon his ego being stroked. "Yeah, don't believe me, you can go ask Paper yerself. He gave me this job."

"Huh," Her eyes soften, a light smile settles on her face. "Guess I judged you too quickly."

String rolls his eyes, thinking this'll play out as any other night, with a gal misjudging him only to run back to him once they find out who he is, but the thing is that String takes what he wants, and he rarely ever wants someone who leaves a bad impression on him, no disregard of how Hemlock runs this joint, until it deems beneficial to them.

Though he would admit he respects the grind.

"And how about you?" The bottle is empty now, and String is still holding strong from the liquor, so much so he'd think this isn't actual beer. Either that or his tolerance for it is the culprit.

"Me?" Minthe points at herself, taking a few slow steps forward, playing with the prominent clicks of her seven-inch heels.

"Yeah," String sets the bottle down with the other two empty ones. "What does Paper see in you?"