He knows you by the cocaine tint of your lips and the sickeningly sweet smell of vodka on your tongue as you ask him for a dance. He knows you by the way people watch β him, yes, but only because of you. He knows you by the whispers β what's a pretty little thing doing with a guy like him? He knows you by the way you down Jesus Christ in a shotglass sip of vodka.
He doesn't know you, of course, and you barely know him. He barely even sees you, whirlwind of perfectly set curls and golden necklaces you didn't pay for, before you've pulled him into a room drenched in the scent of an old man's cigar. Candles and incense do their best to set the mood. Jason isn't in that mood.
He'll sit down. He'll watch you light that orange-tipped cigarette, flame from a burning bush, watch the smoke drown your expression like a ship on Galilee's sea. He doesn't know you. You don't know him. He knows what he wants, and you know how to give it to him.
Now, the situation doesn't warrant all of this. He wants information and you know it. A group of Russian mobsters are threatening international peace and half a dozen of them are your regulars. The thought makes him sick β you and a man old enough to be your grandfathers friend β but he swallows the thick lump of disgust and clears his throat.
"Anything on Ivgene?" He ignored the way your nails flash under the dim lights as you flick ash from your cigarette. "Shurik wasn't much help."