I’m not an artist I’m a fucking work of art
At least the creature kept its trap shut, and its owner seemed to have it under control. Jack let himself relax a fraction, giving over his attention to the apparent Madame of the place; given the madames that he’d met in his past, Phoebe looked more like the daughter of one. But who was he to ask questions in an establishment that wasn’t his? ”Frey?” he drawled, letting out a low whistle and glancing around the place again. ”That explains it.” He’d have not believed it, but - well, the place spoke for itself.
Then Phoebe was taking out booze and damn but this was the kind of establishment he could get used to. ”Whiskey,” he said with a grateful nod, leaning against the counter now (away from the cat). ”What kind of company you got? I ain’t fussy about what’s in their pants, long as they have an open mind.”
Then Phoebe was taking out booze and damn but this was the kind of establishment he could get used to. ”Whiskey,” he said with a grateful nod, leaning against the counter now (away from the cat). ”What kind of company you got? I ain’t fussy about what’s in their pants, long as they have an open mind.”
