Liz should have been afraid, very afraid… quaking in her goddamn boots instead of wasting her breath and spitting in the wind. Thoughts of rage were quieted by the sound of obscenely high heels as they came near Sally’s little play ground — muffled by the blood-stained carpet and forgotten dresses she’d been accumulating over time. The nerve of this woman, thinking she had what it took to tell right from wrong… last time she checked, it was Cleopatra the one six-feeting guests here and there — making laundry chutes work extra hours. Bruised knees rose from the split mattress and landed on top the man’s chest, one of her hands clutching the harmless end of her needle, like it would a sword, and pointing it directly at Taylor’s chest. This was her man —— a prize she wouldn’t let anyone else have.
“Watch it, sunshine. You wanna talk about companionship? Go summon your boy candy —— see if he’ll explain how things work for us corpses.”
the sharppoint of a needle halts heels in the midst of their traipsing, but it does little to deter her from her task. hands come to grip lightly on splayed, chiffon hips, brows now lifted in a challenge( the passing comment about tristan thoroughly ignored). sally doesn’t frighten her in the least, but her cooperation is necessary in order for the hotel, revamped & renovated, to triumph. & so, liz opts for a different approach ; one that, hopefully, will find success. defensive posture is loosened, stilettos taking a step back, with palms coming to spread its digits in a slow show of surrender. while she does her best to soften the hard lines of vexation painting her features, traces of it remain evident in the corners of a glossed mouth & the furrow wrinkling her forehead. voice’s timbre quiets, less harsh than before, ❛ –– why don’t you explain it to me yourself? ❜
