Paradise Apartments

Rowen gave his hand her own firm shake, not that asshole bone crushing one neither, then retracted her hand back to a jacket pocket. She grinned a bit, turning it towards the ground in a kind of 'awe shucks' fashion. "Nah, done with the shit list for today. Gotta leave some for tomorrow. They say balance is good in life, right?" The young woman alleged, around her cigarette, casually shifting her weight to her right hip. Tommy and The Dog House could wait, the only other task for tonight would be hitting up that scribbled number for something yummy later on. Her mind dwelled there a moment, her palms itching. Her pale, green gaze casted back to Miller's face and hung there, some spark of curiosity glowing in the almond shaped orbs.

"So, Miller," Rowen began, "what line of work are ya in?" Start slow, don't be pushy. "Well, what line of work brought you here, more specifically." She had grown tired of hypothesising what he could be doing for money, and though some may consider asking about jobs and money to be impolite, Rowen didn't give a shit. Her curioisity had grown too damn annoying and she couldn't contain it. Her cigarette was dwindling down now, and she sucked up the last of the rancid fumes, before bending a knee, cocking her leg to the side and stubbing the smoke butt out on the sole of her shoe. The butt was then let free to tumble to the sidewalk, among a hoarders scale collection of other old butts from various smokers in passing.

Everything in moderation was something he'd heard before. Society could never make up it's mind and it changed every couple decades or so. Twenties? Fuck it all. Thirties through Forties, fairly straight laced. Fifties? Sixties? Seventies? Fuck it all again. Seemed one generation would be a bunch of stiffs, the next would go the complete opposite of that, followed by the one after reining in their excess... for the one after that to go apeshit again. Looking back at the course of human history though it was much the same. Same with violence. Give a monkey a stick and eventually it's going to beat another monkey to death with it.

"Spares wear and tear on the knuckles too." He said instead with that half smile of his as he watched her snuff the cigarette out. "But not sure either of us is exactly living a balanced life."

He sure as shit wasn't but his comment was meant to be funny more than anything. He sat up all night drinking coffee that was going to make him sick as a dog later so he could remember a time when he used to drink coffee to stay awake all night. She was roaming Skid Row and punching people the fuck out in in front of everyone and their priests while wearing a jacket that definitely wasn't hers. No. Balanced probably wasn't the word for them or anyone here unless it was trying to balance the different levels of shit against each other.

"I'm a detective." Miller answered her. "Private sector. Was a cop once, long time ago. Didn't work out so well."

He laughed and shook his head, remembering back. His mind returned fully to the here and now a moment later.

"Walked away with some interesting stories, a bit of know-how, a clear idea how the world works, and a destroyed marriage. I'm not sure I could have been more of a cliche if I tried." But he shrugged as he had a very 'is what it is' mentality about it. "So now I'm here, being a little ray of sunshine for all of you."

A nocturnal ray of sunlight, at least.

"Always things or people that need finding. Pays the bills. Sometimes get those special cases too. Someone once paid me for two weeks work, plus expenses, to track down rumors the Moth Man had been sighted on their block. Wacky conspiracy theorist."

Miller had stories. Lots of stories. Tame ones. Freaky ones. Ones he couldn't talk about. How do you explain to someone you seriously suspected the fat liposuctioned out of folks at a plastic surgery joint was emerging from the dumpster at night and trying to 'get back in' people? It sounds crazy. But he'd seen some shit. So instead he smiled and talked about Moth Man. There was far more to the reason he was here in Paradise as well but Miller was discrete, for now. Maybe when he knew this chick better... but man, she was definitely the kind of dame who'd gotten him in trouble before.

"How about you?"

"Ooh! Called that shit!" Rowen announced triuphantly, mostly to herself about smelling out a piggy- or a former piggy, piggy morph currently. She hadn't exactly meant to say it out loud, but there it was anyways. Private detective? Her mind went on a hay day with that one. There were now so many possibilities that would bring him to work in Palm Hills. She was sure there was a surplus of people that the law would be interested in keeping an eye on here. Hope to shit I ain't one of them, her thoughts said. Probably not, Rowen was a trouble maker, petty thief, minor assaulter, but she wasn't into the human trafficking scene, meth concocting, or killing people. There were bigger fish to fry than little, ol' Ruin.

And a ruined marriage? Shit, maybe she should go into detective work too. She was pretty damn good at this wild guessing shit. Though, maybe it wasn't exactly the reason he was fleeing, still close enough!

"Moth Man?" She blurted with a snort of cynical amusement. Weren't there enough real bad guys? But hey, he was right, it paid bills. Rowen's amusement dwelled with a remaining grin, shaking her head slightly. She did believe he had plenty'a tale to tell, and she was intrigued. "We'll have to get together sometime and you can share some of those stories. I love stories." The quirky woman stated, it didn't really seem like a question or an offer, more so in the casual demand category.

She'd been about to probe further, ask about what kinds of things he was looking into in Palm Hills, though she doubted he'd legally be able to tell her. Who cares for legality anyways? Lame. Miller had asked a question, drawing Rowen's brain out of the sewer it was rolling down, trying to manifest guesses on what Miller would be investigating here. Boy, there were many.

"Oh, uh," Rowen nodded her head back towards the cafe she'd exited. "I work at Crazy Beans. Bein' a barista an' shit." She shrugged casually, her green gaze twitching down the street to a trio of stumblers heading home from Shirley's. "I probably don't got as many interesting stories as you, but I've gathered a healthy few." She continued, eyes still on the small group as they headed down the street away from Miller and her.

He'd apparently proven one of her assumptions right but Miller wasn't entirely sure which one. It didn't particularly matter but curious minds and all. Rowen seemed excited, at least. He didn't consider himself particularly exciting though some of his past exploits could be. The trudge towards the future continued on and sometimes it brought fresh, new things. Sometimes the same old shit. Sometimes both.

"Moth Man." Miller agreed with a sage nod. "Couldn't find the Jersey Devil, unfortunately. Heard he and the Moth were in cahoots."

It was amazing the things people would spend money on and believe in. Truth was stranger than fiction. In that particular case, it really had just been a conspiracy theorist whacko.

"You tell an older guy you want to hear his stories, you're taking your state of wakefulness in your own hands." Miller smirked. "But if you love stories, I'm sure I could tell you a few that wouldn't make you snore."

She didn't really sound like she was asking at any rate. Rowen didn't seem to be the kind of woman who 'asked' for much. She probably demanded, charmed, or took. Maybe a mix. Maybe all three. She reminded him a little of his wife though Rowen had a lot more gumption than the ol' ball and chain had.

"If you're a barista, you're practically a deity in my book." Miller continued. "I worship coffee. Ambrosia of the gods some nights."

His eyes followed her gaze to the group moving away. They looked piss drunk, judging by the stumble. It was tempting to trail one of them and see if they left the group. Nothing like catching a buzz through the juice in someone else. But he wasn't particularly needing to be shit-faced right this minute. That'd have to wait until he wasn't entrenching himself.

"I like stories too. Makes me feel sonder. Judging by what I've seen already, I'm sure yours don't disappoint. Got a phone number to go with that earlier suggestion?"

Moth man? Jersey devil? Rowen somewhat wished those were the bad guys in her life. She thought it'd be a helluva lot more interesting to battle a werewolf or some shit, instead of your methed out dope dealer who's suffering an "I'm a direct descendant of Christ" spell. Would rather face a vampire than a rapist. Probably- she had little(none) experience of dealing with such creatures, so it was hard to judge. She'd heard lots of stories of ghosts, goblins and ghouls, but never seen anything out of this fucked up real life world herself- well, besides the fairies in room 205. They weren't magic, mystical beings with wings though, they were two burly dudes who liked a good ass-fucking. Rowen didn't feel like that was quite so magical.

Rowen dug her fists a little in her pockets, shifting the odd assortment of items in there, her weight shifting hips again. Those striking, green eyes of her's slowly slipped from the grimy ground, to Miller's sad, puppy dog ones. She cracked a grin, an almost childlike look of amusement and playfulness dazzling her own gaze.

"Oh, don't you worry pal, I know just what to tell you older fellas." The young, blonde purred with a wink of a large, almond shaped eye. Perhaps seemed like a jest, it probably wasn't. Rowen knew her way around words and how to use which ones to get what she wanted. "I'm sure ya could too." She responded, to his comment about telling stories that aren't god awfully boring. "I wouldn't have asked to hear your stories, if I thought they'd just put me to sleep. I've got better things to do than sit through a history lesson or some BS." The pillowy lipped heathen assured, rather bluntly.
She nuzzled a little further into the collar of Mandy's jacket.

She had to admit, being proclaimed a god-figure stroked her ego. Though, she herself didn't quite share his opinion on the bean brew- unless it was doused in some strong booze, she left it be. Rowen was a 7/11 Redbull type'a gal, the opposite of the ladies who liked their 'soy almond milk frappuccino with strawberry syrup and whipped cream'. Rowen hated those girls, Rowen hated making those damn drinks for those damn girls. "Eh, it ain't spectacular," she remarked finally, glancing behind the duo again at the Crazy Beans shop logo. "Maybe if you come 'round sometime, I'll make ya somethin' special. Somethin' that'll warm your guts up more than burnt coffee." Rowen promised, bumping him with an elbow lightly, playfully. Being on a downer, like hard alcohol, while also unreasonably caffeinated was a special kind of place to be. Something like floating, hovering between here and there.

His judgement about her stories crept another huge grin to her big mouth, and she casually shrugged a single shoulder, like it was no big deal. She didn't think he knew what he was setting himself up for, and she sure wasn't going to warn him, like he'd try to do her. Rowen liked to talk, especially about herself and things she's done. This chick could brag about stealing a police officer's dash radio right out of his cruiser, as he was napping off his donuts in the driver seat, like she'd gotten a trophy for community service.

"Sure do." Rowen cracked. "Got somethin' to write on?" From the collection of odd items in her pockets, she withdrew a sharpie.

Knows just what to tell the old guys, eh?

"Way with fists, way with words." Miller answered. "I like that."

Woman was witty. Made for more fun conversation. He also appreciated that she hadn't brought up banal, stupid shit either. Miller tried to talk to people from time to time, case in point, and he liked coffee. Last time he tried talking to some lady in a coffee shop, she'd been going on about some reality TV show. Time before that, other lady just threatened to mace him. Miller would have preferred the pepper spray over Honey Boo Boo. He'd had to look up what the hell a Honey boo boo even was when he'd been home later and it lowered his already dismally realistic faith in humanity. He'd take the raw material over the tres chic any day of the week.

He pulled a small little memo style notebook out of his coat pocket. He didn't usually carry a cellphone with him unless he needed to... he'd had a bad experience with someone tracking that shit, once. Paranoia was the fear everyone and everything was out to get you. Caution was the reasonable suspicion that they pretty much were all out to get you.

"Warming my guts more than burnt coffee is a tall brag. They don't get rosy for just anything." Miller handed her the book, which was on it's first page. "But you manage to do it and I'll be one pleased old guy."

He felt the irrational desire for a cigarette.

"Wish it had been this easy getting a woman's phone number when I'd been younger." He laughed again. "I'll settle for being older and more interesting now."

Rowen didn't watch much TV, but when she did, it sure wasn't 'reality' TV, though she did find amusement in problems like losing a diamond earring in the tropical ocean or some bullshit, she wished those were the kinds of problems she had to cry over. She liked shows like Cops, that was a favorite, sometimes seeing old pals, or anything on animal planet. How Its Made was also an interesting one, that or cartoons. Cartoons were the best for background noise, something to fill the silence with happy, high pitched voices while she rolled in the deep depths of downers, like alcohol and opiates.

A thin, arched brow bounced ever so slightly, a tickle of a smirk in the left corner of her chapped lips. “Well Mr Miller, I’m known for tall brags and gettin’ things nice an’ rosy. So, guess you’ll just have’ta see for yourself how well I can please. “ Why did everything sound like a dirty joke from Rowen? Mostly because she made everything into a dirty joke, it was just too easy.

She took the offered memo book into her hands, looking it over briefly. Must be an old geezer type of thing, to carry this crap around. Rowen herself usually didn’t carry a cellphone either. She was always having them stolen, broken, lost or run out of minutes. She did have the apartment phone though, like every unit did. She wasn’t much for phone communication, unless it was the only option or the best option for the situation requiring a phone call. Rowen was more so the type of lady to march up to your door, bang on it and express her thoughts verbally (or physically) to your face, absolutely not the type of lady who sent a passive aggressive text. Being her nosy self, which couldn’t always be helped, she flipped through the memo style book quickly, looking for anything eye catching. Back at the front page, she popped the top of the sharpie off with her teeth, holding the cap between them while she scribbled her name and number into the pad. It was finished with a sloppy smiley face by her name. Recapping the sharpie and returning it to the jacket pocket, she held out the notebook towards Miller.

“Well, women do tend to like men older. Like fine wine, better with age.” Rowen didn’t know much at all about wine, but she did know much about older men. They’d always been her thing, she couldn’t really speak for other girls though… and yet she did… such was Rowen. She shrugged a single shoulder nonchalantly again, concluding the statement with a soft, devious chuckle and, “Maybe I’m just an easy girl to get things from.”

Oh yes, this one was trouble. The kind of woman who tempted man and beast both. The retort and utter confidence of the woman was both amusing and becoming though. Miller's sad little smile was genuine but few of his facial expressions fully reached his eyes. There was amusement on his face as Rowen flipped through the memo book and then wrote her number down with a smile face. When she handed it back, he just re-pocketed it in the same coat pocket from which it had come. Her scent was getting distracting. Something told him with her words and voice, she might have been a phone sex operator at some point. If not, she'd probably be good at it.

"Sounds like a date." Miller answered about seeing for himself. "I'll give you a call."

She was making him hungry. He wasn't really hungry, but she was making him hungry. The voice, the edge, the tone, the looks, everything about it. The kind of case he couldn't walk away from when he was alive and the kind of case he had a hard time walking away from now that his pulse was slower. For a moment, the briefest moment, he had a mental image of pushing her hard against a wall. Passion or attack, maybe both. It'd be good for both of them what'd come next, in two entirely different ways. He'd done his share of violence over the years but he wasn't an inherently violent person. Or so he'd tell himself. Maybe it was to make himself feel better for some of the truly shitty things he'd done in his time. The best lies were the ones a person told to themselves.

"Fine wine. I like that. I'm probably something red and bitter, at the end of the night." Miller didn't have any illusions on that account. "We'll have plenty of time to figure it out. Was always a whiskey man myself so maybe there's a burning in there too."

He wasn't entirely sure what he was saying anymore. His senses were on fire, thanks to her. Damn but her heartbeat was loud in his ears. Fuck. It was time to move on, otherwise things were going to go downhill. Likely for her more than for him. Miller could feel it in what was left of his pitted, rotten soul. 'Maybe I'm just an easy girl to get things from'... darling, you've no idea how sweet an idea that sounds. There was something sharp poking Miller's gums inside his mouth, behind his closed lips. It took a second for the semi-pain of it to recede.

"I should let you get back to the rest of your night. I'll be in touch." Miller reached up and tipped the brim of his hat to the woman. "Was a pleasure meeting you Rowen. Looking forward to the next time."

He was. For now though, she was going to be the one who got away. He didn't need to make problems for her, for himself, for everyone. Not yet. With one last nod, Miller crossed the street in the direction of the apartments. A bus drove by, blocking the view of him for a moment, and when it passed there was no more Miller in the glow of its taillights and exhaust. Just one more face in the crowd, making his way to wherever, hardly worthy of notice to the eyes of observers. He'd heard once that ladies liked a man with some mystery anyways. Was better than being boring.

Until next time.

Not quite a phone sex opporator, due to that little thing about not liking phones pressed against her face constantly. Prostitute? Nah, she’d seen too many go down that path, too many who got lost there. Stripper? Yup. For exactly four days, before she was fired. Her ‘customer service’ skills weren’t exactly as good as the employer had hoped.
The woman was a flirt, loved those sexual innuendos and dirty jokes, but she only gave it when she wanted to, or when it was taken from her. She didn’t exchange it for money, maybe for drugs once or twice. But that wasn’t quite in the realm of prostitution, that was ‘I’ll date you for three weeks, because you deal some tasty treats, and I like free drugs.’ More so in the dirt bag category than prostitute.

Rowen was watching those eyes of his, those kind of sad, empty seeming ones. Almost haunted? She was watching him thinking in there, her own eyes narrowing ever so slightly, mischief twinkling in them. A smirk once again played on her mouth, her head turning slightly to the left, eyes still on his. His gave away nothing, leaving Rowen wanting to dig deeper, claw through the vail of the unknown. What was he thinking about up in there? Was he thinking about her? What he wanted to do to her? Her deviant mind played.

Miller wasn’t actually the type of man Rowen usually howled at the moon with, but she found him incredibly intriguing. Maybe it was the fact she seemed to finally find someone with more stories than her, stories that might even be more entertaining than her’s. Maybe it was his occupation that gave her those whispered feelings of danger and mischief? Whatever it was, there was something about this new found pal that gave her chills of excitement. The goosebumps ran up her arms under Mandy’s jacket. Though he wasn’t her typical type, Rowen let her mind toy with the idea. Surprisingly easy, she could picture his fingers balled in her hair... that or him clasping her wrists in cuffs, which could be taken either way.

“I’m a whiskey over wine type’a gal myself too, but the saying usually goes for wine.” She gestured a hand, as of waving away the wine quote. Aged whiskey was much tastier, and fucked her up faster anyways.

Rowen’s expression faltered for a split second, a slight furrow dipping between her brows, as she became aware of Miller’s sudden antsiness to call it a night. But she didn’t let it bother her much after the initial supsicion, toxic thoughts coming up with many reasons he might be wanting to hurry home. Perhaps all the talk of alcohol was making him jones? He could’ve realized he left his oven on? Maybe he thought talking to a young woman he just met while brandishing a hard on was impolite? She didn’t really believe the latter, she just found it amusing. Truly a gentleman.

“Pleasure is all mine, Mr Miller. I’ll be lookin’ forward to hearing from you.” Rowen bid, bringing a hand up towards her shoulder and wiggling the tips of her fingers in his direction as he headed off to cross the street. With the other hand, she was digging another smoke from her back, watching him walk off.

Cigarette in mouth and in the process of lighting, she glanced up after the bus passed to find Miller nowhere to be seen. She shook her head slightly, cupping a hand around the cigarette tip and flicking the lighter to life again. He left her feeling thrilled and with a deadly curiosity. Who was this guy? He seemed so simple, but Rowen had a gut feeling there was so much more burried beneath that front of sad, old hound dog. For now, she’d just have to wait and wonder.

Until next time.