glass houses {kinKAYde}

Old Orleans Lounge, CAPITOL-- Paper umbrellas and tardiness were unacceptable, which is why she ordered a martini after arriving thirty minutes ahead of the scheduled time. It was almost dead, except for the silver-haired suit with his ringed hands traipsing up the silken hose of the new, unmarried skirt who giggled between sips of expensive champagne. 

They knew how to play the game so well. Him making her feel desirable, yet at the same time, her extorting these affections from him. The dynamic was fascinating.

Cygnus brought the glass cone, like a sake bowl had a baby with a classic martini glass, to her lips and glanced down at her notepad, silently thanking the cosmic powers at large for having Cass in all his untactful, blunt glory.

It sure made her feel better when she fumbled with words at work parties to know he wouldn't judge.

She took another sip of the martini before circling it in the palm of her hand.

Interviews were different, however. For some reason, the control that being the conversation director gave her made her more confident in herself. It was a gift, she was told, to be able to ask the tough questions. A gift and a curse, because too often it was too difficult to hold her tongue. 

No stranger to censorship, Cygnus was still recovering from being called into her editor's office to discuss one of her most recent articles.

"Sit down, Winters," he'd said, with a sigh deeper than the trouble she was certain she was in. He tossed her latest article, along with the entire manilla folder of research, onto his desk. "We can't publish this."

"If I might ask, why not, Sir?"

"People don't want to read this bullshit. They want the latest gossip about the latest person. I can't publish a compilation of facts and figures, especially on a topic like..." He cleared his throat. She clenched her jaw. "We're not publishing it, and I'll be holding on to your research. Do you have any left?"

"No, sir," she said like she was trying to force the last dregs of toothpaste from the tube.

"Good. Just sign these incident documents here, here and here. Also, you're on the Kinkade interview. Get Sparkle to give you the contact information for him."

It felt like she was signing the document in her own blood. Every article she wrote felt like she bled into, but this time, she wasn't the one pricking her soul. It was someone else, forcing her hand. She didn't like it one bit.

She realized she was scowling into the dregs of her martini and looked up to see the bartender was staring at her, frozen in the act of wiping off the counters. He quickly looked away, putting, no doubt, twice the effort into his work than he had before.

After tugging the olives from the toothpick in her drink (olives obviously being superior to those damned paper umbrellas), she took the empty glass to the bar instead of setting it on the table. After all, it was unprofessional to let the interviewee know you'd been drinking before the interview even began.

Cygnus scanned the bar, taking in its supposed old-timey feel, with its soft jazz playingin the background and the sleek black furniture and floors. She looked over at the couple as the suit set down his glass with a clink. The table was littered with shot glasses and the skirt was almost as red in the face as her lipstick.

"Let's get outta here, doll. I've got thirty minutes before the wife expects me home," he said, sliding his hand higher up her skirt. She nodded stupidly, before trying to get to her feet. She couldn't walk straight.

As the suit practically carried her out of the bar, Cygnus wondered how those girls were still sexy. Maybe it was the fact she had legs that opened faster than his checkbook, or perhaps it was just the fact she had something between her legs that made her desirable. Have hole, need dick, or something to that effect.

She massaged her temples. Cass had asked again this morning as they did their customary wake-up ritual. Her head on his chest, his arms around her. Soft breaths and the gurgle of Squiggle's tank. Kids. Always kids. She was a damn reporter for the damned upper class. She had her fill with kids of all kinds every day of the week.

Glamour Kinkade, however. Glamour Kinkade. Her first inclination was to wrinkle her nose with distaste. Who the hell names their kid Glamour of all things? It's like the name of the ever-coming-and-going secretaries. Sparkle, Shimmer, Glimmer, Shine, Glamour.

The watch on her wrist said it was nearly time. She shuffled her notes and clicked her pen one last time, then glanced up at the gleaming black wood and glass of the front door as it was pushed open by the avox doorman.

Glamour Kinkade.

If there was one thing Cygnus knew at this very moment it was that it wasn't a stretch to see that his name was accurate because glamorous was the first adjective she'd use to describe him when she'd type everything out later tonight.