Chandler wasn't quite fond of such pretentious ordeals but seemingly, and sadly, he was the one awarded the task of entertaining their clients yet again–it came with the job title for him. Inside the place of his discomfort, the city was, of course, shut out and drowned out by the sultriness of the club, and on the stage situated right where all the men could see, was a woman singing about something to do with her misfortunes.

It all sounded the same to him as her song mingled with that of slightly insignificant chatter, the heavy stench of alcohol drowning the air like that of nicotine, which was richly endowed with a sweet touch of perfume, even that of opportunity, and the night was young.

The slightly splendid glow, which led about a grand glee to the whole club, mostly came from the stage and the silvery specks of light were a hard jab, almost fierce as they met the eye, and there was the door, distance away as it was the last thing, especially for the men, to be yearned for as the night swam in its youth and refused to age.

Chandler needed to be anywhere else but there, and this wasn't his typical place of entertainment, and around him was the reminder that he was far from anything familiar and that these were foreign territories his ego could never allow him to ever get familiar with.

According to his silver Italian wristwatch he had been there some close to an hour and the man who had led him there was currently occupied with some glossy-eyed young woman who was barely clothed, not that the others with her were, laughing. He had rejected their advances just earlier into the night, the giggling and laughing were intolerable and just a trap as he watched them with the old man not knowing, for certain, just who was the biggest fool exactly. Though looking at the white-haired man, who had probably been quite the catch in his youth, he could that them nibbling on the honey would not make much difference to the honey pot.

Perhaps then, the giggling young woman were the fools, and indeed, the old man certainly reminded him of a bear, he quietly observed.

He, on the other hand, hadn't played into their little game, to begin with, and in what he could see he was too young for them and perhaps, forty-four was considered far too cautious, or maybe just not the targeted age group, and the last time he had been seen as ‘too youthful’ he had been a juvenile and long gone were those years.

Perhaps, it was his face and the slight harshness to his features, embellished softly with a slightly narrow chin and a soft cleft, that were almost easy to miss as they rewarded him with a youthful embrace which his eyes were free of–they belonged to a man who had seen something close to five decades.

The corners of his slightly slim-shaped eyes almost curved into the bridge of his slim nose, heightening the full shape of his rounder cheekbones, which were set upon his face as sharply as his eyebrows and the mole which was situated just above his upper lip, quite delicate.

Perhaps then, it was his hair that made him so young, as it was cut stylishly and carefully into short bangs which fell over his forehead neatly, matched justly with a turtleneck that rose to almost clam around his elegantly long neck, with just enough space. To his full yet pouty, almost dainty lips, he led a shot of gin and gulped it down, in one go as the noise felt too close.

There was laughter and giggles, older men willing to shower women half their age with money, and the city outside proved dull as it lacked the excitement which enveloped the whole club. The whole place was built to fuel the hunger right out of every man who dared to step in, it was, perhaps an escape and reason behind obvious.

The delicate lines along the corners of his eyes and the prominence of his cheekbones were, possibly, the only signs of his age. Chandler set his sharp eyes to the man across him, parting his lips forcefully as he leaned forward, just so he couldn't be forced to shout above the noise inside that club, especially with the music currently being so upbeat and loud, it was absolutely difficult for his almost ragged, and occasionally dreadfully raspy, voice, and with a sigh, he cut right into the man's beaming face, sharply.

Chandler bit the words. “Mr. Hiller.”

The slightly white-haired man simply picked up a bottle from the table and poured him a glass as he offered him just a brief grin of acknowledgment, and a slight eye, before returning to the young woman who was whispering in his ear, sitting close and glossy-eyed, hungry for his wallet rather than anything else. Chandler picked up the dripping glass that had been filled thoughtlessly to the rim and eyed it as his narrow nostrils subtly flared. He dried his hand with a napkin he had picked up from the table and accordingly, he led himself further from the table to which a noticeable number of the young women were attracted. The man refused to part with the dirty habits of his youth and he wasn't about to engage in any of it, unfortunately, though the ‘girls’ had gone and tried one last time–he had, politely, set things straight on that one.

Chandler was halted, maybe time was slowed to almost a stop, or he suddenly was caught by the sheer tongue of the words which played so temptingly rasp, belonging to a face which made him feel as if he was glued to where he stood and he could never miss those eyes.

He could never forget her beauty, or the recollection of her moaning beneath him and him fully giving in to her pleas, and there she was singing, her soft words pooling in as would mist and swallowing his every thought, abandoning the memory of her bare in his bed.

Chandler stood almost shielded in the shadows, except his eyes and they couldn't stay away.

“. . .you left a stinger to my heart,” the soft voice sang, her bright eyes almost sparkling close to a melting silver and her wide hips wickedly adorned with a fullness that the dress she wore could never hide.

Their eyes met and the beauty stared right at him, not even the sensual movement of her lips could hide the surprise that had passed her eyes just briefly.

Chandler wasn't the sort of man to repeat a mistake or enable himself to wallow over a night of passion he deemed to be just one of his rare blunders, possibly, and he began to stride to the bar, his back turned to the green-eyed beauty as Mr. Hiller's laughter hysterically belted out of him.

He nudged past the crowd, dismissing the desire to turn to look, taking with himself, not only his tall figure but something more, and blended in with the people who had just begun to flood in, led in by the sultriness of the club. Chandler found himself a seat at the bar, but not that far from Mr. Hiller and his party of giggling young women.

He would much rather have the bustling city outside with its familiar noise, wrapping itself around him with its petty lights and its stench of polluted air and hidden agendas, things he could bear. The babysitting of an old man and being reminded of one of his infamous nights was much rather difficult.

He opted for what he could tolerate and what he could have, currently, no guilt to accompanied it or shame of any sort–London dry gin served neat.

Perhaps then, the night was to improve, or so he hoped.