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more_magicHe doesn't go looking for it, exactly. There's no carefully crafted search, nothing like the kind of investigation he might have done back home on topics far more different from this, but Darlington knows at the back of his mind that he is in pursuit of something. Answers, or proof, or maybe just an excuse. Something he can use. Anything.
His daily runs stray further and further into the seedier parts of town, past weed-choked lots and corner stores with bars in the window and cashiers behind bulletproof glass. It's an assumption, one he acknowledges is unfair in some distant corner of his thoughts, but he does it anyway. Of course, when he finds the club--all mirrored windows and neon, a bouncer in a leather jacket at the door--it's on some quieter stretch of Paper, not far from the train station. It's not a bad area, all things considered. He can, at least, concede that.
Back when he'd thought Alex was bartending, he'd learned the rhythms of her schedule, the late nights and weekend crowds. Though the job was a lie and had always been, she hadn't obscured the truth of that, at least. And so, when the next Friday rolls around and night falls, when Darlington has no reason to suspect Alex's shift hadn't started already, he goes back down to that quiet stretch of Paper. He could go any other night, he knows, but it feels important not to. He tells himself it's because the evidence, the proof he's seeking, wouldn't be the same if it's not her.
Another story, maybe, for Daniel Arlington to believe in with all his heart.
Darlington pays the cover, shows his ID, gets waved in by the guy at the door, and resists the urge to simply turn around again. Instead, he makes his way to the bar, ordering a drink before he finds somewhere to sit in the back, far enough from the stage and the lights that--he hopes--he won't be noticed. There's nothing here he'd need to be closer for.
The woman onstage finishes her routine, such as it is, listless gyrations to the clashing noise of music over the speakers and a symphony of wolf whistles from a pack of men at the edge of the stage, collecting up her scattered clothing and crumpled bills. For a time, the stage is quiet. Then, another loud, rolling beat kicks in and the curtain at the side of the stage parts, a new dancer stepping out. He knows, almost from the first moment, that it's Alex. The glittering heels she'd taken from his apartment are on her feet, her tattoos covering her arms from wrist to clavicle, and Darlington tries not to recall how he'd imagined something like this that day; Alex alone and vulnerable before a slavering audience, thinking this, of all things, is the only thing she can do here. She goes, hips rolling, to the pole at the center of the stage, starting to wind herself around it, to spin and grind in some parody of the erotic.
He can't be here. He has to leave. But he stays.
She's not alone onstage for long. From the wings stalks some man, rangy and tattooed, something hard and unpleasant in the lines of his face as he approaches where Alex is twirling on the pole. Darlington can only think this is that Kavinsky, the one she claimed to call a friend. For just a moment, his jaw tenses, a cold stone of fury and shock and uncertainty settling at the pit of his stomach. Kavinsky tears her down from the pole, holding her tight as he grinds up against her, or she against him, or both of them together, something violent in the motion and the way Alex fights him. He pulls at her clothes, leaving them strewn around the stage, stripping her to the beat of the music and spurred on by the howls of glee coming from the groups clustered around them.
It's when he spits on her, coupling it with a slap that looks just real enough to be convincing, that Darlington finds himself standing up, his glass knocked over on the table beside him and his half-finished drink puddling on the fake wood top. He pushes through to the door, ashamed he'd even come in the first place, furious with himself and Alex and the entire situation, repulsed by the simple fact that it's even worse, even more degrading, than anything he might have thought.
This, of all things, is the choice she's made. And there's no place here for him at all.
His daily runs stray further and further into the seedier parts of town, past weed-choked lots and corner stores with bars in the window and cashiers behind bulletproof glass. It's an assumption, one he acknowledges is unfair in some distant corner of his thoughts, but he does it anyway. Of course, when he finds the club--all mirrored windows and neon, a bouncer in a leather jacket at the door--it's on some quieter stretch of Paper, not far from the train station. It's not a bad area, all things considered. He can, at least, concede that.
Back when he'd thought Alex was bartending, he'd learned the rhythms of her schedule, the late nights and weekend crowds. Though the job was a lie and had always been, she hadn't obscured the truth of that, at least. And so, when the next Friday rolls around and night falls, when Darlington has no reason to suspect Alex's shift hadn't started already, he goes back down to that quiet stretch of Paper. He could go any other night, he knows, but it feels important not to. He tells himself it's because the evidence, the proof he's seeking, wouldn't be the same if it's not her.
Another story, maybe, for Daniel Arlington to believe in with all his heart.
Darlington pays the cover, shows his ID, gets waved in by the guy at the door, and resists the urge to simply turn around again. Instead, he makes his way to the bar, ordering a drink before he finds somewhere to sit in the back, far enough from the stage and the lights that--he hopes--he won't be noticed. There's nothing here he'd need to be closer for.
The woman onstage finishes her routine, such as it is, listless gyrations to the clashing noise of music over the speakers and a symphony of wolf whistles from a pack of men at the edge of the stage, collecting up her scattered clothing and crumpled bills. For a time, the stage is quiet. Then, another loud, rolling beat kicks in and the curtain at the side of the stage parts, a new dancer stepping out. He knows, almost from the first moment, that it's Alex. The glittering heels she'd taken from his apartment are on her feet, her tattoos covering her arms from wrist to clavicle, and Darlington tries not to recall how he'd imagined something like this that day; Alex alone and vulnerable before a slavering audience, thinking this, of all things, is the only thing she can do here. She goes, hips rolling, to the pole at the center of the stage, starting to wind herself around it, to spin and grind in some parody of the erotic.
He can't be here. He has to leave. But he stays.
She's not alone onstage for long. From the wings stalks some man, rangy and tattooed, something hard and unpleasant in the lines of his face as he approaches where Alex is twirling on the pole. Darlington can only think this is that Kavinsky, the one she claimed to call a friend. For just a moment, his jaw tenses, a cold stone of fury and shock and uncertainty settling at the pit of his stomach. Kavinsky tears her down from the pole, holding her tight as he grinds up against her, or she against him, or both of them together, something violent in the motion and the way Alex fights him. He pulls at her clothes, leaving them strewn around the stage, stripping her to the beat of the music and spurred on by the howls of glee coming from the groups clustered around them.
It's when he spits on her, coupling it with a slap that looks just real enough to be convincing, that Darlington finds himself standing up, his glass knocked over on the table beside him and his half-finished drink puddling on the fake wood top. He pushes through to the door, ashamed he'd even come in the first place, furious with himself and Alex and the entire situation, repulsed by the simple fact that it's even worse, even more degrading, than anything he might have thought.
This, of all things, is the choice she's made. And there's no place here for him at all.
