An illustrious rivulet of fluorescent teal light cascaded over Jaylene, her legs crossed as she stood and her posture tilting towards Spitz. Smiling at him over the brim of her glass, she nipped at the champagne in slow swallows before finally uttering the words, "Thanks for coming." No sooner than the glass had reached its last bubbles, a diligent waiter with striking azure eyes politely took the empty ware from Jaylene's hand and scurried off towards the bar. Raising her brows, she puckered her supple lips, "Damn, they're good, huh?" She nudged Spitz with a playful jab, her hand even caressing the back of his head in a genteel way as the petite digits traced his braids.
Subdued lights turned the stage obscure. Even Jaylene was on the edge of her seat, so to speak. She'd never physically met the band or truthfully looked into them. Admittedly she was going into the entire thing blind with sky-reaching aspirations. A Du Jour collaborator almost passed Jaylene, shortly thereafter pausing and backtracking a bit to greet her with his ornate grin that stretched from ear to ear while he pocketed his wallet.
"Miss Sullivan, a divine pleasure," he exclaimed as he took his hand in hers.
"Thank you," she replied gracefully, "So good to finally meet another editor."
"I hear great things, honey - I just wanted to tell you that if you keep this kind of shit up," he gasped for a minute and clasped a hand over his mouth,
"Excuse mwah French. Nothing will stop you from taking over corporate headquarters.""I wish," she oscillated her head for a moment, "Thanks so much."
"Keep these little twinks prancing around in those waitstaff costumes and I'll be lubricated and ready within the next hour," he giggled, waved a wiggly-fingered hand at Jaylene and cavorted off,
"By the way, there's an abundance of models in here dying to get on your line. Take a look, half of em' ain't bad lookin'! Ta-ta!"
An awkward expression traversed over Jaylene's face as she looked back at Spitz for some reassurance that the conversation actually
did in fact occur. Pleadingly, he put both of his hands up as if to say
'beats me'. She laughed quietly, her olive eyes now trained on the stage where band mates were calling their bassist to the front. She would have trailed the spotlight with her sights if Spitz didn't nudge her, causing her to straighten and lean away from him upon the new arrival that was inevitably a customer of his. Her attention span shortened.
"…Everyone let's call Kale the male to the stage."Kale? Her mind spun wildly out of control for a minute. A bottomless agony in her stomach writhed, the phantom of intimacy and secrecy existing within its amniotic sac. She could feel it coming to life again, coinciding with that ache for her vices. When she reminded herself that just because she didn't often hear the name, didn't mean Kaleb Sivaj was the only one with it, she was calm enough to divert her attention from the band and back to Spitz and his fittingly dressed, attractive new brunette friend. The time spent waiting to introduce herself was hacked open so that recollections could bleed in. She snatched another glass of champagne shamelessly from the drinks Spitz ordered.
She'd left them without a word. Her friends. What was worse was the night Kaleb and herself shared, unbeknownst to their friends or anyone except the housekeeper, for that matter. Funny, it was the night that she cracked the bridge of Spitz' nose with her head that everything got so wild and out of hand with Kaleb. His darkest secret followed them both all the way home, snubbed out by the fire they sparked while rediscovering each other in Jaylene's bed. She could clearly recall the splintering light coming through the window and the scorching inward pain that belonged to her, just evaporating into nothing. And she took his torture, made it her own. The frailty of the image in her mind would have made her quake if she didn't so soon take a big swig of champagne, the only memo of reality being the tinkering of her Tiffany and Co. charm bracelet against the glass.
At full speed she swung back into physical existence. In a robotic sort of way, her hand had come out to meet the brunette's without Jaylene being fully aware of it. A clandestine mood swallowed the pub, its front platform glowing a feeble orange before the band concluded their set. In its shadow only radiated the soft hues from center pieces, giving the bar a sort of enigmatic, underwater look. In the brief moment of darkness Jaylene established the composure she needed, introducing herself deferentially as a fashion editor of Du Jour, then thanking the femme for coming to the show. Whether it was drugs or cars, the Sullivan woman didn't really want to know. But she slipped away, respecting business.
Pinching and flattening herself through the audience, Jaylene clutched a petite briefcase under one arm, careful not to lose it in all the commotion. Before she dared have any more to drink, commerce and negotiations had to be handled. After she met a few models and paid the band, she was free to cut loose. And honestly she could hardly wait. The past few weeks had been long. Seemed like she never got a day off since relocating to The Bronx for Du Jour. For once in her life she felt herself working more than playing. Dismissing the notion or any potential regrets, she pushed her way through until her hips were bumping right against the platform where the musicians were almost done clearing away their equipment. She slunk off to the far side, a shadowy lower section of the stage where she cracked open the briefcase to retrieve an envelope full of cash haphazardly labeled 'Music'.
But what her jade eyes met next couldn't have been told in advance. Even with the pithy unsettling moment when she heard his name. For all that, now it was confirmed. He wasn't an apparition in preceding times. Burnt sienna eyes substantiated a homesickness and candor she wasn't ready to confront. Mick's self-made twilight surged between Kaleb and Jaylene, their words mutually retained by what she speculated as pain, bitterness, and bizarre recollection. A chain of desperate 'I'm sorry's arose in her throat but never made it all the way out. Instead she was speechless, her business-trained android mannerisms taking over again as she imposed the white envelope full of cash, thrusting it toward him wordlessly. Her perception ingested every detail of his handsome veneer, glossing what memories held of him and taking his appeal to a whole new level. But still she couldn't quite digest it. And she couldn't speak. Here she was face to face with Kale, her best friend, her unlooked-for lover whose very lasting impression even still brought chills to her skin to this day. She booked his band, and she didn't even know it. All at once she felt empty but unabridged. Stupid. Senseless.

Nothing surprised him or excited him much anymore. Well,
except the skimpy outfits that looked like they were painted on half the girls that showed up and their willingness to be social and outgoing. That at least, made any event compelling. What kept him enlivened was the Ciroc and the incubating anticipated race that would come after-hours. Hazel wasn't anywhere to be seen just yet, and he wouldn't, for any chance in hell, use the Charger in a race should she decide not to show. But he wasn't surprised by Hazel's lateness, she had a habit of pregaming. He wasn't surprised either, to see Jaylene's lustrous silhouette tearing a path under the blinking lights, her likely issued clothes from Du Jour itself and her hands multitasking between placing business cards on tables and pointing in various directions. In between a drink, he texted Hazel asking where the fuck she was at.
He ashed out the cigar, its lasting smack of vanilla soaking into his tongue. Sepia eyes glanced back and forth, his complacent mien never changing even slightly. When he locked eyes with Jaylene, he sensed a familiar impression. He wasn't new to this; she desperately needed a fix. From the looks of her though, she was as clean as a whistle.
She took the stage, drifting towards the microphone with a certain uneasiness in her eyes that most wouldn't distinguish. But Spitz knew. He raised a glass as she spoke, a few following his cue. She had the throng of them cupped in her hands and she hardly knew it but, that was the splendor that came with her. Always did.
Not shit changed, he thought to himself. Sometimes even he was dumbfounded by how much time could ameliorate and keep the same person all at once. A resounding ovation took the bar by force as Jaylene left her post, propping the microphone on its stand and letting the light fall dim in her aftermath. In a way, seeing her like that up on stage as a picture of health and glow before a crowd, he hoped she'd never go back to the drugs. She looked good.
Made. Professional.Spitz' vision trailed towards the bar where a unique blond was shuffling through alcohol. He recognized her - he wasn't a stranger to Mick's. She stood out among the rest of them, taut ivory lace wrapping her torso and a bold, small skirt. His best, wordless impression was that she was spewing confidence and frankly didn't give a fuck about much. He made a cognitive note to keep an eye on her and get a word and drink or two in with her before the end of the night. Maybe even invite her to the race, but it was all up in the air. He was known to leave with a few girls on many occasions. To the left of the bar came another doll-looking girl, eyes as wide as the moon. Just from the looks of her he could tell she was here to potentially get a place on a line. Du Jour's line. Maybe make a few connections. But shit, wasn't that what
everyone was here for in some way or another?
His eyes were cast away from her when a gruff voice broke over the microphone and a bright beam dripped around the contour of none other but Kaleb Sivaj.
History sure had a tendency of making itself known and very present in Scully's life, but as far as Kaleb went, that shit was old news. They'd both been in New York long enough and Spitz was alert to Kaleb's existence and didn't bother to provoke or push at it. Man to man, neither of them cared for the other. The ebbing memory of the kid's conspicuous anger, jealousy and drug problem was enough to keep Spitz safely distanced from him. He didn't have time for that childish mess anymore - life was business, money, and the pleasure that came with all of the above. But the dude packed a solid group of females, so it was bizarre to see his band taking the bar by force without a gathering of groupies close in tow. And when Jaylene floated over to Spitz' booth, swathing the back of his head with her small-boned fingers and drinking her champagne, his inner deviant grinned with muted competition that so far, he'd won. Besides, out of all the times he'd seen Jaylene in the past few months, she didn't speak a word about Kaleb. Not even that crazy ass girl Summer.
Adios homie, he thought to himself spitefully.
He wrapped an arm around Jaylene's narrow waist, letting it stay loosely disassociated while he ordered a round of drinks. Nodding to her gratitude, he shrugged a little and said over the music, "Gotta' support my kins, right?"
What followed then was a confusing situation for Spitz who found the upcoming conversation nothing but hilarious and strange. His jaw jerked a few times as he gritted his teeth, attempting not to bust the fuck up at the blatant gay designer gushing at Jaylene and about the 'twinks' in the bar. When the man in the mint blazer straightened his collar and sauntered off, grabbing a drink from a tray, Jaylene looked at Spitz with utter comical disbelief in her eyes. In response, he put his hands up, surrendering himself to the hilarity. They were being as polite as what appeared to be business partners or comrades, and that suited Spitz just fine. She could dangle off of his arm like a charm all night if she wanted to. But she wasn't the type of merchandise he'd take home and fuck. He could find that mostly anywhere else.
On the thought of divine looking females, coincidentally the sultry tone of one before him spoke his name. His left hand was just about to raise another cigar to his lips when she arrived, simply dressed but drop dead to the last of inch of her. What embellished the young woman more than anything was her obscure hazel eyes and the dog tags hanging from her neck. A few years ago just the sight of dog tags would make Spitz cringe or squirm, but like most things in this world he came to find it wasn't always what it appeared. As the musicians on stage performed what was slowly becoming a crowd thriller, the noise roaring all about and shaking the very foundation of the bar, Spitz straightened his comportment and stuck the cigar between his teeth and flashed the chestnut-haired woman an angled, mischievous white grin, "Just Spitz is good with me."
He nodded to Jaylene whose blond tresses swayed from her waist as she stood in a more de rigueur fashion, extending a hand to the newcomer. In a gentlemanly manner Spitz motioned to the booth for the woman to take a seat. There was business to be talked or inaugurated. Having taken the hint, Jaylene set down her empty champagne glass and excused herself from the conversation. Spitz positioned himself in his seat so that he sat directly across from Alex, a playful inquisitive look riddling his face, like he had droves of questions about Alex herself. And what would have been expected to escape his mouth, didn't. Alternately, he breathed in the succinct silence of the band's finale, "So what can I do for you?"