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angryhausfrau-writes · 3 years

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I Travel Troubled Oceans: Chapter 6 - In Which Anne Has a Lovely Night In And Jack Has a Terrible (But Productive) Night Out

Anne glares the last of the workmen out the door, grinning to herself at his wary backward glances even when he's halfway down the block.

It's not that she doesn't appreciate the work they've done – the house looks nice, all fixed up. Jack's own taste in décor is a lot better than the previous owners's, even in Anne's barely invested opinion. No one deserves to be subjected to a carpeted bathroom, no matter how posh they are.

Though even with all the stupid frippery ripped out there's still plenty of shit to be done around the place. Half the rooms are completely empty, even with how much furniture buying Jack's been doing. But Anne's slept a lot worse places than a double bed in an otherwise unfurnished bedroom, so she sure ain't fucking complaining about the lack of amenities. It's practically palatial compared to their previous squat. And a hell of a lot less rat infested.

Though she's looking forward to having some peace and fucking quiet around the place, even if it's just for a night. Jack and Charles are out at some rich bitch's bachelorette party of all things, so it's just her and Mary and Max sitting in the cavernous “informal parlor” eating shitty pizza and watching bad TV. But it's kinda exactly the thing she's needed after the whirlwind bullshit insanity of the past two months.

Cuz it ain't that she don't love Jack with all her heart. The two of them are partners till they're put in the fucking ground. But he's kinda high strung. A perfectionist in everything he does, including the whole redecorating scheme.

Frankly, Anne can't be arsed to form an opinion on shit like curtain fabric or sofa style or whatever the fuck else Jack is losing his shit over. So she and Chaz have mostly been relegated to demolition and then repainting and cleaning, along with Mary, when Charles ain't out pretending to be Jack's boytoy.

But Jack cares about all that shit, more than seems reasonable to Anne. And he and Mary and Max have had all too fucking many ideas about how to make sure the house looks like it needs to so that they're seen as respectable – but not too respectable – in their roles as rich idiots. Idiots with money power and no idea how to use it. Manipulable, so that they can manipulate their chosen marks.

Which she knows is important. They can't be low-class street toughs anymore, not and expect to work in the circles Max wants them to join. Which is why Anne had agreed to pose as Jack's personal assistant. She gets to watch his back while appearing semi-respectable.

But with Max giving Jack the job of conning the counselor – the first stage in them taking over the London criminal empire Lord Hamilton had worked so long to build before Flint had torn it down in a single week - Jack's been running himself ragged at that and at making sure the house turns out just right. And him being anxious has made him snappish and frazzled. And frankly, it's been doing Anne's fucking head in. So she's looking forward to a night of just not fucking dealing with that shit.

And so she'd talked Mary and Max into this little party – not that it had taken much convincing. And she'd stolen Charles's weed – not that it was all that well hidden, not from someone like her. And when whatever stupid action movie they'd been half watching is over, Anne chivies them all out onto the balcony to smoke up.

It's pretty fun, looking out at all the other posh houses, laughing at all the posh people weaving drunkenly along the street. Not that they're in much better shape themselves. But at least they're sitting down for their bouts of crossfaded giggling.

Though eventually it gets too cold to keep sitting outside. And the crowds of drunk partiers have slowed to a trickle and then disappeared completely. There'll probably be another round near dawn, but Anne ain't staying out in the cold to wait for that.

So they all head back inside and Mary wants to try out the fancy new bathtub that's big enough for a whole orgy of people, cuz apparently that's what rich people have in their bathrooms. And Max says she wants to take a bath too. And Anne's half asleep and doesn't particularly fucking care what they do as long as she can keep this floaty, relaxed feeling.

And it is nice, sinking into the hot water that's been filled with some kind of perfumey, glittery foam courtesy of one of Jack's myriad bath supplies. It's even nicer sinking back against Max's body, completely relaxed. Held by her as she pets Anne's hair with her soft hands, scratching at Anne's scalp with her short, manicured nails. So different from Anne's own hands, rough and paint stained and a little cut up from demolishing a house.

And then Anne feels the soft pad of Max's thumb press against her clit. She grinds lazily against the pressure.

“That feel good, mon cheri?” Max whispers into her ear.

Anne tilts her chin and looks dazedly up at her. Hums in pleasure and sinks deeper into Max's arms.

Across the bath, Mary's own hand has disappeared beneath the water. Anne grins at her, sly and contented, and spreads her legs wider.

She hadn't really thought about having sex tonight, or with Mary involved. But she ain't opposed to the idea - Anne ain't exactly one to be shy or anything, not anymore. And it feels right to do this. An extension of the rest of the slow, lazy, relaxed feeling that suffuses her. An extension of the camaraderie – the sense of family - she feels with Jack and Charles and now Mary.

After the bath, they all hose the glitter off in the equally large and ostentatious shower Jack's character of a nouveau rich fop had insisted on. And then they all brush their teeth at the ridiculous his and hers vanity and Anne drinks a big glass of water because this is too nice to spoil with a hangover tomorrow. And then they all put on pajamas – Max borrowing one of Anne's t-shirts, which is real fucking nice, even if she's gonna stretch out the fabric with her tits – and they go to sleep in Anne's bed, with its clean, cool sheets and warm quilt and new pillows. And that all feels right too.

The bachelorette party is going about as Jack had expected, which is to say pretty fucking terribly. What Claudette apparently meant by a rager is that they're going to every too-expensive only slightly seedy nightclub in London to drink luridly colored cocktails and do lines of expensive blow. Which has the upside of allowing Jack to inform some of his higher-class pushers of the event and position them strategically along the party limo's route and they make a considerable pile of cash that way, even with himself and Charles abstaining.

In fact, since he and Chaz are technically on the job, they aren't drinking much either. Their brightly colored drinks little more than seltzer water and fruit juice after a quick word to the bartender when they buy the girls the first round. Because nothing makes pumping people for information easier than being the only sober person in the group. And they do get some useful intel in terms of who's fucking who and who's doing shady backroom deals with who and who's doing both. Invaluable in terms of both blackmail material and understanding the complex web of high-society relationships they're trying to enter into.

And, even more fortuitously, one of the gaggle of bridesmaids owns a monstrously upscale and “avant garde” art gallery and she'd drunkenly bragged about how much good press Jack could get by hosting a fashion show there. Which means that she thinks she could get good press through that little arrangement. But if Jack is to actually make a half believable pretense at being a fashion designer – a career chosen for him since it would allow him to travel all over the world with little fuss, but one less well regulated than a more traditional profession – he's got to start somewhere. And some rich “artiste” want-to-be's trendy rich-person art gallary isn't a bad place to start.

But that's something to be discussed with Max at a later date - and a more conducive time than three in the fucking morning from the back of a limo speeding towards, he's not sure actually. Somewhere expensive and tawdry, presumably.

They are, in fact, heading to a strip club. An all male one, of course. Which fair enough, the blushing bride-to-be's fiance is presumably doing a very similar thing tonight. And it's not that Jack can't appreciate oiled up, scantily clad men gyrating to heavy club pop.

And he's certainly worked enough corners as a pusher to have lost any sort of judgment or, or snootiness about sex workers. It's just that all the girls with them are treating it like some sort of exotic safari or something. Ogling the dancers in a way that's titillated, scandalized.

And if Jack is noticing, then surely all the dancers are as well. It's uncomfortable to be associated with them, to be painted with that same brush. He wants to leave, or at least move to a different table. Divorce himself from the group – and from his sudden, terrible understanding that this is what he is to them, too.

The understanding that he and Charles – who's currently getting a lap dance from a grinning young man, completely unaware of Jack's own inner turmoil – they're exotic things to be ogled at as well.

Understood to be foreign, rightfully understood to be lower class. They don't fit into the effortlessly glamorous lifestyle of the wealthy and titled. Outsiders, chosen to attend this little party because of their perceived danger and lack of refinement.

Which is fine. All of this is exactly what Jack had been gunning for, in terms of outside perception. He doesn't want to actually pass as a member of the upper crust. Just someone they'll deign to let walk among them.

Someone they will underestimate – and to their detriment.

But it doesn't exactly make it any easier to take, is the thing. Jack wants recognition for his achievements. For people to look at him and see what he's accomplished, despite the way the deck has been stacked against him since birth. Jack burns with the desire to be seen for – to be judged by - his merits and his merits alone.

And apparently Charles has noticed something is up, because he's leering in Jack's direction. And when he sees he's caught Jack's eye, he says, “Jealous that someone other than you is sitting on my dick, Jack?” And he voices it as a challenge.

But what he's really doing is giving Jack an out. A way to get them both out of there without it looking like anything is wrong. Without them losing their stupid, sex-obsessed, party boy facade.

It's masterful. And ultimately unnecessary, because Jack is a professional con and more than able to put his feelings on the back burner for a job.

But he will take the support that Charles is offering him another way.

“Never, darling. I know there's always room for me right... here.” He perches on Charles's broad thigh and leans into the hand that curls protectively around his hip.

If he can't have Anne here to watch his back, Charles is the next best thing.

#black sails #charles vane/jack rackham #max/anne #i travel troubled oceans #chapter 6

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