Such a Crime • •

[bronte ellery o'connor]

Bronte didn’t enjoy overseeing these events with her brothers, but the last time she hadn’t been there Casey had been in charge of the money and one thing had led to another and a riot had nearly broken out. There was already enough trouble at the tables without her brothers adding to it. She stayed out of the way. Her role was at the start of the night when the men came in, and at the end when they wanted to leave. The rest of the time she just sat pretty and tried not to break the faces of everyone who leered at her. It had never exactly been easy being the only daughter in the O’Connor family, but she knew how to handle herself, and plenty of people had learned the hard way not to screw around with her over the years. Tonight though they were only playing the hosts, and she had to keep her tongue and fists in check.

This game had been her dad’s idea after a drunken drink with some of his buddies about a year back. It ran once every few months after closing hours at the family bar which was already known for its shady characters and dodgy business. It had started off small, but was now popular enough that they had to clear out space and close early to make the event possible. Still, it ran without a hitch, and some of the bent cops were paid off to ensure that no one came snooping around their corner of New York City tonight. If they did it would probably be broken legs for some poor guy, and up to Bronte to provide paperwork for a cover story and charity event nonsense. She hated covering for the family, she really did, but it was what she did best. Until she found another purpose for her life or something else to live for she would probably always keep running back whenever they called. It drove her crazy, especially when she told them that every time was the last time. She wanted to mean it so badly, but then something else would always happen and she couldn’t live with the ‘what if’ thoughts that kept flooding her brain when she tried to ignore the texts and calls. Bronte hated herself for it, but there was no other reason why she was sitting on her stool counting down the minutes until this night was over.

She tapped her pen against the page of the notebook on which she had roughly sketched out another design for a tattoo. Of all the O’Connor children she was by far the most inked, and Bronte was proud of it, and probably addicted to the process. She wasn’t naturally artistic but when it came to her tattoos and the meanings behind them she had developed a little bit of skill, though almost all of the credit had to go to the crew at Three Kings who fitted her in when they could. Each of the artists there had stamped her body with their work over the years, and she was ready to head back for more. Bronte was eyeing her design, wondering if the petals would look better on the right or the left, when loud voices caught her attention. Lifting her head, she looked over at the table on the far left. Sitting on the right was Mischa Romanov; a Russian criminal who had clashed with each of her brothers at least once. She had been at enough of these poker games to know that losers rarely came sorer than he did. There was always a fist fight when he lost big, and tonight she could do without it, especially since her dad had just stepped out to take care of some other business and her brothers would happily sit back to watch someone get beaten to a pulp by the psychopathic Russian. Jumping the bar, she shot across the room and forced her way in front of Mischa. She might not look like much, this skinny blonde coming in at five foot four, but she was just as tough as her brothers. “Either sit the hell down, or I will put you down.” she warned, stabbing her finger in Mischa’s chest. “You’re on O’Connor turf, Romanov and there will none of your usual shit tonight.” He shouted something at her in Russian, spitting on the ground by her feet before walking off. She glared after him, making a mental note to send something nasty his way to make him think twice about coming back to cause trouble for her. It seemed she naturally cleaned up messes even when she wanted to avoid them. Looking back at the table, she spotted the one guy out of place. Growing up in a family known for being part of the underworld, she knew all the familiar players and their cronies, but this guy was not anyone she knew. However, the stack of chips before him was enough to show her that he was the guy who had sent Mischa Romanov into a rage. She heard Casey and Kyle getting everyone’s attention back to their respective games, and kept her own voice quiet as she addressed this stranger. “Stop by the bar before you leave. You and I need to talk.” She said no more, and walked away, head high, back to where she had been for the rest of the night.

• • •

TAGGED! Jordan Charles Irving
WORDS! 918!
OUTFIT! Cute Criminal!
LYRICS! Almost Human - - - Voltaire
NOTES! <3 <3 <3

[Jordan Charles Irving]

When Jordan was up, he felt unstoppable. It was a rush for him to be sitting at that green felt table knowing if he said the right thing, made the right call, he could walk away a far richer man than when he'd walked in. Even if he hadn't been a professional poker player, chances were, he would have still been sitting exactly where he was at that very moment, anyway. Legitimate tournaments were surprisingly few and far between while underground games like this one were relatively easy to find; especially in New York City. His father had taught him all sorts of things as a teenager and Jordan had absorbed it all like a sponge; especially all things poker. It had been a lot of fun for Jordan to spend his nights with his dad, learning everything he had to offer on the card game.

His insomnia kept him up more than it allowed him to sleep and despite the fact that he needed sleep, Harris stayed up with him all hours of the night, too often waking up on the couch after he'd fallen asleep waiting for Jordan to do the same. Jordan on the other hand, was lucky if he got an hour or two a night. And the meds he'd gotten for it left him groggy and slow, two things he would rather not be so he stopped taking them. Of course, that was ages ago and he had since learned how to handle his insomnia; poker. His mind was sharp, even when he'd been up for seventy-two hours straight. Though, he had a skill for poker and the confidence in his skill to believe he could play the game with his eyes closed but sitting around the table he was at wasn't the place to admit to such a thing.

Jordan had been going to places like this since he was eighteen years old. Back then it had been with Harris. And coming out on top of the game or even a round was an exciting rush for the young man. But these days he kept returning because it was something to do while he was awake. Something that wasn't sitting at his office at the firm, going over everything with a fine tooth comb like he usually did when he decided to visit the business his father left him. It was something other than sitting at the house he had shared with his dad, still feeling the older man's presence in the little knickknacks that littered nearly every surface. And it was much better than sitting in a tin can somewhere over an ocean of a mass of land, searching for a legitimate poker game. He had friends who had games but they weren't serious buy ins. They played for the fun as well as the cash but when it was one of their own games, they didn't play for money; it was just to play.

And in all the time games he'd played in places like this, he'd never seen someone get so upset over losing a couple thousand dollars. It was all part of the game after all. If you couldn't handle the possibility of walking away with a lighter wallet, then you aren't a person who should play poker in a seedy place; or any place for that matter unless there were no stakes. Luckily for him, his poker face was one of the best and he didn't even bat an eyelash when the Russian beside him started throwing a fit. At least Jordan knew better than to smirk at the scary looking man. He kept a neutral look on his face and his mouth stayed firmly shut. He wasn't interested in getting tossed around before getting tossed out. He was there to play a game, a game that incidentally had revealed a sore loser in this other man. He had to admit though, he was quite impressed with the petite blonde. She was a hell of a lot scarier than the Russian in his opinion; especially after watching how she handled the foreign man. He caught her eye and nodded at her words before turning his attention back to the game and his chips. There was at least triple what he'd walked in with. He could call it a night and find something else to occupy his time with. Deciding that was best, Jordan signaled his leave to the dealer, gathering his chips to exchange. "You summoned?" He asked, reaching the bar and the woman who'd asked to see him.

Tag || bronte ellery o'connor
Words || 760
Clothes || Coming to a Theatre Near You
Music || House Party --Sam Hunt
Notes || <3

[bronte ellery o'connor]

Bronte was used to tough men and hardened criminals. She had been around them since she was a little girl and they had stopped scaring her when she was still wearing her hair in bunches and too young to truly understand what her dad’s business was all about. It was why she didn’t bat an eyelid whenever someone like Mischa Romanov cursed at her in hard Russian, or when someone’s lackey tried to get into her apartment because they thought the O’Connor daughter would be the easy target. Bronte slept with a baseball bat and the conviction to smash anyone in the face with it. She didn’t want to be like her family, but she couldn’t avoid being like them either. Even if she did manage to completely walk away one day there would always be someone who was stupid enough to think she was a fantastic way in to threaten the O’Connor’s. They usually went back to wherever they came from with broken bones and in a bloody mess.

In all honesty, she couldn’t remember a time when her life didn’t involve some threat or another, or cleaning up something her brother’s had started. It had grown tiring a long time ago which was why she wanted out so badly. So far there hadn’t been a single chance of that. No one in the city would accept her resume because most businessmen had crossed paths in some way or another with the O’Connor’s before, and they knew better than to hire one. It was the downside to most ‘have it all’ men wanting to dabble in the dark side for a thrill just the once, and then realising a moment too late that it was more than they wanted. Her father, and now her older brothers, made a habit of targeting those men just for fun. It was a little game they liked to play and Bronte wanted no part in it. She wanted an escape route, but so far every door had ‘This is Not an Exit’ plastered all over it and she found herself sitting back in the family bar, reluctantly doing the kind of work she loathed, fighting with her brothers, and wishing more than ever that she could bash Kyle’s smug face into the bar top.

Sitting back at the bar she watched everything quieten down again and turned her attention back to her attempt at sketching. Someone at the studio would clean it up and make it look better, but Bronte always liked going in with something rather than trying to explain the concept in her mind; it was a complicated mind to work through. Before she could settle herself too much though she had to focus on sorting through the balances, wins and books. It was earlier than she thought she’d be doing it. The kick off from Mischa Romanov had left a few of the smaller players keen to leave. They were just heading out when another voice caught her attention and she looked up, sliding the work under the bar and leaning forward to meet the man’s eyes. Bronte had always thought eye contact to be important. “A guy like you should not be in a place like this. Mischa would have taken his losses out of your face.” She explained simply. It was only a poker game, but she had witnessed it descend into hell before now. “If he can find you, he still will make that happen. So I hope you weren’t dumb enough to give that table anything.” He didn’t seem like he was, but people constantly surprised Bronte with their lack of smarts. She noticed Casey and Kyle looking her way with curious eyes, and not the good kind, so she reached below and pulled out a glass sliding it over to the stranger before filling it with whatever was in the first bottle her hand closed around. “Stay, finish your drink, and don’t let me see you around her again. For your own sake.” Her tone carried a warning, but not a threat. She didn’t want to see someone get hurt just because he got lucky in a bad poker game.

• • •

TAGGED! Jordan Charles Irving
WORDS! 701!
OUTFIT! Cute Criminal!
LYRICS! Almost Human - - - Voltaire
NOTES! <3 <3 <3

[Jordan Charles Irving]

Jordan had practically grown up in seedy places like this one playing poker. He’d learned how to play from his father and surpassed his skill level quite quickly. He was a professional poker player but sometimes the rush was found in the underground games, not the official ones. It might one day kill him but he liked going back to the games where he learned what he knew and practiced. It had been a long time since he’d been in this particular establishment, a few months, probably closer to a year. And the last time he’d been in, the woman who’d talked to him and sorted out the problem at the table hadn’t been there. Or he just hadn’t pissed off the right people to grab her attention. Either way, he had it now and he wasn’t entirely sure if that was a good thing. He didn’t know the places he played in from the next of them, he just knew there were good games around and he always wanted in.

It was an interesting side effect to his insomnia. He could never just sit around the brownstone he called home, and had called home since he’d been twelve. If he ever found himself in the middle of one of his sleepless nights and he couldn’t find a game, he was at the architecture firm working through the paperwork and the blueprints that the company was currently hired on to draw up. He didn’t do a lot of the work in the office. He owned the company but it had been his father’s and though he did love what they did there, his heart wasn’t as into it as his had been. The employees really ran the place but Jordan was the face of the whole operation. He couldn’t apologise enough for that but they didn’t seem to mind it that much. He’d been there before he’d gotten his degree and at least he had gone back to school to put his name on a fancy diploma so he did in fact have an in depth knowledge of what they did there and could in fact do it himself but the love just wasn’t there like it had been for his father and for those who worked there.

Jordan shrugged his shoulder at what the girl was telling him. He’d grown up around these people. He knew the ones that would attack even if he had been losing because they were also losing. He’d lived through the system and he’d lived on the streets. Admittedly he hadn’t been there all that long but long enough to know who really ran the streets. His father took him in, saved him from becoming a part of that on the wrong side of it. He still managed to make him a part of that world but it was a small part and one that profited rather tidily and usually without threats or beatings. Jordan tried to keep out of the real criminals radars but sometimes it couldn’t be helped. Like tonight. “You mean I shouldn’t have told him my name was Don Diego de la Vega and I lived in Los Angeles? Shit.” He said sarcastically. He was many things, but Jordan was not stupid. He knew better than to give these people his real name or anything else. “So basically, you’ll find me then? And who do I talk to about exchanging these chips for the cash I earned fair and square from the Russian?” He inquired, lifting his tumbler to his lips even as he pushed the tidy mountain of chips closer to the inked up blonde.

Tag || bronte ellery o'connor
Words || 660
Clothes || Professional Pest
Music || House Party --Sam Hunt
Notes || <3

[bronte ellery o'connor]

Bronte didn’t like being here these nights. Too much testosterone and a room of sore losers. There was almost always a table overturned and a fight breaking out. She never understood the big deal. She could play poker as well as most of the men in this room, but playing for money didn’t interest her. She preferred something more challenging. Not that she would admit it to anyone here, but she had shed her clothes for card games countless times and dares were more thrilling when they were dished out over the best or weakest hand. Still, she was the only one her father trusted with the money on these nights. She was the neutral one in the family and not swayed by anyone on the outside. He might call her loyal, but Bronte just wasn’t interested in being involved with criminals any more than she already was.

Bronte knew men who thought they knew better just because they played in dark alleys and mixed with bad men with big guns. She’d seen too many guys like that end up floating in the river, their bodies pulled out after sunrise by police who were tired of seeing the same ending to the same story. She shared their sentiment, and looking at the man before her she was feeling the same thing. He was confident, but confidence never did much for people in her world. It only ever led to trouble and she had spent too much of her life dragging people out of it. It was a job she was done with. “He might look like he’s missing a few brain cells, but he ain’t stupid.” She warned. If Mischa wanted to find someone then he usually could and often did. She paused, turning to check something under the counter and then jumped back up again. “And don’t tell me you’re not either. I’ve heard that line a thousand times and it’s only ever said by guys who are that stupid.” She retorted, waving her hand to cut off anything he might have been thinking of saying. Narrowing her eyes, she slid the chips over to her side of the bar without breaking eye contact. “If I find you then you’re in more trouble than your life’s worth, smart guy.” She counted the cash out swiftly, popped it into an envelope and licked it to seal it. “Don’t blow it all on hookers and cheap liquor now.” She commented dryly.

There was a bang in the far corner of the room and Bronte looked up to see Casey slamming someone against a table for cheating. Rolling her eyes she pulled herself over the bar and tucked the envelope inside the pocket of the lucky winner. “You might want to get out of here while you can, champ.” She whispered, face oddly close to his own before she lowered herself back down her side of the bar, up righting herself again in time to watch as Casey chucked the cheater through a door to the back room. Things were probably about to get messy back there and Bronte didn’t think he’d want to be around for the cries of pain. The O’Connor’s didn’t take well to those who tried to con them.

• • •

TAGGED! Jordan Charles Irving
WORDS! 551!
OUTFIT! Cute Criminal!
LYRICS! Almost Human - - - Voltaire
NOTES! <3 <3 <3