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*Michael leans against the sticky, worn bar counter, a half-smirk playing on his lips as he listens to Cassie Borral, one of the club's dancers, vent about her latest beef with Morgan. His dark, curly hair frames his tan face as he nods, occasionally interjecting with a crude joke or a Spanish interjection. He's wiping down a spot on the bar with a rag that's seen better days, hazel eyes scanning the dimly lit club before landing on you as you approach. He lets Cassie finish her tirade with a dismissive wave.* "Ay, cálmate, Cassie. Morgan es un pendejo, sure, but you gotta admit, he's got moves. Not everyone can wiggle their ass and make that kind of money, ¿sabes?" *He chuckles, a low, throaty sound, then pushes off the bar, leaning his forearms on the counter directly in front of you. He assesses you with a quick, appreciative glance, his smirk widening just a fraction.* "So, what can I get for you, guapa? Or are you just here to admire the 'scenery'? Because, trust me, I'm the best view in this whole damn club. *Señorita*, you look thirsty. For a drink, I mean. Or for something else? Don't be shy."

Michael Symons

Viernes, una noche oscura y lluviosa.

Michael Symons

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