Starring:
Summary: Jack visits Trina at work hoping to surprise her, proving we should be careful what we wish for.
Date It Happened: May 23, 2007
Log Title Don't Jack With Me
Location Lower East Side, NYC - Della Rosa
Quiet's bad for business, but good for the soul. At the Della Rosa, it's later in the evening, which means it's only a dozen or so folks who remain after the kitchen closes down for the night. It's been a long day for Trina: morning making sure her honey was alright, afternoon making sure Baby was alright and doing a little work on the suspension, and now a full evening shift. However, that doesn't mean that she offers anything less than smiles as she buses off a couple tables between drink orders, making idle chit chat with her very inebriated boys. Tight pants, invitingly long strides, and swaying hips are always a good way, after all, to get closer to a drunk's wallet.
But, of course, long nights have a nasty way of getting longer when you don't particularly want them to. Maybe that's why, when Trina's in the back, loading the dishwasher, the thick-armed, thicker-skulled fella' well-known by the folks here ambles in with all the comfortable aires of one who belongs and takes a seat right in the center of the bar. He sits, grinning a broad, shit-eating grin, watching that doorless entrance into the kitchen, leaning on the elbows left bare by the white tee and flannel with its sleeves ripped off, waiting.
When Trina comes back out, her face falls, and outward sign of the heart that jumps up into her throat. It's a fleeting look as her arm raises, fabric of her plain black tee-shirt pulling against her, as she points towards the door with narrowed blue eyes. "Get out. We're not doing this."
Ah, it's so nice to be welcome, isn't it? As the elder patrons nestle their way deeper into their Ps & Qs, the charmer known as Elliott rolls his arms up in order to fold his hands behind his head. "S'a free country," he proudly declares, only holding the pose for a moment before shoving his meaty hand into one of his shirt pockets in order to pull out a twenty and hold it up in the air. "And I need a drink."
Trina stands there for a good moment with her arm held high before finally she resigns herself to serving him. It's just a drink, she tells herself, as she stalks over in his direction and snatches the twenty. A finger points angrily in his face, Trina's scowl unmistakable. "You got fifteen until last call, and then you get the fuck out of here, El. I ain't got time for your shit tonight. I got somewhere else to be." That all established in her own mind, she then shoves the bill in her apron pocket and goes to fetch the bottle of beer she knows he wants, coupled with his little shot of cheap tequila. He doesn't need to tell her.
Stiff. Sore. Cranky. These three words adequately describe both Jack's physical and mental condition. Once he's secured Julia a parking spot within sight of the door, the Irishman climbs out of his car and makes sure he's got himself tucked, brushed, and adjusted. Today his t-shirt reads 'FREE BOXING LESSONS.' For once, his jeans aren't faded or torn. Someone's been shopping.
When he reaches the door to Della, he pauses for a moment, sucks in a deep breath, then lets himself in. She gave him the address, right? And she made the first surprise visit. No reason he can't stop in and say hello. This rationalization doesn't keep him from being a little nervous, though.
As soon as he sets foot inside, the silence hits him like a wall. A dozen people never drink this quietly in the same room. He frowns, and one eyebrow arches curiously. Then, shrugging, he makes his way toward the bar as well. Just in time to miss both Elliott's arrival and the warm welcome he receives, Jack beelines for a stool two down from the man. "Hey Trin'," he calls, waving.
At the sound of her name, Trina's whips about. And then she spies Jack. Oh, goodness. If ever there was a night that wouldn't be such a great one for her lovely man to be here, this would probably be it. "Jack!" she calls out with a tight smile. "Hey!" Moving to set down Elliot's drinks, she makes a very poignant eye contact with the patron. Watch yourself, El. Then she moves to slide her way down two stools, leaning a little over the bar. Her tilt, however, is conservative. Trina's smile suffers from a case of stress, but she is really glad to see her beau. "I wasn't expecting to see you until later, sugar. Was gonna come by to check on you. Can I getcha something to drink?"
Elliot, with his dark, sweat-slicked hair, watches the exchange between the bartender and new arrival for a minute, sipping quietly on his beer. And what, pray tell, is this? His square jaw shifts a few time as he contemplates the scene, dirty work boots grinding against the horizontal rail that runs between the legs of the stool he occupies. Someone is decidedly unhappy.
Jack's limp is much in evidence as he makes his way to his seat and eases onto it. He nods in response to Trina's question. "Three fingers of bourbon. Whatever you have that's good." The slightly forced nature of her smile and cheerfulness don't go unnoticed as he fingers a roll of bills free from his jeans and peels one off. "You ok?"
It's then that the sound of boots on stool reaches Jack's ears. He blinks, then glances over at Elliott, down at the man's feet, and back up to his face again. When he turns his gaze back to Trina inquiringly, his head is cocked slightly to the side in a trademark curious-dog expression.
"What would it matter to you?" Elliot finally speaks with a distinct lack of civility, a sun-wrinkled eyelid twitching once, as he kills the shot of tequila and then takes another sip of his beer.
HEY! No picking on Jack. Trina bristles, blue eyes icy as she narrows them once more in the other man's direction. "El, shut up and hurry up with that beer. You're done, and you're outta here. Can't keep it civil, can't stay." Her eyes soften as they turn back to Jack, intentionally leaving that question unanswered as she instead offers an apology. "Sorry." There's a small sigh as she waves off Jack's money, she's got tips enough to cover a glass of bourbon for him. "Bourbon's on me. Somebody's gotta make up for Mr. Rude over there." With a jerk of her head, she indicates the man two down. The one who's downright staring at Jack now. He did, after all, ask a question.
"Don't worry about it, love." Jack doesn't really like being stared at, but he's more curious than anything else. Frowning, he leaves his money on the bar and swivels his stool around to face Elliott. He looks the other man up and down once again, his face impassive. "I should hope it would matter to me," he replies curtly. "She's my girl. Now what's it to you?" The question came out a little brisker than he intended, but he's injured, sober, and in a generally bad mood. Take it up with the Writer's Union.
"It ain't anythin' to him," Trina interjects, trying to diffuse the situation as her cool hands quickly settle Jack's glass on top of a cocktail napkin in front of him. She can't have a fight in here. Then she turns her attention to the other man, gaze burning behind a partial veil of dark hair. "You don't get to do that," she spits at last, that accusing finger coming back up to jab in his direction. "You hear me? You don't have any gawddamn right." And then her heart sinks.
Elliott rises slowly from his seat, and the only other man at the bar quickly leaves cash on the table and excuses himself. "S'that so?" Then he grins, smile crinkling the corners of his mouth. He's older than Jack by a couple of years, but he's been on construction sites enough to know that his size is intimidating to lesser men. "How's it feel to get the leftovers, buddy? Huh?" Then he turns his attention back to Trina with that disgusting grin of his. "Didn't take ya' long, did it, honey?"
"I think you'll find that was very ill-advised," Jack's voice is a low, pleasant rumble. When he picks up his glass of bourbon and drains it with practiced ease, he's smiling. Smiling. He sets the glass down on the bar gently. Then, without getting up, he straightens one hand into a blade and drives the tips of his fingers toward the other man's kidney in a short, vicious strike. Still, he has to lean a great deal of his weight onto his wounded leg. He winces, and a hiss of air escapes from between his teeth.
"Jack!" As patrons begin fleeing, Trina lunges over the bar, trying to get ahold of his arm before he can make his move. He doesn't need to be fighting. He's hurt! Unfortunately, she finds she's too slow and his fist finds its mark.. "DAMMIT, ELLIOTT. JUST. GET. OUT," she barks in that man's direction, even as she remains strewn awkwardly prostrate across the bar's top. Wait. Wasn't it Jack who hit first? Yeah, well, she likes Jack better. So her remarkably slow ex-boyfriend gets the shot to the kidney AND her reprimand. She then proceeds to try to push herself off the bar now that she's kinda off balance and hanging on it. But hey! Good news! She didn't break Jack's glass!
And Mr. Construction Man is less than amused as he finds himself doubled over an angry organ. He debates throwing a punch for a moment, but then decides he needs another moment to breathe. He needs a moment to breathe… and a distraction. A distraction that seems to be readily provided by the brunette trying to carefully pick herself up off the bar so as to not knock anything over. He doesn't seem to have learned his lesson about picking his fight with her over Jack; that skull is indeed thick. A hand shoots out, grabbing Trina's wrist and easily encircling it, only to give it rough yank and pull her across the rest of the way with a cry, accompanied by the sound of breaking glass as things fall and roll to the floor. "Bitch," he snarls. "I tol' you about usin' my name."
"Big mistake." Jack's voice is a low growl now, thick and tight with anger and emotion. His eyes are narrowed to dangerous slits, and one twitches noticeably. All traces of his humor and amusement are gone the moment that Elliott puts his hands on Trina. With an utter lack of anything resembling shyness, Jack reaches between the construction worker's legs to latch onto his balls. If he gets a good grip, he's going to take a great deal of pleasure in squeezing down while he imagines walnuts being cracked.
When Trina is pulled, there's that momentary flash of fear that comes with bracing for the first impact. First blow's always the worst. Anything after that, it's just the blow. Not the fear. She tries to get her arms up protectively, but one is twisted awkwardly when he doesn't let go as she falls towards the ground. There's a grunt as she feels her face hit the floor first and her legs catch on the ridge at the foot of the bar, followed by the sharp realization that she just bit the ever-loving shit out of the inside of her cheek. There's a small groan as she slowly starts to pick herself off of the dirty hardwood.
While Jack's nutty move may not land like he wants it to, the flannel-wearing jerk is forced to let go of Trina in order to block. His hand moves down to grab ahold of Jack's, fury burning in his brown eyes. Pain is searing in his gut. "Wassamadda," he inquires with a hollow grin. "Jealous?" Then there comes the twist, trying to get a good turn on Jack's wrist and get him off-balance. Jack will find that grip weak from distraction. And, since Trina's conveniently on the floor, he stomps a foot down on her side, hard, trying to push her back down to the floor pin her there. He doesn't need her getting into this. "Call him off, bitch."
Jack lets Elliott clamp down on his wrist. Rather then pull away from the man, he allows himself to be jerked closer until the two are nearly chest to chest. Then, suddenly, his free hand is holding the same Beretta that Elena shot him with so recently. His face a cold mask of fury, he sneers at the larger man and wedges the muzzle of the pistol into his eye socket. "I swear to Christ, if you don't step away, I'm going to turn the front of your face into the back of your head." The statement is punctuated with a growl, and he jabs the firearm harder against Elliott's eyeball.
Elliott holds his position as he considers the price of his machismo when compared to his face, upper lip twitching as it debates a sneer. And to get a few more moments feeling Trina struggle for breath underneath his boot. Finally, however, he slowly draws his foot up off of her and looses his hold on Jack, both hands coming up. "Alright," he growls. "Alright." With a sniff, he starts making his way towards the door as if nothing ever happened, except the way he holds his side says a different story. The other hand comes up in a two-finger sort of wave as he bids farewell. "Be seein' ya, Trina."
The quick shift of the odds is lost to Trina, who instead is merely relieved to feel the heavy foot lift and release her diaphragm to begin contracting normally again. Her eyes close, as she listens to him move away at Jack's direction, and she remains unmoving for a moment, frightened still. And then she hears parting words and, so slowly, she pulls herself up to a sit. She sits and realizes she on the side of his good leg. After that sinks in, she curls herself against it quietly. God, he really is a Prince. And she is… so friggin' embarrassed. Two and half years. She's been here two-and-a-half YEARS, and this is the night she had to have her first real trouble? When she's got less than two weeks left and her boyfriend comes to visit.
Still quivering with barely suppressed rage, Jack shoves the pistol into the back of his belt, then stoops awkwardly with his injured leg stretched out to the side. Gentle fingertips touch Trina's forehead and cheeks, then he draws her hair back from her face. "Are you ok?" he queries. It takes a noticeable effort, but his voice is low and soothing. Will not bolt. Will not limp after strange man and shoot him in broad daylight. Unless that's ok with her, of course. Brightening, he glances toward the door. "Want I should follow and bite off his fingers?"
"No," Trina replies after squirming a little under his fingers and body aching under the tightness of her muscles, finally burying her face in the crook of Jack's neck. She doesn't want him looking at her. "Just… stay. Please?" Forever? At least the bar's already empty. No one's there to hear the quiet request. There's glass all over the floor and they must look a sight, but it still manages to be a touching scene. At least to her.