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[remaxlasvegas]

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[datascraping001]

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[ofirventuralasvegas]

Las Vegas Real Estate Lawyer Overview - Ofir Ventura

A Las Vegas real estate attorney practices according to the Las Vegas law. A Las Vegas, real estate attorney handles sales and purchases of apartments, homes, condos, apartments, and cooperative apartments, as well as commercial and residential real estate transactions.

They also handle assignments of sub-leases and leases and many others.

A Las Vegas real estate attorney, an expert in handling real estate litigation with architects, banks, insurance companies, building contractors, and landlord-tenant litigation. They are also experts in handling building as well as remodeling agreements. You can also rely on Las Vegas real estate attorney to settle disputes about materials, budget, craftsmanship, as well as other problems that may arise.

There are two kinds of real estate attorneys in Las Vegas: first is the litigation attorney, who, for the most part, works on lawsuits that involve real estate. Secondly, a transactional lawyer who, for the most part, deals with contracts and agreements involving commercial or residential real estate property. Before hiring or getting a real estate attorney's service, clients must decide which of the lawyers they want. A Las Vegas real estate attorney assists clients in drawing up a lease agreement based on Las Vegas real estate regulation when leasing a real estate property, as well as represents the customer if any landlord-tenant arguments and discussions arise. When buying real estate, you need to sign a promissory note, so it's always advisable to keep an attorney present.

All real estate lawyers in Las Vegas need to pass the bar examination that considers essay as well as multiple-choice questions. On passing the test, one should apply to the Appellate Court to seek entry to the bar, and after passing the Character and Fitness Committee interview, one can practice law in Las Vegas. One of the most popular and reliable real estate lawyers in Las Vegas is Ofir Ventura. He has been practicing in this field for many years, and you are assured that you are in good hands if you hire Ofir Ventura. You can contact him to know how he can help you.

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[enviropiner]

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[bananaeazy]

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[nldisplays]

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[exhibitnation]

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[cocoazinc98]

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[trivialbob]

Years ago I read an essay where the writer stated if someone tried to invent a motorcycle today people would be aghast. I can’t find the piece. It may have been by P. J. O’Rourke. I’m paraphrasing from what I remember:

Only two wheels. No seat belt. And the gas tank goes right between your legs!

I have a similar feeling about apartment balconies on tall buildings. If balconies didn’t exist before, introducing them today would be madness. To me anyway. 2nd or 3rd floor balconies are one thing. But put one high enough where cars on the street look like Matchbox toys?

Generally I don’t have a fear of heights. One time I flew in door-less Bell 47 helicopter. That’s the one you see in M*A*S*H. I leaned out the window at about 500 feet and felt nothing but excitement. The seat belt was about three inches wide and as almost as thick as my fingers.

Skyscrapers are cool. I spent a few nights in a 44th floor condo in downtown Chicago long ago. My head was pressed against a window much of the time, eyes peering down into the streets or out across the city. I would not mind living that high, sans balcony, though it would preclude owning active dogs.

But balconies... oh man.

I imagine where long ago someone said, “The people on the second floor should be able to step outside right from their living rooms. And let’s not make them walk downstairs if they want to operate a gas grill.” OK, fine.

Then another builder did this for third floor residents. After than, all hell broke loose. Balconies, like Raoul Duke and Dr. Gonzo in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, just kept getting higher and higher.

My brother Jim has one at his 20th floor place. The building was completed in 1985. I’m afraid to touch the railing which is bolted to bricks that are 36 years old. Surely crumbling with age! The vertical metal bars seem far enough apart to kick a soccer ball through them. I keep my back firmly pressed against the outside of the building. “Outside” of the building 20 floors up. Crazy talk.

Jim said the vinyl cover to a grill flew away once in a strong wind. No one should have been hurt by that. I asked if he ever saw anyone throw stuff on purpose. He had not. Millions of balconies in this country and no one throws shit? He added that building management would come down pretty hard on someone who intentionally dropped an object off a balcony. I suppose the city would too.

These real estate pictures below are from a 78th floor condo that had been for sale in Chicago. That railing looks like a temporary thing, standing on tiny feet, like someone might use to keep lines of people organized.

Just no.

[aaliyah-babe]

Pilot: Part Two

Pairings: eventual Joey x reader

authors note: i own nothing from friends, all credit goes to their respective owners. feedback is always appreciated.

Feeback is the glue that holds my writing together!

PART ONE here

the next morning, you were up bright and early, ready for a long day of work, but you loved your job, you worked at victoria’s secret. you weren’t a model or anything you were just a sales person, you didn’t make thousands, but it was enough to get by.

you took a shower and got dressed, after doing your regular day things you headed to monica’s apartment, as you knew that would be where everyone was.

you were about to open the door when monica and paul walked out, “oh, morning you two!” you sent monica a smirk and she glared before letting you in,

“morning all!” you smiled at the fact they had pushed monica’s table closer to the door, to hear.

��i had a really great time last night,” you heard monica say, as you sat down at the table next to chandler and opposite joey.

you saw them kiss and then monica walked in and closed the door, smiling,

“that wasn’t a real date,” joey started, smiling, “what the hell do you do on a real date?” he asked her, laughing.

“shut up and put my table back,” monica said to him, walking to the kitchen,

“all right kids, i gotta get to work. if i don’t input those numbers.... it doesn’t make much of a difference,” chandler said, making rachel stare at them all,

“so, like, you guys all have jobs?” she asked them and monica turned around,

“yeah we all have jobs,” monica smiled sweetly at her,

“that’s kind of how we, buy stuff,” you added onto monica’s sentance,

“yeah. i’m an actor,” joey told her and she perked up,

“wow, would i have seen you in anything?” she asked him,

“oh, i doubt it. mostly regional work,” he told her and both you and chandler scoffed.

“oh wait. unless you happened to catch the wee ones production of pinocchio,” monica told her, sitting down,

“‘look, gepetto, i’m a real live boy,” chandler quoted, and joey got up,

“i will not take this abuse,” he sighed,

“you’re right, i’m sorry,” chandler started, going for the door, “‘once i was a wooden boy, a little wooden boy!’” he sang, running out of the door, joey sighed then followed him,

“i better go too, gracie wants me in early because her “number one” client, jamie is coming in for his girlfriend,” you said to the ladies, standing up from your seat,

“wait, y/n, what do you do?” rachel asked you,

“i work at victoria’s secret,” you smiled at her and she smirked,

“yeah, she does!” monica laughed,

“oh, monica would you grow up? i’m not a model or anything i just work in the store, and sometimes i actually get to pick out some of the outfits that could potentially be on the runway,” you smiled and left the building, seeing joey and chandler walk down the stairs you ran to catch up to them, “guys! wait up!”

you all walked downstairs, talking about work when you got outside, and called yourself a cab,

“see you later, guys,” you smiled at them and left to go to work,

once you got there, gracie greeted you with a smile,

“y/n! good to see you! shall we begin?” you nodded at her and she continued, “okay, so, jamie is going to be in soon and he said he wasnt sure what to get her so i know you can help with that, and he said you two have the same body types so that’ll make it even better!” you nodded before going to restock some of the things while you waited.

about a half an hour later you felt a tap on your back, you turned around to see a tall, very good looking man standing over you,

“are you y/n?” he asked you, you nodded and smiled,

“yes, you must be jamie?” you shook his hand that he held out for you as he spoke,

“yes, i’m uh, here for my girlfriend,” he reminded you that he had a girlfriend so you backed off,

“yes okay, is it a special occasion or just a night in or, well you know,” you smiled up at him and he nodded,

“last one,” he laughed and you smiled, he had the nicest laugh.

“okay well, any specific things she likes, color or material wise?” you asked him, and he shook his head,

“uh no, i believe the only thing she told me was, i need some lingerie for tonight, so unless you can figure out the stuff from that i have no idea,” he laughed which made you chuckle,

“um, okay i’m sure we can find something for her, follow me please,” you said to him and he followed you,

after a long time of talking and looking at stuff you finally finished your shift for the day and headed home,

“bye, gracie!” you called out to her,

“bye, y/n! see you tomorrow,” she called back.

you caught a cab and they drove you back to the apartment complex, you headed straight to your apartment to change before joining the rest of them at central perk. monica was explaining what paul had said to her and then what a girl at work had said to her,

“of course it was a line!” joey exclaimed,

“why? why would anybody do something like that?” monica frantically asked,

“i assume we’re looking for an answer more sophisticated than, to get you into bed,” ross answered her question.

“is it me?” she asked them, “is it like i have some sort of beacon that only dogs and men with severe emotional problems can hear?” she asked them.

“alright, come here. give me your feet,” pheobe said, monica sat down and pheobe started massaging monica’s feet.

“i just, thought he was nice, you know?” monica said to them, and you sighed, putting an arm around her,

“i’m sorry, mon’,”  you said to her and she leaned into you, it was silent for a while before joey spoke up,

“i cant believe you didn’t know it was a line!” he laughed before you shoved him off the couch.

“guess what?!” rachel yelled, running into the coffee house, making everyone look at her,

“you got a job?” ross asked her,

“are you kidding? i’m trained for nothing!” she said weirdly excited, “i was laughed out of twelve interviews,” she said still happily.

“and yet you’re surprisingly upbeat,” chandler pointed out,

“you would be too, if you found joan and david boots on sale, 50% off,” she said, passing monica the box of the boots.

“oh, how well you know me,” chandler sarcastically said.

“theyre my new, i-don’t-need-a-job, i-don’t-need-my-parents, i’ve-got-great-boots boots!” she exclaimed,

“uh, rach?” you asked her and she nodded looking at you, “how’d you pay for them?”

“a credit card,” she answered you,

“and who pays for that?” monica asked her,

“uh.. my father,” she mumbled walking to the counter, but everybody heard,

“i’ve got an idea,” you said to them before explaining your idea and walking with them all back to the apartment,

“come on! you can’t live off your parents your whole life,” monica told rachel,

“i know that. that’s why i was getting married!,” she explained to her.

“give her a break, it’s hard being on your own for the first time.” pheobe siad to monica, and rachel calmed down, looking at pheobe,

“thank you,” she thanked her.

“you’re welcome, i remember when i first came to this city, i was 14, my mom had just killed herself and my stepdad was back in prison. and i got here and i didn’t know anybody, and i ended up living with this albino guy, who was cleaning windshields outside port authority, and then he killer himself! and then i found aroma therapy, so believe me i know exactly how you feel,” pheobe explained, rubbing rachel’s back.

everybody was silent and staring at her as she got up,

“the world you’re looking for is... anyway,” ross said, sitting in her seat.

“all right. you ready?” you asked her, holding up the scissors and she looked at you,

“i don’t think so.” she sighed,

“oh come on! cut! cut! cut!” ross started chanting and everyone joined in,

“cut! cut! cut! cut! cut!” everyone yelled.

she grabbed the scissors as ross held out the credit cards and she cut them one by one, after she was finished everybody cheered,

“well done rachel!” you exclaimed, hugging her.

“welcome to the real world! it sucks. you’re gonna love it,” monica told her.

it was later in the night and you were chilling with chandler and joey, in their apartment,

“i’m serious! i don’t help the women change, i hand them the clothes and they change, if they like it they tell me, you idiot!” you exclaimed at joey,

“oh come on, y/n. you’re telling me that you’ve never looked,” he pressed,

“nope, i’ve never looked,” you said to him, grabbing your coat.

“well kid’s i’m gonna go home, i need sleep,” you said walking to the door,

“bye,” chandler waved,

“later,” joey said, and you went to your apartment and crashed there for the night.

the next morning you were all hanging out at the coffee house like usual,

“i can’t believe what i’m hearing here,” joey sighed,

“i can’t believe what i’m hearing here,” pheobe repeated joey but sang it instead,

“what? i said you had-” monica was cut off by pheobes singing,

“what i said you had,” she sang,

“would you stop?” monica asked her,

“was i doing it again?” she asked them,

“yes!” everyone yelled at her.

“would anybody like more coffee?” rachel said, walking up with an apron on and coffee in her hand.

“did you make it or are you just serving it?” chandler asked her,

“i’m just serving it,” she said to him,

everyone raised there mug up to her

“yeah i’ll have some!”

“yeah,”

“me please,”

“kids, new dream,” chandler started, “i’m in las vegas. i’m liza minnelli,” he starts and the guys start nodding at him.

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[ficsilike-reblogged]

Sunshine City: One

A/N: Thank you to everyone who liked the prologue. You’re all very, very kind. I hope you continue to like this story. SO! Fun fact, my computer glitched and deleted this chapter and the next chapter for Blood in the Rivers AND the next chapter for my Din fic over on Ao3. Yeah. It was a good time. 

Pairing: (Eventual) Agent Whiskey x F!Reader (No Y/N)

Word Count: 3.4k

New York glittered when the sun hit it just right. Light bounced from one skyscraper to the next and made the mess of glass and metal and stone shine like a puddle of diamonds. Of course, that was only true if you were sixty stories up.

It had been three years since she’d joined Statesmen. Three years of being shot at by cartoon-like henchmen and nearly poisoned by a man who definitely twirled his mustache. It had been a wild ride. She’d swapped her usual glock for suitcases that fired missiles, her usual pant suit for a pair of jeans and a blazer, and her name for a stupid code word. Their given names didn’t exist anymore, really. She wasn’t even sure she’d answer to it if she heard it on the street.

She was Capri Sun—the sugar filled silver pouch juice that American kids slurped up like it was crack on a hot summer day. And she would only admit on threat of death that she enjoyed the juice drink, too. A sinking feeling had her thinking Champagne knew about her proclivity for the childhood juice. The code-name in and of itself denoted her status as a field agent and her lack of presence at the “high table” where everyone had taken their monikers from alcohol. The paperwork of being higher-ranking put her off ever trying to achieve it. But yes, Capri-Sun. Most called her ‘Cap’ for short.  

But some…

“Sunny!”

She turned away from her window to face Agent Whiskey, her boss and general terror of her existence. “Yes, boss.” It wasn’t even surprising that he’d let himself in to her office. That had stopped being a shock about two months into her new employment. 

He sauntered up to her, hips cocked to the side as he stopped. His ridiculous Stetson was still on his head and he looked out her window, too. “Still enjoying the view?”

“It never gets old.” She stepped away from the window and his side and settled into her high-backed chair behind her desk. “What do you need?” He chuckled and dragged his fingers across her desk as he made his way toward one of the chairs on the other side. His legs were spread and she absolutely did not look below the belt of his too-tight jeans. Nope. Absolutely not. “I sent in my report for that Milan job. Did you have questions?”

His large hand scrubbed at his jaw before he leaned forward. “You’ve been with Statesmen for three years, Sunny.”

“Yes, I can read a calendar.”

His smile grew. “Then you know what today is.”

“Friday.”

“And?” He tilted his head to the side, dark eyes sparkling.

“And I’m leaving the office in 42 minutes.”

His smile fell the slightest bit. “Three years is a long time for a Statesmen, Sunny. Let me and the rest of the crew take you out for a few drinks to celebrate.”

She looked at him, watching his smile fade just a bit more with each passing second, before answering. “No.”  

“Well, why not? You never come out with us.”

“I don’t drink, boss. You should know that with how many times I’ve told everyone in this building.” She leaned back in her chair, gut twisting. “But thank you for the offer.”

His smile was still present as he slapped his knees before rising to his feet. “You know, one day, I’m going to get you to have some fun with the rest of us.”

“Okay, boss,” she said to his retreating back, tone bordering on placating. 

“I mean it!” He shouted over his shoulder. “You need to let loose, Sunny!” Whiskey stopped and turned just on the other side of her doorway. “And I’d love to see it happen.” He then walked away, tight jeans and all. 

It was only when she heard the elevator doors close did she let out her breath, long and slow. 

Agent Whiskey was the terror of her life, that was true. He was gorgeous and kind and flirty—and a good boss to boot. But he also fucked anything with tits and had no qualms about it. More than once, she’d caught him with his tongue down some mark’s throat when she was supposed to be keeping an eye out for any henchmen—or nosey husbands. He obviously knew what he was doing. The dazed, hungry look that his conquests always sported after spending an ounce of time with him was one hell of an indicator. 

It would be a lie to say that she hadn’t thought about how it would feel for him to kiss her, to hold her, to fuck her. But she’d seen firsthand what workplace romances, especially in a field as volatile as international espionage, could reap. 

She also knew of Whiskey’s tragedy. Ginger Ale had softly whispered it when she had seen the moon-eyes Sunny had made at her boss when he wasn’t looking.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt, Cap.”

And that had been it, really. 

She could keep him at a distance and still do her job. She could be a professional. She’d been trained to suppress her emotions to manipulate others and complete missions. This would be the same. She was here to help save the world from the shadows—not fuck her boss. The feelings would fade, right? 

Well, it had been two and a half years since she’d noticed how his eyes sparkle and she still hadn’t fully recovered.

Her overall-prickly disposition hadn’t changed. That was just who she was. And she wasn’t sure if she would be able to change it even if she wanted to—she just hated how Whiskey seemed to see it as a challenge. She also hated that Whiskey continually rejected Ginger Ale as a possible member of the “high table” of the agency. She was strong, capable, and smart as hell. Ginger deserved to be sitting at the table as much as any other stupid-Stetson-wearing man.

She turned in her chair and looked out over the city again. Watched it sparkle. Yes. It was a beautiful view.

                                                   **

The door to her apartment squeaked when she opened it and the happy tap-tap-tap of paws against her wood flooring had a smile pushing at her lips. Her corgi, Bela, trotted into view. When he spotted her, he bounded over to her and stood on his hind legs and pressed his front paws against her jeans in welcome. She scooped him up into her arms and pressed a kiss to his one remaining ear, a sign of his puppyhood as a stray. “Hi, baby,” she murmured into his fur. She carried him into the kitchen and set him on the counter and he promptly sat down and waited for what he knew was coming. She pulled his bowl from the cabinet and his bag of food, too. The kibbles rang out as they hit the ceramic and his little stump of a tail wagged happily as she pushed the bowl in front of him. He ate as she put a bowl of veggie fried rice into the microwave for a few minutes. When it was finished, she hopped up on the counter and ate next to Bela.

“Long day?” She asked through bites of food.

Bela snorted at her before returning to his dinner.

“Yeah, me too.”

A knock at her door made her frown for the umpteenth time that day and she slid off the counter and set her fork in the sink before tossing the empty paper bowl into the trash on the way to the door. She peered through the peephole before swinging the door open.

“Pushing your luck today, boss.” She stepped back and let him in. “You know I’m a stickler for my weekends.” Especially when she’d just come back from a week-long stint in a different country.

He walked in and looked around just as he’d done every other time he’d invited himself over. “There’s a dog on your counter, Sunny.”

“He likes to feel tall when he’s eating.” She pushed the door closed and crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you need?”

“Champ called.”

Y/N groaned. “I just got back.”

“Well, that’s the beauty of it: your bags are already packed.” He smiled. “And I’m coming with you.”

She resisted the urge to sigh. “Where to now, boss?”

His smile widened. “Vegas.”

                                                     **

Las Vegas did not glitter like New York did. It was a buzz of neon lights in an array of harsh colors. And it smelled like stale beer cooked into the asphalt.

They landed a little before ten that night and the city was still very-much alive. She’d lost count of how many people she’d shoved out of her way on the walk from the hotel’s parking lot to the front entrance and she’d batted away more people handing out flyers for hookers than she wanted to admit.

She hated this city.

Homegrown terrorism was the New York office’s specialty and the group they were tracking had their fingers in lots of pots; drug trafficking, assassinations, kidnappings, and plots to use nuclear waste to create dirty bombs. They’d already tested one bomb off the coast of South Carolina. It had been a dud, thankfully, but still did enough for Statesmen to take notice. The goal of the terrorist group was to create a new world order with women firmly at the bottom.

The mission was supposed to be fairly simple—simple for a Statesmen, anyway. They needed to stop the group from obtaining any of the nuclear waste the US government had stored outside the city limits. There had been a tip that a sale was going to happen the next night between the terrorists and the suppliers and the goal, overall, was to get both groups off the streets. By any means necessary.

She and Whiskey were booked into a hotel suite across the street from where the targets were staying and had settled in for a bit of surveillance. The gadgets Statesmen had created were so much better than she could have ever dreamed of using in the CIA. Even something as benign as binoculars had been developed into something she had only seen in sci-fi movies—and she would never cease to be amazed by it—quietly, of course.

“Well, they look the type,” she muttered as she looked at the targets through the binoculars—three white guys with stained white t-shirts. One of them even had “Cool story, girl. Go make me a sandwich” written across his chest. She handed Whiskey the binoculars with a shake of her head.

He looked through them and chuckled. “Oh yeah.” He set the binoculars down and turned to her. “Is that what the kids call a ‘neckbeard’?”

She choked on her spit and earned a thump on the back from her boss. “Um, yes. Those are neckbeards.” She cleared her throat. “Are you trying to learn new slang?”

“World’s changing, Sunny. I should at least try to keep up.”

The familiar compulsion to smile pulled at her lips but she snuffed it out, as she always did with Whiskey. She wanted to smile with him, laugh with him. Wanted to talk with him about what he’d seen out in the field and through the years at Statesmen. But she was sure it would only lead to more conflicted feelings about the man. So, she bottled it away.

Whiskey yawned.

“I’ll take the first shift. Get some sleep.” She pulled the binoculars out of his grip.

“That wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me, Sunny.”

“Good thing you don’t have to be a gentleman with me—” She quickly froze, hearing how those words sounded. “I mean. You’re my boss. J-just go get some sleep, boss.” He chuckled as he looked at her, the familiar low sound making her stomach twist and the familiar butterflies rage.

“You sure?” He asked and rose from his seat near the window. The artificial light bleeding into their room bathed him in blue, making him look like some old-time movie star. His smile was soft but she could see the tiredness ringing his eyes. It was the one thing he’d never been able to hide.

“Yeah. Our intel said they shouldn’t be trying to make the purchase until tomorrow anyway. Just don’t snore and I won’t have to kill you.”

“Fine, Sunny. You win this round. Wake me three hours.” He smiled again as she nodded and his fingers curled around her shoulder and squeezed in thanks before he walked toward the separate bedroom their suite provided and closed the door behind him.

She looked at the door for a moment and then turned and raised the binoculars again.

A few minutes trickled by and she could hear him snoring through the door. She almost smiled.

Hours ticked by. The targets were getting blown and doing blow. Classy. Her watch beeped as it reached 3AM and she mulled over just letting Whiskey sleep for the night. She slept on the plane but knew he didn’t—he never did on commercial flights. But she knew she needed to get at least a few hours of sleep if she wanted to be productive tomorrow so she tip-toed over to the bedroom and opened the door. A sliver of light creeped through the room to show Whiskey sprawled across the bed in just a t-shirt and boxers. The rest of his clothing was neatly folded on the bedside table. His face was scrunched into scowl and he turned one way and then the other as the sheets were gripped tight in his fists.

“No…” He muttered through clenched teeth. “No!”

Nightmares were not anything new for her or any other professional in their field. The horrors of their job are bound to leave a mark no matter how well a mission is done and lives are saved. Maybe it would be kinder to wake him…

Slowly, she reached out and grasped his wrist and shook it a bit.

He didn’t move.  

She shook him a bit more but then gave up and grimaced, thinking of what she should try next. A traitorous memory of her mother waking her up by gently brushing the backs of her fingers against her cheek came to mind and her own-tired brain thought she might as well try it. She sat on the edge of the bed and brushed her fingers against his cheek with a quiet, “Whiskey.”

The speed in which his eyes opened and he sat up and wrapped his hands around her throat as he pinned her to the mattress would have been impressive she didn’t feel her air being cut off in the perfect stranglehold. The mint from his toothpaste and the last traces of his expensive cologne brushed against her nose. His eyes were hard but unfocused as he stared at her. And she would blame the shiver that racked her spine on fear and not on the tight coiling in her belly. Maybe this job had actually messed her brain up. But being strangled wasn’t exactly a new sensation and the man strangling her was still her boss.

“Whiskey.” The name was pushed out against his grip, rasping in her throat. She raised her hands and gently held his face. It was a common technique to give the other person a grounding sensation, to continue to wake them up as their mind waffled between their nightmare and reality. “It’s just me, boss.” His tired eyes focused and he immediately dropped his hold, sitting upright with his knees still bracketing her thighs. Her hands dropped from his face, the scruff of his unshaved face catching against her palms.

“Jesus, Sun. I’m so sorry.” He lumbered off her as she sat up and curled into himself, pressing the heel of his palm against his brow. “Fuck.” He turned toward her and brushed her hair away from her neck with shaking fingers. His hands were warm and the pads of his fingers trailed against her neck and the simple touches stole the breath from her lungs for the second time that night. All of her training, all of her careful interactions, and planning to keep him at arm’s length evaporated as he traced touched her so gently. Whiskey’s touch was soft and deliberate, almost reverent as he brushed against her pulse point, feeling it steadily beat. And that seemed to not be enough for him because his touch slipped away before he gently grasped at the back of her neck and dragged her close, pressing his forehead against hers.

She had dreamed of holding him close like this, close and soft and unburdened by the woes of the world. But there was still a dull throbbing around her neck. And she knew the terrors that plagued his resting mind—they were the same as hers. An ache that settled in her bones when she realized that this was too close. Too close to the pipedream she’d concocted like a lovesick teenager. Too close to something she would never have. But she couldn’t pull out of his hold. “I caught you off guard during a mission. My fault.”

He nudged his nose against hers and her entire chest seemed to clench. His eyes closed and an unsteady breath brushed against her lips. Whiskey held her there for a little while and she felt his heartrate start to slow. And that was when she pulled back.

His dark eyes were unreadable and he turned to throw his legs over the edge of the bed. It was almost ridiculous how cold she felt when he stood. “It’s okay, boss. Really.”

He huffed as he pulled on his jeans. “It’s not fine. It’s… It just isn’t okay.”

While it was impressive to see him wiggle into his tight jeans and she definitely filed the image away for later, she couldn’t help but notice how his shoulders remained slumped. The usually vivacious Whiskey was refusing to meet her eye.

“I’ll wake you up around seven.”

Before she could stop herself, she reached out and wrapped her fingers around his wrist. “Whiskey. Look at me.”

It took him a moment, but he did.

“I’m fine. Everything is okay.”

He pulled out of her grasp only to grab her hand and press a kiss against her palm.

“You’re too good to me, Sunny.” He squeezed her hand again before letting it drop. “Get some sleep.” He left the room without a glance back and the door clicked softly in its frame.

“Fuck,” she whispered to herself. “Fuck.” She pulled off her shoes and jeans and angrily settled into the bed he’d just vacated. Why had she gone and tried to comfort him? He was her boss. Just her boss. She repeated it over and over again to try to tell herself that it was true.

But the pillow smelled like him.

                                                         **

The buy was supposed to happen at a club inside The Mirage. She’d slipped into a slinky dress and heels and stashed her gun and small knife on her thighs with Statesmen-issued garters and fixed her hair and makeup to blend in with the crowd she knew would be filling the dance floor. She looked good, she knew she did. And that was the reason behind the slight spring in her step as she exited the bathroom. Whiskey had pulled on yet-another pair of dark wash jeans and a dark blue button-down that stretched across his chest in an almost obscene sort of way and she had to actively fight to not swallow hard.

“You look like a glass of water on a summer day, Sunny.”

“That’s probably the most coherent metaphor you’ve ever come up with, boss. I actually understood that one.”

He smiled and grabbed for his Stetson before she slapped his hand.

“We’re in Vegas. No Stetson.”

He sighed dramatically but didn’t move for it again. “Fine, fine.”

She grabbed the binoculars off the table and looked out toward the targets’ room across the street to make sure they hadn’t left just yet. What she saw made her pause. She lowered the binoculars and turned toward her boss.

“What is it?” All traces of his smile faded from his face and he took the binoculars from her loosening grasp.

She watched him look through the binoculars and frown before he turned to her. His mouth opened and closed without a sound coming out. So, she said it: “They’re turning blue.”

A/N: So, please let me know what you think! 

Beautiful people who asked to be tagged: @spookyold-saintjm​ @honestlystop​ @paryl​ @fioccodineveautunnale​

#agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey #jack daniels x reader #jack daniels #kingsman: the golden circle

[remaxlasvegas]

New Post has been published on https://is.gd/YAQtpg

Las Vegas Apartment Building for Sale

#apartment building for sale #Las Vegas Apartment Building for Sale #Multi Units Real Estate #Residential Income Properties #vegas apartment building for sale

[sailorbellewrites]

Fools Rush In... I

characters — yoongi x reader (ft. members of bts and other original characters)

summary — min yoongi, music executive and perpetual bachelor, marries a las vegas stripper he’s only known for six months. chaos ensues.

inspiration —  fools rush in (1997 rom-com starring salma hayek and matthew perry)

information — a drabble series loosely based on the 1997 movie fools rush in. drabbles not posted in any linear order and written as a creative writing outlet.

warnings — mentions of sex work; age-difference; light sugar daddy themes; smut (in some drabbles) ; light angst.

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X - XI

I — arrival.

Yoongi fucked up.

Or at least that’s what he thinks as he stares at you standing in the middle of his living room, five tattered and mismatched suitcases standing by your side. You look out of place in his high rise, both in appearance and comfort. You fidget with the edge of the Burberry coat he got you in New York City, when you stood in Times Square shivering your ass off because you didn’t own clothes for the weather. “Las Vegas,” you insisted as he dragged you into the store the next morning, “doesn’t get this cold, but I’m fine. I don’t need it!” However, you didn’t put up much of a fight when he told you to pick anything in the store because he wasn’t going to have his vacation ruined by you catching hypothermia, nor did you bat an eyelid when the sales clerk read the price and Yoongi swiped his card.

Getting married was never in the cards for Yoongi. He spent most of life staunchly focused on work, building a music production company from the ground up almost entirely on his own. His keen eye for detail and smart business sense made him a quick success, but he never slowed down for fear that it would all fall apart. He didn’t have time to date anyone seriously—though, no one in his industry really did. He didn’t mind though. Yoongi was content with being alone.

Until he met you.

“So… where should I put all this?” You start, waving a manicured hand at your luggage. Your nails are white, as Yoongi had requested when you messaged him asking for his opinion on a color. He loved the color on you, a stark difference from the black leather lingerie set you were wearing when he met you. He had swiped that set from your bedroom and destroyed it two months ago, though you didn’t know that.

“Spare room. You must be tired.” You don’t verbally respond to his words, instead nodding your head and looking down at your shoes. They were the sneakers he sent you as a gift for your birthday, custom painted with the words SUGA BABY on the tongue so that everyone at the club knew who they belonged to (and in turn, who you belonged to). He still had the video you sent  unboxing them saved on his phone, watching it in between stressful meetings. You looked so much happier in that video than you did now, so much brighter and taking up so much more space. You looked small and dull now. Yoongi hated it. Walking over to you, he placed both hands on your shoulders and squeezed them lightly, feeling you tense up. “Hey.”

“Hi.” 

“You’re uncomfortable.”

“It just… your apartment is very… big.” He could see that you wanted to say more, words sitting on the edge of your tongue that you refused to let out. It was unlike you, to keep quiet when you had something to say. He still remembers that time in Tokyo when you brazenly asked if there was a sex shop nearby your hotel because you wanted to look at specialty condoms in front of that poor concierge. The man turned a bright shade of red, though you didn’t apologize even when Yoongi berated you in the taxi for your lack of shame. “Oh who cares about shame when Sailor Moon condoms exist?” He remembers you saying in response, before sticking your tongue out at him and laughing when he did the same to you. 

“Did you expect something different?” Yoongi found himself asking, genuinely curious.

“Maybe… smaller?”

“You know how much money I have.” Yoongi started, confusion at your words evident in his voice. His hands dropped to your waist and you automatically took a step towards him.

“I do.”

“And you’ve traveled with me before. You have seen the places I choose to stay.”

“I have.”

“So then what’s the problem?”

“It’s just… you’ve seen what my place looked like.” You mumbled. Yoongi had, remembering the small cream colored building you called a home. You shared the small house with another dancer known as Rocki Rotten that regarded him as a sex obsessed creep. Your room was painted a hideous salmon color and seemed to always be five degrees hotter than the rest of the house, but you didn’t mind it at all. You called it quaint. Yoongi called it a travesty.

“Did you expect my apartment to look like your house?”

“No!” You let out quickly, voice rising although your eyes stayed trained on the floor. “I just… feel like I’m gonna mess something up or break something. I’m not… I don’t belong in a place like this.”

Yoongi frowned, pulling you closer to him until you were chest to chest. He lightly rested a hand under your chin and tilted your head up until you were both making eye contact. “Baby,” he started, letting out a gentle breath when he saw you smile at the pet name. You were such a sucker for pet names. “You are my wife. Anywhere I am is where you belong. Don’t ever believe anything different.”

“Okay.” You responded quietly, though Yoongi knew he won this battle when you wrapped your arms around him tightly, tension slowly leaving your body.

“Let’s get you in bed yeah? We can get you settled in the morning.”

#bts scenarios #suga scenarios #yoongi scenarios #min yoongi #suga #drabbles #sailor belle writes

[twiststreet]

Stuff done in 2020

Work: I’m a little worried how this year’s chaos reverberates for the next few years.  Rough, strange, rough year.  But it was at least nice to be classified as “Essential labor” though throughout all this-- I’d have fallen apart completely if I’d been stuck at home-- I really don’t know how people have managed.  

Politics Stuff:  I did more this year than I have since high school-- going door-to-door, calling people on the phone, etc., which meant I spent the middle of the year drinking and taking pills and I don’t know what, trying to do stuff to feel okay when it all went how it went.  (Like, the whole world shutting down in some ways was good for me not getting weirder with it... I’d have misbehaved...) 

Not that I was super-convinced it could work out, even when things were going well-- I was cynical enough to know it could go badly-- it wasn’t like “Oh I got my hopes up” because I’m not a child but... The alternative was so obviously going to be (and is) so awful.  You could see so much of this coming.  The alternative was just so ghastly that I hoped we could push against it.  

Anyways: couldn’t.  

There were points in trying that at least felt really good, at least.  A lot / most of the DSA-type candidates I donated to did well-- I had a pretty good track record on donations!  You can already see the District Attorney race in LA meaning something; winning at the City Council level felt meaningful; there are people out there who seem to get that the establishment has abandoned them that are building their own thing-- it’s not hard to find good charities lately haha oh wait.   

But boy, things got kind of dark around March-to-August and/or March-to-Next-March.  

Write ‘Em Ups:  Oh god.  So.  Haha.  So, yeah: I started the year in January writing about Scott Adams for the Comics Journal print edition.   I think I’m okay with how that turned out-- I think it could’ve been clearer in the point of the architecture of the piece, and I think using a world event as a pivot point was a mistake in retrospect.  But given the limits on space and how much craziness there was to talk about, I can live with how it turned out.  Not a fun one, on the process side.  It’s weird to spend all January writing about civilization disintegrating and then have the rest of 2020 happen.  And an absolute misery on the research side-- all the research plus I read four years worth of Dilbert comics on top of that. 

Bringing us to the summer!  Hhhhh.  I don’t know.  I wrote five days of essays (four? five?) and conducted a series of interviews, for the Journal on the online side, which came out shortly after a brief spate during the summer where people wanted to talk about abusive and unprofessional conduct in various nerd industries.  That one was an experience, though one that was not entirely unanticipated, so.  (Though there are always surprises haha oh god!).  There’s not a lot I would allow myself to say there.  I’m a believer in “don’t engage in the subsequent conversation” as a rule-- I think there’s no good that can come of it, regardless of what you agree with or what you disagree with, how kindly you might see something, how valid, or how much under-diagnosed mental illness is transparently being manifested (.... *wink*); you put out whatever you put out and, then let people have at it.  It’s the only way to do things, even if I think it has its consequences.

I like some of the work itself (loved and am grateful for the interviews); the process was not a good time (spending that much time just thinking about how people are is baseline not-healty); there is a core of it that I feel was necessary; not a lot I will allow myself to say besides that.

Special Projects:  Bringing us to the fall and the Kickstarter for Gangland Allstars, comics I helped make with other people in 2019.  Money was lost; laughs were had; people were hired and paid to do things that I had to tell them we weren’t going to do because I didn’t want them to get mixed-up in all my crazy, after the Journal stuff happened (there was more planned, not a ton, but).  I still have to re-format the comics for a Comixology release which is taking me a while (Comixology, it turns out, has standards!).  And i have a behind-the-scenes financial bit I have to finish up on.  But: I think that went well...?  The comics could be better written (or when I did the colors, colored) but when I look at them, I think I can say, they were as interesting as I could make them when I made them.  I don’t see a lot of What If’s there.  

And then the Kickstarter itself was a really joyous thing, just that as many people were willing to give it a chance as gave it a chance.  God only knows how many people looked at what they got, but no one complained.  Though I did kinda feel like I was doing a bait-and-switch because... you know: the comics present as “normal genre comics” and I talked about them in that way, but I don’t think that’s what they’re actually built to be. It’s just you can’t tell people that without giving away the game and spoiling them.  I don’t know-- I had my head up my own ass on the project a little-- I got pretty high-falutin’ in terms of what I wanted to do, but when it came time on the sale side, it was like “oh, people just want to hear it’s about a robot solving a mystery and then you give them a robot solving a mystery and then they’re happy”-- it felt a little bad that I wasn’t doing that.  I kept the money, though.  Vegas after the vaccine,baby!  

Anyways: in the “now what” place again after that wrapped up, even with finishing touches.  The “now what” place is never any good.  I could make more comics like Gangland Allstars but I already made Gangland Allstars, so what’s the point?  Or making comics is already negative-rewarding in so many ways, that after the Journal thing, making more comics or just being comic-facing, when I know the audience online is a certain way... I don’t know about that.  Obviously most dudes just put that out of their heads but I’m not there yet.  I still want to try to make a computer game but I really don’t understand the language of those-- I’m not a writer on top of that, so that makes making anything hard because you always need something written, to start with.  I don’t know.  Struggling there.  Feels bad!  I do have another special project, though, kind of, but that one’s just for me and kind of not really the same thing and that’s going along slowly... 

This time last year, I thought having the Adams thing wrapped up and GA out in 2020 would make this year feel like a really fun one.  I guess... I guess it didn’t hurt, but.  It added at least some color.  All the “good parts” just kind of felt muted though just, which I think is given ... everything else.  Or I hope... Otherwise I am very depressed, ha ha.  Ha.  Hrm.  

Cooking:  I feel like everyone got better at cooking during quarantine and I got better at ordering food, and spent all my money this year doing that.  Can everyone bake things now???   I don’t know how to bake anything-- I was scared of grocery stores-- this is bullshit.

Physical Self: I was getting in shape in 2018, then 2019 kind of went wrong on me because liberals were like “your expensive gym does bad politics” and I stupidly was like “I guess I should care about that” and cancelled my gym but then those same exact people were like “Me Too doesn’t matter if it’s Joe Biden, and people who want their student loans cancelled are selfish” so it’s like I should’ve kept giving that expensive gym all my money.  But they’d have been closed anyways, so anyways, I’m a shambles.  My whole body area is basically a shambles.  Sometimes I still see hot people on the street though because Los Angeles, and that’s... pretty remarkabe to me... I guess people are doing body things off Youtube??  I just watch video essays about Metal Gear-- there’s not a lot of workout tips in those...  

Being a Jock:  I decided to be a jock who read all the Spawn comics in 2020.  I didn’t manage to read all the Spawn comics, but both my teams won their respective world series.  Being a jock is easy and fun!  10/10. 

Consumer of Culture: I feel like everyone in quarantine started watching all the Criterion movies but I’m not welcome with Criterion after I said a bunch of R-rated angry things at them one time (I snapped after a long day once), so I’m watching, like, Dark Shadows reruns on Tubi, and am almost through the first season of the hit CW show Hart of Dixie, which I’m watching slowly because I’m “savoring” it.  Things are not going great.  I just paid for the extremely-broken HBO Max though so I might end up watching Weird Science again at 2 in the morning; I got that to look forward to.  HBO Max has both Casablanca and Meatballs 4 on the service-- for a man for all seasons.  

I also started taking photographs inside videogames, which is slightly less acceptable behavior for a man of my age (or success!) than running through an elementary school naked.  (I liked the Last of Us 2, I was really happy KR0 ended in a satisfying way, and I didn’t think the Keanu game was good at all even past the breaking constantly-- the pretty-racist game that inexplicably has a lot of Jesus Christ-related content that somehow went unremarked upon also has very messed up ideas about sex, though I did like riding the Akira bike a lot).  

I tried to make a Top 10 movies of the year list and it was just an embarrassing collection of movies.  I’ll try again after I watch some prestige movies this week.  Every movie I’ve really liked has been an old movie this year that I hadn’t seen-- and even there, like, I really liked Adam Sandler’s The Week Of, but I’m not sure it’s a classic end-of-the-year list choice.  (The worst movie was I’m Thinking of Ending Things-- I didn’t fuck with that).  I sent a best list for comics to the Journal for their year-end wrap up (it was Stages of Rot, though, easy); worst comic for me was ... I didn’t really dig the Department of Truth but I didn’t hate it-- I just thought it was very boring; nothing else coming to mind, really.  Maybe I’ll try a TV list but I don’t even remember anything sticking out.  The best thing I saw this year was a Helder Guimaraes magic show on Zoom-- but magic’s weird and those tricks still fuck me up to think about...

I mostly spent the year doomscrolling.  There was a lot to doomscroll.

I’m not expecting much of 2021. 

#year in review

[timelordthirteen]

Killing Time 23/35

Detective Weaver/Belle French, Explicit

Summary: A Woven Beauty Law & Order-ish AU. Written for Writer’s Month 2019.

Chapter Summary: Belle and Weaver get a big break in the case, but find it tempered by the mountain of missing pieces.

Notes: For my August Writer's Month prompt: We’re all a little stronger than we think we are. I've barely read this over before posting, sorry for all the typos.

[AO3]  

We’re all a little stronger than we think we are.

Dr. Hopper’s parting words replayed in Belle’s mind as she walked the three blocks back to her office.

The last few days had been lighter than any since her work on the Branson case had begun. A weight had been lifted by her confession to both Archie and Ian, and the therapy session which she was just leaving had only added to it. Today, their topics focused on ways she could relax and control any future panic attacks, which she assumed she would probably need no matter how much she wanted to tell herself otherwise.

The weekend had been quiet and comfortable. She and Weaver had worked some on Saturday, but admittedly they were distracted by movies on TV and each other. Sunday, they’d gone for a walk in a nearby park, and by the time they got back to the apartment, she was ready to tear his jeans off. Smiling, she pulled a lock of hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. She was quite certain that the only other time she’d had more sex in a forty-eight hour period was when they’d been on their honeymoon.

He hadn’t said anything about the miscarriage after Friday night, and she hadn’t either. She wasn’t sure what he was feeling or thinking about it, or if he was at all. Several times she’d almost brought it up, but always hesitated when the moment came, afraid to shatter the cocoon of safety and happiness they’d created for one weekend. She was determined to talk it over with Dr. Hopper next week, before she dared to breach the subject with Weaver. Archie would know the best way to go about it, and he would help her get her mind straight beforehand, as he had many times when she was practicing her closing argument for an important case.

Monday had brought no news from Nevada, but this morning she’d gotten a call from Clark County letting her know to expect something by no later than Wednesday. It put an extra spring in her step as she pushed the revolving door to the city building that housed the District Attorney’s office. Her cell phone chirped in her coat pocket, and she pressed the elevator button before pulling it out. An notification lit up on the screen, an email to her official account, but the lift was already moving and her signal went out as it began the slow climb to the sixth floor.

Belle shoved her phone back in her pocket and stepped off the elevator, wanting to wait until she was with Weaver before she read the email, just in case it was good news. Her lips parted as she rounded the corner and saw his outline through the frosted glass of her office. He was seated at the conference table, leaning back, as far as she could tell, and a naughty idea on how they might celebrate this possible good news flashed across her mind.

Weaver turned as she opened the office door, and smiled. “Go well?”

She nodded and walked over to her desk. “Pretty good.”

“Good.”

Then she held up her phone and grinned. “I have an email.”

“Just one? I’ll alert the media,” he deadpanned, pushing back from the conference table.

Belle rolled her eyes and dropped her purse in her bottom drawer before kicking off her walking flats and wiggling her feet back into her work heels. “From the Clark County Clerk.”

Weaver stood, his mouth curving crookedly. “Say that five times fast.”

“You’re the worst.”

He laughed as she pulled out her chair. “And yet you love me.”

She huffed and pushed up on her toes to press a quick kiss to his lips. “Allegedly.”

He made a soft ‘oh’ sound and slipped an arm around her, pulling her flush against him. “I have a fair bit of evidence from this weekend that says otherwise.”

Belle bit her lip and smiled as he dipped his head and kissed her neck. “None of which is admissible in court.”

Weaver’s nose nudged at her ear as he chuckled and whispered, “You’re the only judge I care about convincing anyway.”

Giggling, she shoved his chest until he stepped back, and then shook her head. “You’re incorrigible. Now, can I check my email?”

He gave her a sly look, but motioned towards her computer. Her stomach flipped as she sat down and opened the lid of her laptop, hoping that what they would find wouldn’t kill the delightful buzzing anticipation between them. It seemed to take twice as long for her email to open and the new message to appear, and she started tapping her foot impatiently while Weaver’s hand squeezed the back of her chair. She clicked on the message, opening it in a full window so they could both read it.

They exchanged a look, and Belle scooted forward, saving the attached documents to the folder for the case. There were three in all, a scanned image of Molly Macreedy’s foster care agreement, and two exported PDFs from the Nevada DMV database containing the records for her foster parents. The image had been pasted into the email and stated her foster parents’ surname as Tremaine. Belle opened the DMV records for each parent, putting them side by side on the screen before she sat back in her chair.

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Weaver said, breathless.

“No wonder we couldn’t find anything on Eloise Gardener,” Belle said. “She never existed.”

“Eloise Tremaine,” Weaver began, sticking the DMV photo up on the whiteboard next to a picture from Eloise Gardener’s autopsy. “Former foster parent to our first victim, Molly Macreedy, aka Baby Jane number 3-2-5. She was left at a fire station in North Las Vegas, estimated to be about three weeks old at the time.”

Detective Rogers shook his head and put up the DMV photo of Robert Tremaine on the other side of the board before turning to face Captain Graham Humbert, Belle, and DA Midas. “Robert Tremaine, real estate developer from Henderson, married Eloise Smith in 1993. They had no kids of their own, but had at least fifteen foster children, that we know of.”

“We’re still waiting on all the records from Nevada,” Belle added.

“Robert died in March of 2013,” Weaver continued, leaning against the wall of bookshelves in Belle’s office. “No particulars on that just yet, but shortly after that any paper trail on his wife goes cold.”

“What about his estate?” Graham asked, frowning.

Weaver shrugged. “Real estate records show the sale of the house was handled by an attorney. That’s all we have on that so far.”

Midas leaned forward on the table. “Tremaine’s business, anything about that? Real estate development in Vegas was pretty lucrative at that time.”

“And fairly shady.” Rogers’ eyebrows lifted. “We’re looking into possible organized crime connections with that, but that’s a whole can of worms unrelated to our serial murders.”

Graham flipped through the small packet of papers Belle had compiled thus far. “What was Eloise doing in Seattle?”

“We don’t know,” Weaver answered. “If there is a link to the mob with her husband’s business, it would stand to reason that she’d want to get away from Vegas, but Seattle doesn’t seem far enough to run from that kind of thing.”

“But,” Belle interjected. “It doesn’t explain how Jack and Nick Branson knew about the history between Molly and Eloise, or why they were killed.”

“So...you have adoption records and foster parents for one victim, from another state, and not much else.” Graham looked around at the group and dropped the papers back on the table.

“Hey, we -”

“Now wait -”

Weaver and Rogers start defending themselves at the exact same moment, but stopped when Midas stood up.

“Captain Humbert is right,” Midas said. “It’s interesting background, and it’s a possible lead to - something - but it’s not helping us build a case against the Bransons, and this office -.”

“Nick Branson worked construction in Las Vegas,” Belle interrupted. “Maybe that’s the connection. Maybe it’s through Robert Tremaine’s business that he - I don’t know - came into some contact with Eloise.”

Midas frowned and looked at Graham a moment before fixing Belle with a hard stare. “Follow it up, but don’t waste time on goose chases and rabbit holes. The murders were here in Seattle, not in Las Vegas. We’re not even sure Eloise was murdered by the Bransons -”

Belle attempted to interrupt him again, but his glare quieted her immediately. “You’ve shown me no definitive proof that she was. Meanwhile, we have five victims that we do know they killed, and a trial for them starting in two months. I’d like to avoid that kind of public spectacle if at all possible and get these two psychopaths to take a deal on those five murders.”

The tension in the room made Belle uncomfortable and her eyes darted to meet Weavers’ before shifting back to her boss.

“Am I clear, ADA French?”

She swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, detectives,” Midas said, nodding to Rogers and Weaver. “Captain Graham.��

Midas strode out of the office, and everyone left in the room collectively sagged in defeat. The air of excitement that Belle and Weaver had maintained for the last thirty-six hours at the news of Eloise Gardener’s real identity fizzled to nothing as Belle laid her head down on the conference table.

Weaver shot a look at Graham. “What the hell crawled up his arse?”

Graham sighed and ran a hand over his face. “The mayor,” he said, counting on his fingers as he spoke, “the city council, Alderman Samedi, Victoria Belfrey…”

“Belfrey?” Belle said, lifting her head. “What the hell does she care?”

“Apparently she had a deal with Samedi to build cost controlled housing on that vacant lot,” Graham explained. “The whole thing is in limbo now because the lot is a crime scene and hasn’t been released, and we can’t do that until we move forward on Eloise Gardener’s, or Tremaine’s, or - whoever the hell she is’s - murder.”

“So no pressure then,” Rogers muttered flatly, snapping the cap on one of the dry erase markers.

Belle pushed back from the conference table and stood up. “Okay,” she said, holding up both of her hands, palms outward. “We need a new plan. Rogers, figure out where the hell Eloise was living in Seattle. Hopefully having her actual last name will yield more results, but there could be something under her husband’s name, or his company. Ian and I will focus on the other victims, and see if any more of them are also adopted, or were in foster care.”

Then she turned to Graham and gave him a sickly sweet smile, that hand him rolling his head back and looking up at the ceiling. “Captain Humbert, if you could please reach out to your federal law enforcement contacts, and see if there’s even a whiff of organized crime around Robert Tremaine, that would be most especially helpful.”

Graham let out a snorting laugh, and gave Belle a salute with two fingers before he gathered up his things. “Yes, ma’am.”

Plans made, and men dispersed, Belle was left alone in her office. She sat down on the sofa, head in her hands, and took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly between her lips. Archie’s voice was once again in her head, and for a long moment she let herself focus on it, trying to block out the irritated voice of her boss and the nagging on in her head that set her anxiety up to an eleven.

Feeling calmer, Belle looked up, her eyes staring straight ahead at the white board with pictures of Robert and Eloise Tremaine hanging side by side. She pushed to her feet and walked towards her, her vision narrowing to the image of Eloise, with that awkward expression so common with driver’s license photos.

“Why were you in Seattle, Eloise?” she asked no one. “What were you running from?”

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #woven beauty #woven beauty fic #my woven beauty fic #killing time #lindsay's august writer's month 2020 #fic

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