There's this thing about Nightclubs in New York. They're like Baptist Churches in the south. You just have to throw your arm out and you'll hit four of them without even trying. Even with the closure of more than a few thanks to the state of the city these days.

In Harlem lies Rapture, a haven for hedonism, alcohol, girls in short skirts and a little something extra if you know who to ask and where to look for it. It's a cocoon of ignorance from the troubles of world once you're inside the doors and they prefer that. Sure they have to close with the curfew, such is the law of the city. Sure, New Jersey is getting an influx of people who can stay out all night but really, who wants to run into pint sized Snookie, orange skins, j-wow's breasts, the situations situation and deal with some fist pumping Guido's?

Not the people who have entered Rapture, flashed their ID's, gotten beyond the velvet rope to partake of all that the Linderman group has to offer to the demographic who frequent this den of iniquity, bastion of alcohol, indecent dancing and grindings, flashing lights and loud music.

Hello, hello baby you called?
I can't hear a thing
I have got no service
In the club, you see, see

Blue and purple lights flash everywhere, bathing people in their glow, the floor packed on the Friday night and the drinks all cut by a dollar. The DJ is working away in his little booth, one of the headphones clinging to his ears as he skips over the boards, setting up the next couple songs while some woman tries almost desperately to get his attention, leaning over and flashing ample cleavage.

Wha-Wha-What did you say,
Oh, you're breaking up on me
Sorry, I cannot hear you
I'm kinda busy.

At the bar, the drinks are coming and going, empty cups picked up and put to the side, out of sight as soon as they hit the counter, replaced by new alcoholic concoctions that are exchanged for crsip or worn bills. Everyone's trying to get their 9 pm's worth of alcohol even though it's only half past seven.

K-kinda busy
K-kinda busy
Sorry, I cannot hear you, I'm kinda busy.

In the VIP corner, someone important - one thinks - is dancing with their little posse who came in and the bottles of champagne and other drinks that one gets to prove their wealth is flowing. If the manager were here, hge'd be more than satisfied with the surprising turnout. People flow in and out too, pleased expressions on their face that are more visible after they leave. IT's hard to hear in here, one has to yell to be heard above the music and more than a few accidents of spilt drinks, dropped drinks and hands to ass happen with regularity.

Just a second,
It's my favorite song they're gonna play
And I cannot text you with
A drink in my hand, eh
You should've made some plans with me,
You knew that I was free.
And now you won't stop calling me;
I'm kinda busy.

There's probably no one who expected to see a single mother and piano teacher out at a Lady Gaga-type club. But Marjorie is here, none the less. She is wearing a navy blue silk rhetro swing dance dress, haulter top. A wristlet is around her, well, wrist. It's very strange to see how a woman can manage to be so 1950s and yet, at the same time, so…clevage, and modern. Of course, her lips are still bright red, and her mousy hair is curled in waves down and loose, pinned back to keep it from her face. She's already checked her coat.

And, she's not alone. She's walking with a dark-skinned man, close enough to signify that she's near him, but hardly hanging over him. Still, it might explain why her cheeks carry a warmth that rogue could not manage. "Well, it was very sweet of Dave. Oddly enough he's been a patron of my candle company for years, that's how we met up when I came to New York." Discussing of the mutual friend! How…romantic?

She's not blonde, she's not darkly tanned, but Kristen Reynolds epitomizes the word cougar at this very moment. Dressed in her usual skirt, heels, and camisole, her jacket's been shorn in favor of looking 'clubbish' and makeup redone with a bit more sparkle.

A drink in one hand, a twenty something man on the other and another two (drinks and men) waiting in the wings for those ones to be done, she occupies a plush chair looking like a queen holding court. Her eyes are also a little glassy as she stares at the VIP section.

"Listen, dollface, I know you're trying to get closer to some of the talent, but really? This is not going to get you a job." She slurs in a rather bitter tone before slogging back another mouthful of her drink. "You're boring, why don't you go see if there's some little blonde cheerleader here for you to impress? You can tell her that you're a security guard or something." Her voice is a little more than patronizing while her smile is nothing more than placating.

For someone who, fairly recently, was a prostitute, Gin is perhaps the most modestly dressed woman here. Jeans and a t-shirt under an old blazer, she looks like she's sporting the distressed wear look, but really… it's legitimately old clothes. They don't need to know that.

She stands against the bar, an Old Fashion in hand. She does not look like she's having a good time. In fact, she looks like she's hating every moment of this outing. And yet, there's a bar. So. It's enough to hold her attention.

Rapture is the place to be for a party girl like Harmony Roberts. She has come out to live up as much as she possibly can in the remaining hours of the day before she, like everyone else, has to be confined to their homes for the evening. The little blond rocker-DJ-girl has gone with a saucy look for the night. She wears a tight pair of leather hot pants, with designer patterned slashes down the top of the legs, showing that the pants are actual pants and not painted on like they appear to be at first glance, a white spaghetti strap cami with Mick Jagger's face painted across the front of it, and a pair of black leather woman's boots with a sizable platform to them. Her wrists adorned with various leather bracelets, one of which is a band with metal studs all over it. Her curly blond hair hanging down her back, and across her shoulder, the curly nature of it giving her a slightly wild appearance.

Flashing her ID to the front, she steps into the club. Sure she came alone, but there is a good chance she won't be leaving alone, given how she is dressed, how she smells— which is fantastic by the way— and the way she just looks like she is gonna have fun, no matter what anyone else thinks. She hits the bar as soon as she enters the door.

Dante isn't carrying much of an expression of joy, despite being the date of such a pleasant (and pleasantly dressed) younger woman. Still, he smiles politely for Marjorie, nodding and planning special ways to "thank" Dave for messing with his Friday night. The stoic man is dressed not a whole lot differently than he usually is for work, except he's eschewed the tie and suit jacket for a more comfortably navy blue dinner jacket, with matching pants and a cyan button up shirt underneath, though the top buttons are undone.

As the pair arrive at the table, Dante pulls out a chair for Marjorie while offering, in a semi-yell to be heard over the music, "I'm going to get a drink, would you like anything?"

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