venus stopped the train: olivia liddell.

[secondhand_stars]

<center>so don't give me respect don't give me a piece of your preciousness
flaunt all she's got in our old neighbourhood
i'm sure she'll make a few friends
even the rain bows down let us pray as you cock-cock-cock your mane
no cigarettes only peeled havana's for you i can be cruel
i don't know why
why can't my ba.ll.oo.n stay up in a perfectly windy sky
i can be cruel i don't know why
dance with the sufi's celebrate your top ten in the charts of pain
lover brother bogenvilla my vine twists around your need
even the rain is sharp like today as you sh-sh-shock me sane
no cigarettes only peeled havana's for you i can be cruel

tori amos -- cruel


</center>

Southern trees bear strange fruit. Like a Rorschach inkblot in shades of blood red and cafe au lait, she was quite simply whatever you wished her to be. A voodoo queen, a pretty tease. With her Lolita red grin and tilting eyes, the nuclear reactor disguised herself as candlelight. Born from bayou magic and indiscretion, she had all the makings of illegitimacy; a golden child nonetheless. The Shaman's daughter, she possessed and was possessed by anything stringed: her pretty puppets with broken necks and cracked keys in shades of black and white. She left the decay of freeze-frame antebellum for the concrete jungle composed of blue flashing light and traffic song.

Olivia Liddell: go and get your riot-gear.

[secondhand_stars]

<center></center>

<center>the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk,
mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn
or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles
exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight
pop and everybody goes 'awww!'
-- <u>on the road</u>, jack kerouac.</center>


One.

Full Name: Olivia Ruth Berg?.
Goes by..: Olivia "Liv" Liddell.
Occupation: Pianist and hairstylist.

Current age: 21
Date of birth: 02-09.
Birthplace: Chalmette, Louisiana.
Name(s), age(s), and occupation(s) of parent(s):

Gabe Berg?, hell if I know, musician.
Sam Stevens, 52, musician.

Name(s), age(s), and occupation(s) of sibling(s):

Charlie Stevens, half-brother, 30, lawyer.
Tessa Stevens, half-sister, 28, bohemian wanderer-type.
Grace Stevens, half-sister, 26, dance instructor.


Height: 5'0"
Weight: 97.
Hair color: Brown.
Eye color: Hazel.
Left-, right-handed, or ambidextrous: Right-handed.

Heritage/Nationality: Biracial / American.
Religion: Voodoo.
Education:

High school diploma from Sacred Heart. (Yes. I was the only Jew at a parochial school.)

Marital status: Free as a bird.
Children: Uh, no.

Two.

Likes: hand rolled cigarettes, thunderstorms, Jack Daniels, tin pan alley and jazz, hair dye, card tricks, coffee, sex, ice-cream, fireflies, tarot cards, the Beat movement, fire, magnolia petals, ghosts.
Dislikes: the unknown, drama, children, honky-tonks, empty pockets, june bugs.


Three: Do you...

Smoke: I most surely do.
Curse: Fuck naw. You go to fucking hell for shit like that, don't you know?
Sing well: Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies.
Sing in the shower: If I feel like it, yeah.
Talk to yourself: Only when I lose something.
Believe in yourself: Why not.
Play an instrument: Piano and guitar.
Want to go to college?: I don't reckon I have much need for it.
Want to get married?: Ha. No fuckin' way. Not my style.
Want to have children?: Em'n Mia are plenty kidlike for my likin'.
Think you're a health freak?: Haha. No.
Get along with your parents?: Don't talk to'em.
Get along with your siblings?: Them neither.

Four: Current...

Clothes: None of your damn business.
Mood: Sleepy.
Music: Black Dove (January), Tori Amos.
Taste: Toothpaste.
Make-up: Nah.
Hair-style: Curly.
Annoyance: Insurance'n shit.
Smell: Tobacco leaves and rosewater.
Book you're reading: <u>Dharma Bums</u>, Jack Kerouac.
CD in CD Player: From the Choirgirl Hotel, Tori Amos.
DVD in player: Goddamn Dora the Explorer.
Refreshment: Water.
Worry: Sh. None of that.

Five: Favorites...

Food: Biscuits and gravy. How typical of me, hell.
Drink: Jack Daniels.
Color: Red.
Album: Kind-of Blue., Miles Davis.
Shoes: Manolo Blahniks are sexy little shoes.
Candy: Licorice, just like my daddy. I'll rot my heart out.
Animal: Cats.
TV Show: Do music videos count?
Movie: Almost Famous.
Song: Under my Thumb, The Rolling Stones.
Girl's name: Billie.
Boy's name: Miles.
Vegetable: Greens.
Fruit: Blood oranges.

Six.

If I were a month, I'd be: February.
If I were a day of the week, I'd be: Wednesday.
If I were a time of day, I'd be: The witching hour.
If I were a planet, I'd be: Jupiter.
If I were a sea animal, I'd be: Coral.
If I were a direction, I'd be: U-turn.
If I were a piece of furniture, I'd be: A rocking chair.
If I were a sin, I'd be: Gluttony.
If I were a historical figure, I'd be: Your mother.
If I were a liquid, I'd be: Whiskey.
If I were a tree, I'd be: A weeping willow.
If I were a bird, I'd be: A nightingale.
If I were a flower, I'd be: A magnolia.
If I were a kind of weather, I'd be: A midnight, summer thunderstorm.
If I were a mythical creature, I'd be: A siren. Stuff your ears, boys.
If I were a musical instrument, I'd be: A piano.
If I were an animal, I'd be: A black cat.
If I were a color, I'd be: Red.
If I were an emotion, I'd be: Delirium.
If I were a vegetable, I'd be: A carrot.
If I were a sound, I'd be: A cricket chirping.
If I were an element, I'd be: Out of your's.
If I were a car, I'd be: A model T.
If I were a song, I'd be: God Bless the Child, Billie Holiday.
If I were a movie, I'd be: ...I don't know?
If I were a food, I'd be: Manna from Heaven. How fun would that be?
If I were a place, I'd be: New Orleans.
If I were a material, I'd be: Cotton.
If I were a taste, I'd be: Toxic. Ha.
If I were a scent, I'd be: Rosewater and salt.
If I were a religion, I'd be: voodoo.
If I were a word, I'd be: Arpeggio.
If I were an object, I'd be: A piano key.
If I were a body part, I'd be: Hands.
If I were a facial expression, I'd be: A smirk.
If I were a part of a house, I'd be: The bedroom naturally.
If I were a subject in school, I'd be: Music.
If I were a cartoon character, I'd be: Schroder.
If I were a shape, I'd be a: figure-eight.
If I were a number, I'd be: infinity.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ March 20, 2005 05:38 AM: Message edited by: the factory ]</font>

[secondhand_stars]

Chalmette, Louisiana - 2001


To say they had fled the decay and 1950's suburbanite dream of Chalmette was hardly an exaggeration. A year after the event and the town still talked of the day that Samantha Stevens had found her precious bastard offspring with her pleated school skirt up. It had been a production that even outdid the community's yearly Easter pageant in terms of theatrics. Whenever any member of the Stevens, Savoy, or Berge family walked into the local supermarket for groceries or library for a tired paperback, the whispers would begin about how Sam had screamed herself hoarse while dumping her daughter's pretty dresses and freshly shined shoes onto the lawn. Even Gabe Berge had passed by after in his rusted out, vintage Mustang to witness the public disgrace of Olivia Berge and Vincent Savoy.
The affair had ended spectacularly. As the red-faced Vincent scurried to pick up his sweethearts unmentionables and broke-spined school books, Olivia had glared up unblinkingly at her Mama who continued to scream out blasphemies from her daughter's second story bedroom. Finally, when all her rumpled artifacts were loaded into the backseat of his car, Vincent rushed to drag the belle inside as if she were one of her own pretty porcelian dolls.

Wriggling free from the cuffs of his hands upon her upperarms, the teenaged Queen rushed back to stand below the window. "You done hollerin' yet?" She screeched back, shrill and brimming over with her very own bottled-up outburst.

All the neighbours upon their green, neatly manicured lawns watched as Sam -- fever-cheeked and wild-eyed -- paused and reluctantly shook her head.

"Well then!" Liv called back, two middle fingers lifted high into the air in childish defiance. "I ain't one bit sorry. I ain't even sorry 'bout bein' caught. So fuck y'all."

It was hardly a rebel's cry and compared to the things that would later spill from her sweetly bowed mouth, Liv's final stand upon the Steven's lawn was hardly anything to blink at. Instead, it was the efficient, curse-laced snipping of a cord that one wouldn't have thought had ever been there at all. From behind her Vincent gasped and returned to dragging her into the passenger seat. "Get in darlin, I say. Ain't 'bout to see your Mama get down here and say somethin' bout that."

A year and a pond-skip across later sent Vincent and Olivia spiraling down the blue-note littered and smoke-filled white rabbit's hole into the wonderland that was New Orleans.

[secondhand_stars]

New Orleans, Louisiana - 2001

In a crush of ribcage chests full of viciously beating heart and rasping lungs, they were a tangle of shipwrecked limbs and the seaweed cling of Liv's long, ropy hair. Gasping out a breath into the lift of bones set into her collar, Vincent kissed the impression that her Star of David left against dark skin. She, cat-eyed and grinning, watched the lazy spin of the ceiling fan. Around and around, the slants went. When she was a little girl, she pretended that it was some stick figure cartwheeling over and over again. That had been a different fan, however.
Smoothing palms over the wings of his shoulder blades, she sighed and began to squirm beneath him. "Get off me. I've got an idea."

"What?" He mumbled, obliging her with a slide of lanky limbs. Stretching tall down the length of mattress, Vincent watched Olivia slide over to her end of the bed and reach for the guitar balanced against the edge of a night stand. Their apartment was a mess of mix and match styles. Lamps with fringed edges were found at an antique shop for cheap as their cabinets were filled with clashing and chipped dishware. The night stand was made of whitewashed wicker and clapboard. Guitar was settled upon the tops of her dark thighs, fingers picking out random chords and melody. She hummed along, her voice throaty and full where her body was still shaped like a girl's with straight hips and tiny hands and feet.

Stopping, notes were left to fade as a fingers lifted to wipe the sweat from her brow and then rumple through her hair. He watched the sandy ripple and curl of tendrils shiver like a pirate's flag. She would plunder and pillage with her smoky voice just as easily as she did with her kisses and sweet little sighs.

After a moment, fingers began to strum out notes again in staccato beats. "Open up your eyes, then you'll realize..."

Vincent groaned. Falling to his back, a pale forearm pressed against eyes. "Livvy-baby, do not tell me you just pushed me off'a you to play Everlastin' Love."

"Shut up, Vince."

"Come and make me shut up, Missy." He drawled, eyebrows crooking high and teasingly. Shifting over a few inches, fingers lifted to trickle down the line of her back where the knobs of her vertebrae rippled beneath skin.

Throwing her head back, she laughed at him and sent hair to tangle over the fingers. Then shifting closer to the edge of unmade bed and out of his reach, she began to pick out certain notes and croon again. The song had shifted from classic and b-side to her very own. Her patience was exercised by the sighs and rustling of Vincent as he began to dress again. Glancing over a shoulder, she watched a face creased and darkened with sullen expression pull through the neck of a faded t-shirt. Somehow, this sparked some sort of hidden well of fury. Looking down, she watched the plastic clip of guitar pick blur against strings. "Goddamnit Vincent. Don't be such a fuckin' baby." She grumbled against sound.

"Leave it alone, Olivia." He warned, crossing the closet of a bedroom with the hems of his jeans trailing and bare feet stepping around the trail of her clothes against floorboards.

"Fine."

"All right then."

As keys were grabbed off the scratched top of the bureau, they crashed together in a cool crash of complimenting notes. Abruptly, Liv stopped mid-song and gave him a curious look. "Where you goin?"

"Don't you worry none. I'll be back later."

The belle gaped, jaw unhinging and eyes going soft. Pushing the guitar off her lap, she stood up from the bed. Settling hands upon her hips, fingers pressed angrily into skin and she strode over. "Oh hell no. We ain't about to turn into those sort'a people."

"Those sort'a people?"

"Yeah. The sort'a people who fight and then the boy goes off and acts like an ass while the girl stays home and stews so she's good and ready to bear her claws at him as soon as his drunk-good-for-nothin' ass comes home."

Vincent blinked, head tipping into a slant. Reaching up, fingers scratched at his temple as if he were figuring out some complex mathematical equation laid out in southern-fried drawl and cranky intonation. "Well hell. Guess we're shit out of luck cos' we are those sort'a people, Olivia."

"Don't be an asshole, Vince."

"Don't be a bitch then." He countered.

Hands dropped from their resting points to ball into useless fists. She wouldn't hit him. She couldn't. The look upon his face would either be guilt or violence inspiring. If he laughed, an inevitable fit would be pitched while a crumpled, hound dog-eyed look would send her stomach to knot painfully. "Well fine then. We'll be those fuckin' people. Suit your self, Vincent Savoy."

"I'll be back in a little bit, Livvy." He grumbled in response as a hand swiped over his exhausted features. Life had not been the summertime picnic they had envisioned for themselves as they crossed the stretch of bridge that divided worlds. It was two jobs -- bartending at La Note most nights and working as a gas station attendant during the day -- while Olivia finished up her last semester at Sacred Heart and played weekends at whatever club would take her. It was his own music and dreams shelved for a singular.

[secondhand_stars]

New Orleans, Louisiana - 2002

The stage lights held an oppressive heat to them that made even the most native of southerner to swoon and fan himself with the flimsy square of a cocktail napkin. Clustered around tables and amongst company, people discreetly daubed at the sweat that beaded upon hairline and upper-lip. Off center, the dancing of young lovers had turned into slow, shuffling steps. Lazy hips nestled in close and hot breath recycled in and out, over and over again, they threw sparks and threatened to ignite the entire establishment with their contained chaos. No one rested here. Instead, strung into prim erectness by an unnamed tension, their silt-dark eyes slipped around for a source to their curious aggression.

This was her audience, and they had to look no further than to that voodoo Queen that prowled the stage. She kicked over her skeleton throne as battle-cry roared from her throat. The barstool, in response, skipped across the stage before clattering down with a subtle splintering in its death moan. Olivia played on as a wild woman with her smeared red lipstick and hair alive. Fingers plucked at the strings of her guitar in a deceptively mild melody that contrasted with the violent song that tore through her heart and mouth respectively. "The welts of your scorn, my love, give me more --"

Across the smoky nightclub, Vincent stared blearily into his glass. Fingers loosened from their white-knuckle grip against the walls to lift up before his eyes. Flexing and wriggling, their color regained as mind wandered. He had been angry once. Now, instead, he floated upon a toxic sort of apathy. Rather than rage, he sank deep into that ocean and breathed in.

"Send whips of opinion down my back, give me more." Liv growled, falling close to microphone as eyes rolled up towards the blinding light that poured over her. For the rest of the show, she would be half-blind and mad from the afterimage.

Long ago they had stopped questioning the other's dark moods and actions. Rather than keep track of the liquor bottles that filled trash cans and phone numbers slipped into the back pocket of tired denims, they penned harsh songs and played out irritation upon a crowd of one hundred on good nights and five on the worst of them. When they had finished clawing the other to ribbons, they slowly worked to weave life back into a tattered tapestry of normalcy. They were damned. By now it was apparent. There were a million reasons: she was too young, he was too frustrated by life in the shadow, she was reckless in all things, he was her favorite path of destruction, and so on and so on.

History, in short, had repeated itself in the second generation. Struck by the Warren curse of her mother and downfall of a father, Liv was the worst of her parents in a package that was of her very own making. Too stubborn to back down, she would sing her classic cover songs and heartbreaking own for the masses while all things deconstructed behind her. Or rather, in front of her. At the height of it all, the belle watched the knife of the sharply made Vincent cut through the crowd with a tug and pull from a blonde-haired Magnolia Queen. The woman was so fresh-faced and bright-eyed that Liv wasn't surprised in the slightest when he didn't return home that night.

The woman, by play of imagination and self-injury, was all the things that Olivia had once been. As the gold and orange of early morning began to spill over the city and into the naked window of her bedroom, she stared at the cracks in the ceiling and counted within their bends all the events that had led to this. She didn't wish away her actions. Or his. Instead, resigned and exhausted from a night without sleep, Olivia rolled out from the sheets that still contained his scent as much as hers.

At the bottom shelf of a bookcase full of her tired paperbacks, she tugged a faded and dusty phonebook from the shadow. It had been the only thing that the previous occupant of the apartment had left behind. Thumbing through the directory, she padded across to where telephone was bolted to the kitchen wall. Balancing the heavy spine in one hand, the other lifted receiver and then began to dial in the number of the nearest locksmith.

[secondhand_stars]

By now, his velveteen drawl had been ripped to shreds leaving a raw, wounded howl that rattled the door just as sharply as the fists that beat into the cheap frame of the door. Settled across the living room upon a threadbare couch, Olivia smoked cigarette after cigarette and watched hinges hold steady. Every once in awhile, the sound would taper off into an uneasy silence. In response, she would sigh out a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling.

Shadows passed in and out of that narrow space between door and the cheap linoleum flooring as he stalked in front of apartment 3E -- her apartment, his apartment... No, their apartment -- in short, stamping steps. It was a ridiculous pose he struck: the brat prince who had made his own bed, but was unwilling to lay in it just yet. After a minute of silence, he was back at the peephole with brow pressed to it's circular notch and hands sprawled over the flat of painted panel as if it was her. "Liv-darlin -- Let me in. I'm beggin' ya."

She had already grown hoarse from tossing back her own profane responses. Lifting the square bottle of whiskey from its spot between knees, a long pull was swallowed painfully down scratchy throat. Wiping mouth with the back of her wrist, eyes narrowed in upon the door.

"Fine." A voice mumbled in a watery tone. He was drowning now -- not in regret or shame or anything of that nature. Instead, it was desperation. Vincent didn't know life beyond Olivia and their ramshackle apartment. Or rather, the parts of it he did know weren't promising at all. He wanted nothing more than to return to her. Sinking down against the flat of the door, his head lolled against the grain and dark hair caught in the splinters. Tapping fingers upon the tops of his knobby knees, a low hum rumbled beneath ribcage. "Trouble, been doggin' my soul since the day I was born."

His voice was as finely tuned as any classical instrument. Clear and mournful, each syllable turned his mouth down even further. The notes were not her sapphire blue, but the same watered down quality found in his eyes. Shutting away sight, thumb and index finger rubbed into lids harshly. "Sometimes I swear worry's my only friend. I've been saved by a woman --"

Overhead, the brass knob rattled as Liv's fingers picked open the series of latches and turns. When the door opened, Vincent's song drained off into a surprised squeak as he tumbled backwards with head curving against the tops of her feet.

"I hate you." She drawled in a salty slur. Toes wiggled then, catching in the overgrowth of his hair where scalp curved in. "You're a fuckin' no-good bastard."

His eyes rolled away, pulling from her's to the corner of door-frame. "Yeah," he muttered wetly. Flicking a finger at the underside of an eye and then the bridge of his long nose. "But I'm you're fuckin' no-good bastard."

"I ain't in no mood for that. Get your shi--"

"Liv?"

"Yeah?"

His look was genuinely apologetic with wide eyes that rolled back up and brow crinkled. Boyish and innocent, his expression was infuriating. She wanted to unwedge a foot from beneath him and kick it all away. Instead, the belle scowled down. "What?"

"I can totally see up your dress." He drawled, choking on syllables and the drain of tears that had stopped coming. Hooking hands at opposing ribs, his mouth cracked a mad man's smile.

In a surprised shriek, she angled to press hands upon the flats of her thighs. Knees, in a flash of modesty, pulled close before Liv skittered backwards out of his view. "Shit! I really hate you now. Ruinin' my moment and thunder. You ain't getting off that easy. You fucked up, Vince. You fucked up real bad."

Rolling upright with a soggy laugh, the drowning man stood slowly and moved into the apartment he shared with her. Dusting off elbows from the gravel-grain that clung to sleeves, head angled and expression sombered. "I know, darlin'. I know."

"I ain't your darlin'."

"You sure as hell are."

Olivia pressed her palms into eyes and breathed in a long note. Filling up all the cracks and broken places in her with air, she waited for it to spark and send in a fresh burn of carbon dioxide. When closed off eyes watered, she would blame that rather than him. Bottom lip rolled and pulled between teeth painfully. "You've gone and done it now," she breathed out in a slow sob. When he took a step forward, a hand extended, she twisted away with the angling of her shoulders and stalked steps back. "I ain't never gonna forgive you for this."

"Olivia, you know that it didn't mean nothin' to me."

"Nah?" She mumbled against thin wrists.

"Nah."

"It was just a fuck?"

He was fearful of her silence. It was only when she raged and spat out thunderbolts aimed straight for his heart -- in this place, lightening did strike twice, or rather, over and over again for the same target -- that he was safe. He knew what to expect. Her silence held a thousand possibilities in it. Shifting from foot to foot, he only nodded mutely.

<center>-</center>

The bedroom was more battle-ground than haven. What hung in the air like her perfume and their sweat was not some sparkling afterglow, but rather a somber, settling aftermath. The joints set into her shoulders and knees still shook with their collision though she hooked legs close to her chest and settled arms around the lengths of shins. Curled into a ball, the weak, irritating quivering was easily lost beneath the cut of sheets. He whispered apologies rather than endearments into her skin; murmuring, smearing sorts of kisses. Smoothing back her hair and trickling fingers down the exposed knobs of her spine, Vincent fumbled for some hidden away key that would again unlock her.

There was no key to be found. Instead, all the doors had been given new locks and chains. Closed off behind her armor of skin and bone, Olivia watched the shadows pass over the wall in wavery, half-light. After a long moment, she finally breathed again and unfolded from her curled spot. The belle knew what was required of her. Slipping across the bedroom, dress was picked up from its crumpled spot upon the floor. Smoothing out the wrinkles with a few quick shakes, the thin summer cotton was wriggled on again.

"Where you goin'?"

"Home."

Vincent blinked, straightening up from his sprawl. "You are home."

"Not anymore." She muttered over her shoulder as shoes were lifted from a closet shelf. "Ain't never gonna be home here again. The new key is on the kitchen counter."

"Where you gonna go? Back to your Mama?"

"Hell no," Olivia laughed. It was a chilling, grown sound.

"Liv, you can't just leave like this."

"Can't I?" She stopped in mid-step to look around the bedroom. Settling hands then upon her hips, she smirked and shook her head at him. "It sure looks like I am."

"Don't you love me, darlin?"

"Sure I do. Don't talk like that now."

"Then what's this all about?"

"A fuck," she replied.

[secondhand_stars]

There had once been a sense of novelty to her entire gypsy existence. A fugitive without a cause, she could easily toss all her things into mix-and-match luggage pieces and vanish. Yet, she didn't. Instead, the things packed within hard, pastel-colored suitcases had found a home within the drawers of Ellie's guest room armoire. Likewise, her scent had been stained into the brightly colored sheets of the bed. Accidental roots were being planted into the concrete ground of the urban jungle. This slow evolution tugged at her. In quiet moments, she would lose herself. Leaving clients in mid-snip and telephone calls at mid-sentence, the belle would find herself toppling back into her first home.

Olivia was much too proud to admit to those pangs of homesickness. It was a curse. Each day, the hunger for scraps of the familiar grew. Each day, her reflection paled a shade closer to her mother's face. She had, by some play of fate, become her mother.

Escaping into the sprawling length of couch with trusty television remote and a bowl of popcorn, the belle clicked restlessly through the endless channels that were beamed in from tinfoil satellites. She wouldn't let a station stay on long enough for her to settle and mind to drift. Instead, car crashes and telenovelas roared by in a shriek of metal and soprano. Soon, all things bled into a technicolor blur that made eyes twitch and temples thrum irritably. Casting the remote aside and abandoning wide ceramic bowl upon the corner of coffee table, the bayou Queen unfolded from her lounging pose and stretched lean. Arms over head and petite legs pulling straight, her restlessness was ironed out temporarily.

It was inevitable though, she knew. Soon, she'd itch with nervous energy. Soon, she'd be rifling through her closet for a slinky outfit to change into from her comfortable cotton pajamas. Soon, she'd be drowning out all things in a whiskey river. And yes, one day, she'd break down and dial the numbers that were stamped permanently in her brain.

And why delay? For a few more ounces of pride? For further damage upon her young liver? These were the questions that plagued her as she wandered around the empty apartment. Like a ghost, the slip of a girl moved silently and unremarkably.

The phone rang then: a sharp, shrill cry of sound not unlike the squealing tires of high speed Hollywood chases or over-dramatic Hispanic matriarchs. Olivia started at the sound, her insides jumping as feet planted in to the chill of hardwood flooring. Hazel-gold eyes darting around, they flickered over the living room before settling upon the phone. She quickly composed herself then, with a laugh and roll of her eyes, and reached for the phone. "Hello?"

"Hi!" A cheerful greeting echoed back. "Is Liv there?"

Lani Donovan had a voice that was all her own -- much like her mismatched, whimsy tinged eyes. Rather than laying flat and dry, it rippled with the laughter that was always gurgling in the back of her throat. Even when she breathed, a wheeze of amusement followed exhale. Inhales were mad, sweetheart grins. If a ruthless and relentless businesswoman didn't lurk behind faery-punk clothing, Liv wouldn't have been able to stand the woman. However, her clever negotiating skills and manueverings had won over the belle. More over, her unlikely brand of authenticity had -- strange, shimmering thing as she was.

"Yeah, this is she," Olivia drawled, a finger rubbing into the socket of her eye. "How goes it, Lani?"

"Not bad! Just wrapping up a few loose ends for the night."

"I hear ya'there."

"Really! Asher's already stomped on the floor twice. That's how he reminds me that he's home and ne--" She stopped abruptly there, words draining off into a sheepish laugh. Backtracking, the fae found her focus again. "Sorry. Right. I was just calling to tell you that we've got a practice room set up for you now at the studio. It's all yours. In fact, we put up a sign with your name on it."

"Oh yeah? Guess that makes me all official."

"Hell yes, it does!" Lani agreed.

"Thanks, Lan."

"No problem, baby. If you need anything, just give me a call okay?"

"I'll keep that in mind."

"And, Liv?"

"Yes, Lani?"

"Would you rather have a scarf with fringe or no fringe?"

Olivia knew better than to even ask. "Fringe."

[secondhand_stars]

The store was a playground for the mature and the moneyed. It was composed of life's finer materials: plush, cherry stained leather, sleek glass, and velvet display cloths spread out over the tops of the display counters. She had never felt more out of place. An intruder here with the tools of her trade rattling in the tote thrown over a shoulder, Liv shadowed Monique as she gasped over the sparkling bracelets and earrings dripping off black velveteen. Tapping upon the top of the glasstop, she motioned for the man behind the counter to remove a particularly gaudy string of diamonds and blood stained rubies. She sighed happily, ""I love Christmas. Some people complain about how commercialized it is with all the Santas and decorations coming out so soon after Thanksgiving, but I love it. More time for me to enjoy it, you know?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"You guess?"

"Well, shit girl. I don't know. I think it's kind-of, a... A goddamned joke. Look at everybody scurryin' around to get shit for one another cos' somebody said a fat man in a red suit does it all the time." Snorting, the southern Scrooge angled arms across her chest and tossed chin high into a haughty pose. Despite her efforts to look unimpressed and uninterested, gold eyes slid towards the bracelet as it was clasped onto the fragile bonework of her coworker's wrist.

Neither had to look at the price tag to know it was out of their price range. The sheer weight of the diamonds and clarity of each stone spoke for themselves. Monique stared at the length upon her wrist for a long moment before loosening it and returning it with a modest smile to the sales person. "A girl can dream can't she, Olivia?" She murmured gently.

Softening into an apologetic look, a hand swiped down the line of her profile to disguise the expression with an appearance of nonchalance instead. "Yeah. Don't listen none to me." Against the angle of her pinky finger and out of the corner of her a display caught her interest. Dropping hand away, she wandered away from the delicate baubles and gems to where sturdy men's wear began. Skipping past the shiny faces of watches and religious medallions, the flat boxes that lined up like toy soldiers across black backdrop. Clearing her throat to get the attention of a salesman, Liv tipped her chin towards a narrow one towards the back. "Could I see that one please?"

The cigarette case was cold from the temperature regulated inside the display. Greedily, the metallic base pulled the heat from her palm into its design as she turned the case over and over again contemplatively.

"That's a great choice," the salesman said with a grin as fingers adjusted the tie around his neck and smoothed down its length. "If you want, you can get it engraved on the inside too. A great Christmas gift for a husband or boyfriend."

"Well, I ain't got neither. Jus' lookin' y'know. My daddy had one like this." Sliding her thumbnail against the seam of the cigarette case, she opened the box into its halves and stared critically towards the price tag that rested inside. Paling a shade, the box was snapped shut and handed back. "Thanks for your help."

"Not interested?"

"Eh, you know. Ain't really what I'm lookin' for."

She watched as his eyes shifted down either length of the display case. Upon the face of the case, his thumb tapped out a muted beat as he weighed his options and then moved to open the box. Removing the price slip, the case was shut again and tossed into the air in a jaunty move before wrist twisted to offer it out again. "You know, we're having a sale."

"Yeah?" Liv smirked, taking the box again with warily unfurling fingers.

"Oh yeah. Twenty percent and free engraving."

"...How about thirty?"

"Thirty and a telephone number."

"Shit no," Liv crooned with a throaty laugh. From the corner of her eye, she saw Monique watching the entire interaction with an amused grin. The audience only added to the scene and the belle shook her head with a charming grin. "Forty percent and the number?"

"Thirty-five?"

"Thirty-eight."

The salesman grimaced as mental calculator returned the final sales' figure in his head. Shifting from foot to foot awkwardly for a moment, he then reached across to grab the case from her hands with a sigh. "Fine. I can do thirty-eight."

Sliding pale eyes back over to Monique, Liv gave an innocent shrug of her narrow shoulders. The gesture was quickly balanced out by the slow spread of her wicked grin as the salesperson rushed into the back to gain clearance for the sale.

[secondhand_stars]

Morning came much too soon. Though streets were now lined with soiled slush and snow from the first snow of the season, the afternoon sun poised high above the city was bright. Filtering through the slants of her blinds, the sharp downpour of light worked to break past the tightly knit slants of her eyes. They were still smudged with last night's makeup as kohl smeared beneath the netting of her lower lashes and upon the surface of the pillow she hugged to her. Grumbling and burying her head into the pillowcase, she resisted consciousness and the inevitable dizziness that would follow. Trace amounts of alcohol still lingered in her veins and made her stomach unsteady.

"Shit," she mumbled as eyes reluctantly opened a degree and stared out over the side of her bed. The bedroom was cluttered with more of Elliot's things than her own. Empty-chic, she called it as if the lack of personal effects filling dresser tops and closet were purposefully done.

Blinking, topaz-pale eyes blinked wildly and adjusted upon the box upon the floor next to her. It took the belle a moment to register the name scrawled across the top of the lid in white against black cardboard. When it did though, her heart gave a frightening lurch and she crawled back beneath her sheets.

It had happened. Last night wasn't some alcohol drenched dream. Fingers crawled up into the tangled mop of her hair to search out the shorter strand that had inevitably curled to her scalp. With a horrified gasp, the pad of her thumb ran along the sharp cut where her scissors had recklessly clipped away a length of her hair in illustration. Stupid girl, she thought. Stupid, stupid.

The only bright side to the entire spectacle was that she woke in her own bed. Never mind the designer shoes that now littered her floor along with the open arm stretch of her coat, it was that singular thought that made arms gratefully wrap around her pillow with a sigh of relief.

Afterall, it would not do for her to become another notch, another casuality. Lavish her with compliments and adorn her with pretty ornaments, but she would not be beaten at her own game. For someone so young, it was almost heartbreaking now aware she was of the nature of the world that spilled out from the narrow edge of her window where blinds failed to hit plaster.

[secondhand_stars]

She worked steadily now. Chin tucked low and eyes unmoving from the meticulous work of stringing new extensions into her client's hair, any words she could have directed to the curious stares and murmurs that swarmed around her were kept in. Angling around the willowy woman cradled in the swivel chair, she sighed around the bobby pins that were tucked between lips.

"Hey Liv," Monique called out from her station.

"Yeah?"

"How'd you get home last night?"

"Took a cab," she murmured lowly against metallic rods. Humming out a satisfied noise as the length of hair stayed, her fingers rumpled through the pale blonde and tiptoed up the curve of scalp. "You like it? I think you look real nice with the lighter colorin' thrown in."

"I don't get it."

"Get what?" Her drawl tightened from its lazy, sun-seeped notes. Gaining an edge as the corner of her lip curled and brow furrowed, Liv busied herself with snipping away at the ends of the extensions.

"Let's see. You show up yesterday in designer heels that well, let's face it -- None of us could afford if we put our entire day's wages together. Then, we go out and you end up disappearing into the backroom of the club with it's owner --"

"Wait," she interrupted. "You knew he was the owner?"

Exchanging a glance with the row of women that lined up the opposite end of the salon, the corner of Monique's mouth began to quiver with laughter. Ducking her head low, the expression was concealed from the curious gaze of Liv. "Well, yeah. Of course."

"Shit."

"So, fill us in."

"There ain't nothing to say girl." Moving around the chair, Liv didn't miss a beat as comb lifted to cut into the part of the streaked hair. Zig-zagging through the mix-and-match hues, plastic teeth caught upon ends and scissors worked to snip them away. "We're friends. He's going to let me play there."

"Good friends, I'd say."

"Right. Good friends."

"How's he in bed?"

Topaz eyes had long ago narrowed irritably. Now shifting up to glare across to her friend, Liv settled mouth into a thin line and debated a response. There were rules detailing proper employee conduct and in-shop behavior. "Ain't like that, Mo."

"Don't get so defensive. If it were me, I'd make it like that."

"Well, it ain't you," Liv laughed. The sound alone made the rigidity of her shoulders loosen and spine shake free of tension. Shrugging, she returned to her work. Offering her client a polite, tilted grin, hair was combed forward and scissors angled in to slice away diagonally. Across the room, Monique only gave a knowing hum. The sheer confidence and skepticism contained in the medium-pitched tone made her grimace.