hot child in the city {reagan}

[remy thibodeaux]

Shit. Shit, she had seen him, and she could only hope that he hadn't seen her.

Anti ducked out of the club, letting her pin-straight dark hair hide her face like a curtain, hoping that her gothic ballerina look would blend in with the darkness. She didn't raise a hand to hide her face, but she closed her eyes as she passed the part of the room where he was sitting, holding her breath.

Reagan Delcambre, that piece of shit mick, the one that somehow kept popping up in Anti's day-to-day coverage of Euphoria. Ever since she'd seen him feeding his nose in one of those swank VIP rooms, he had been incessantly stalking her.

So what if they shared the same love of narcotics? It didn't change the fact that she fucking hated his band. Across The Spoiled Sea - please. The only thing that was spoiled was their sound. They sounded as if the Hush Sound was put through a meat grinder and then played over the sounds of cats shitting. Holiday Harper was a goody-goody who turned Anti's stomach. Nothing about that fucking band sat right with her.

However, there was something about Reagan that she couldn't shake. They had encountered each other a few times, and each time, Anti tolerated him a little more and more. She still didn't like him, but occasionally his charm and suaveness caught her off guard. And frankly, who was she kidding? She wanted to fuck his brains out.

Once Anti was out of the club, she dug through her Kate Spade purse for her clove cigarettes. The sleek black box was tucked up against her Razr. She extracted it, lit it with her sterling silver Zippo and inhaled deeply, the black paper of the clove cigarette crackling in the quiet night air.

She could only stand there and hope that Reagan was too fucked up to notice that she existed. At least, for tonight.

[reagan delcambre]

No feeling could compare to the euphoric high that coursed through his veins. It was an instantaneous gratification, and instantaneously sweet high, a powerful feeling that he never wanted to feel fade away. It pained him when it faded away.

With a content sigh, he fell back against the couch, his eyes lolling back with pleasure. Nobody understood, save for those who have actually hit up. Once you tried it, experienced the painfully sweet pleasure that surged through his slim body, you couldn’t just forget. Couldn’t erase that blissful feeling that put his body on fire. It just felt so fucking damn good, he couldn’t resists, couldn’t keep away. Drunken laughter escaped loose lips and arms lay limply on either side of him, vacant navy orbs staring endlessly into the ceiling above him. The needle that had previously been embedded in the palid skin now rested somewhere else. The small brown belt was no longer wrapped around his slender arm. He couldn't recall how long he had been sitting there, but it couldn't have been for long.

He was up to his usual nightly outings and routines, hitting the club, hitting the drugs, hitton on the girls. Nothing different. He usually grew bored of the club scene. After all, doing the same thing night after night grew monotonous, save for tonight. A smirk graced those cold lips and navy orbs lit up mischievously as he spotted his most recent challenge.

The girl was delusional if she thought he hadn't seen her. Oh wishful thinking indeed. A girl like that was bound to get noticed, whether she liked it or not. The pale skin alone stood out amongst the darkened atmosphere, but it wasn't just that. She had an air around her that simply drew Reagan in; despite his desire to simply strangle her. The bad blood that had settled between them was her own fault. Insulting his band, and talking shit. He may have been shamelessly lusting after the girl, but the fact that he wanted to fuck her had nothing to do with his undeniable hate towards her.

Who the fuck did she think she was, insulting his band? He fucking hated her. How the fuck he could even stand her was honestly beyond him. Maybe it was that whole mixing business with pleasure shit. At the clubs, away from the stage, the fans, the haters, and the crowd in general, it was easy to forget your friends from your enemies. Not that her opinion was worth shit. He just hated the fact that she had to be so damn blunt about it. fuck her. Literally, he couldn't help but think. Damn, his mind was always in the gutter as opposed to the stars. He watched her silently, ignoring the group that was crowding around him. Eyes remained fixated on the pint-sized beauty, never breaking until she walked out. She was a mystery to him.

Even if he was high and shit-faced beyond belief, he was still intrigued. It couldn't be helped. It was just a natural connection that would not be avoided. Maybe that's why the two had formed a bizarre secretive friendship. Hey, as long as is it fucking worked and didn't interfere with his daily life, it was damn peachy keen to him.

Realizing that the night's excitement had just walked out the door, he decided to follow it. No way in hell he was going to sit on that couch and rot for the rest of the night. He was stealthy, slowly creeping up behind her, that crooked grinning slathered across his face. He leaned over her shoulder, his face suddenly undeniably close to hers. "I know you want me. Just admit it already." He abruptly murmured into her ear, his arrogant mannerisms embedded in the words. He found this to be much more interesting then the typical hello.

Too bad for Anti. He wasn't too fucked up to notice. At least not tonight.

[remy thibodeaux]

Anti had felt someone creeping up behind her and anticipated the worst - and she had anticipated correctly. Reagan Delcambre. She flinched as his face came so close to hers, their faces touching. He smelled like sweat and leather, and even a quick glance could tell any passer-by that he was fucked out of his mind. His hair was every which way, and his eyes were bloodshot, glazed over and vacant. Anti inhaled deeply on her clove cigarette and blew out the smoke in Reagan's face spitefully.

"Jesus Christ, Reagan. You scared the shit out of me," she spat at him with a roll of her eyes.

I know you want me - those words coming from his lips just infuriated her even more. If she could punch him in the nose and get away with it, she would. It probably would be easy, now that she thought of it. There wasn't anyone around, save for the 300-pound bouncer lingering nearby, and Reagan probably wouldn't even fight back. One hit and he'd probably be down for the count and maybe, just maybe, if she was lucky, he might choke on his own vomit.

"Oh, I want you, do I? Seem to have me all figured out, huh? You think you know what I know?" she glared at him. "Please. Go snort some more blow off a hooker's ass and leave me the fuck alone. I'm not interested in your shit tonight."

He was just downright creepy when he did this. Their encounters were always the same, and Anti figured that they both knew it: they'd throw barbs at one another until someone gave up, then one of them would break out the drugs - a peace offering, if you will - and then they would both end up even more fucked up than before. Reagan probably thought this was some clever ploy, and Anti tried hard to resist him...but damn it if he wasn't charming at all, even when he was high as a hot air balloon.

[reagan delcambre]

He was self-destructive in everything. Even when it came to friends and relationships, he somehow always set himself up for disaster. And this odd, sadistic relationship he had with Anti was a perfect example. He had no idea how he didn't grow sick of it. He should have been disgustingly sick of it by now.

He hated her, she hated him, but he couldn't keep away. Things wouldn't end up pretty, that he knew, yet he still persisted. Still kept up with pestering her, of attempting to seduce her. It went that way every time they came across each other in the clubs or bars. He was an asshole, she was a bitch, take out the drugs, and they became the best of friends. It was an all too familiar scenario that he found comfort in. What could he say? He was a fucking creature of habit. There was always a familiar pattern when it came to the girls he was so fucking interested in.

He smirked as the smoke so kindly caressed the contours of his face. He didn't even flinch, so terribly accustomed to the smoke that seemed to fill his senses daily. Was she trying to intimidate him? Because really now, he towered over the girl, and some smoke in his face wasn't going to make him back down. Not even that punch to the face he wasn't aware of.

Running a hand through messy brown locks, he turned towards her. "Care for sharing?" He questioned for a drag from her cigaret with a raised brow. He had a pack of his own in his back jean pocket, but he didn't bother. It was much more interesting to get a reaction out of her anyways. And he was acting as if she wasn't glaring daggers at him. He knew she was just itching to get away from him. He was like hazardous waste, toxic and shit. Yet there he was, pretending as if they were two childhood friends reuniting in front of the dingy club. Hah, far from it of course. He loved manipulating people and situations, and he was definitely manipulating this one for his sick pleasure.

Stepping around her so he was facing her, he raised three fingers. "Yes, yes, and yes." With each yes, he brought down one of the three fingers. His voice was heavy, husky, and arrogant. A poisonous concoction that somehow was always fixed in his tone.

He laughed a deep, hollow laugh, almost as if he was unfazed by the catty barb; he really was. He was a man whore, and a drug addict. No sense in getting upset over the truth. Besides, he'd be a hypocrite if he dished it out and couldn't take it. He fucking hated hypocrites. "Been there, done that. To be honest, I rather be here, spending my time with you, love." He drawled out cheekily, his accent heavy in his voice. It was the alcohol and drugs, they tended to perpetuate the accent in his speech.

He shrugged and slipped his hands into tight jean pockets. "You're never interested in my shit, yet here you are." He replied bitingly and sarcastically. "You know you can walk away, but we both know you won't." He gave her a sideways glance, and a cocky smile. Always so damn sure of himself. He acted like he knew her inside and out. Truth of the matter was, he didn't know a damn thing. That was why he himself never walked away. He was curious, and hopefully, curiosity will not kill the cat.

[remy thibodeaux]

Anti resisted the urge to gag on her cigarette and vomit up her mojitos and margaritas all over Reagan's shoes. He thought he was so fucking hot because he was Irish and sang in a third-rate band and looked like a Roman god when shirtless. His cocky attitude was a complete turn-off, and frankly, Anti wanted nothing more than to knee him in the balls and go back to her hotel.

"Why is every fucking thing about you?" she snapped, narrowing her eyes. "You think I came to this fucking place just to see you? How do I know you're not the one following me around, huh? God, is your band that desperate for publicity, Reagan? Too bad, so sad. I wouldn't play your shit on the radio even if my automation system crashed and all the other CDs melted before my very eyes. I'm less interested in you than an anorexic is interested in Thanksgiving dinner."

She didn't even know why she bothered. Reagan would persist, like he would every single time. Then they'd go somewhere to get high - her with her Dexedrine and him with whatever he could afford at the momoent. But why she always chose to get fucked up in Reagan's presence was beyond her. She could get a perfectly good high from snorting her Dexy in her hotel bathroom, instead of dressing up in leather and spike heels and putting herself through this humiliating show of kissing up to band members. If access was power, Anti was one of the most powerful women in radio. Her station, WDOA, broadcasted out of New York City, but webstreaming brought them all over the world. If you weren't heard on WDOA, nobody heard you at all. She felt it was part of her job to cozy up to musicians - but goddamn it, she didn't want to be cozying up to Reagan Delcambre!

[reagan delcambre]

bitch. That's all she was. A bitch with all fucking talk and no action. At least from what he had seen. She, to him, had this tough girl front, but that's all it was. A front.

He was a bit miffed. Especially at the fact that she hadn't said yes to his polite inquiry towards a cig. Scoffing and rolling his eyes heavenwards, he reached into his own back pocket, taking out the pack of cigarets his lungs to masochistically desired. "Oh please. You don't fool me for a second, Anti. Stop with the tough girl shite. We're friends here, aren't we?"God, honestly though, why did she have to be so difficult. Sometimes he wished he could find himself a good drug buddy, no strings attached. Just a good fucking time, as well as a glorious high. No conversations, no formalities, or anything for that matter. Just him, his buddy, and the drugs. Simple as that. But no. He had to go and find himself one of the most difficult girls he had ever encountered in the music business. Great. Just fucking fantastic.

Fishing for his lighter in his front pocket, he slid the cigaret between pallid lips, and lit it up, inhaling the smoke that seemed to satiate his nerves. Eyes fluttered closed as he relished in the trivial sensation. Opening his eyes, he lazily glanced back in her direction, chuckling in a light and sardonic manner. "Damn, Anti. You're the one who has me all figured out. What else would I be doing besides stalking you?" He flashed her a sickly sweet smile. He loved pushing her fucking buttons. It was sick pleasure of the utmost twisted kind.

Blowing the smoke outwardly, he continued on with his lazy drawl. "Of course everything has to be about me. Why the fuck wouldn't it be? Me, myself, and I. It's the only way to fucking survive." He was being honest for once in his life.

And suddenly, like switching a light on or off, Reagan's mood switched abruptly. Maybe it was the fact that he was intoxicated that made him so temperamental, who knows. But whatever it was, it wasn't going to be pretty either way. Cold cobalt eyes narrowed, looking directly at Anti with a dangerous edge to the once innocent azure color. He was livid; jaw clenched tightly, and knuckles white from being gripped so fiercely. Sure, insult the fuck out of him, but the band. Well that was another thing. Sure, he was an asshole towards the crew and his band mates, but the boy was just as territorial and protective as he was an asshole. "Leave my band the fuck out of this." He snapped at her vehemently. No sugarcoating the issue, just blunt and to the point. He was tired of beating around the bush, and tired of trying to play nice, but having it shoved back in his face. He had taken insults towards his band before, but a guy could only handle so much before snapping. And she just kept persisting. He did have to admire her for being so damn persistent though. Oh, the girl was playing with fire, and she was going to get scorched. "Whatever I fucking do in my spare time has nothing to do with Across the Spoiled Sea, got it?" It was more of a statement, than a question. He spoke down to her, belittling her of course, but that's how he was whenever he found himself putting his guard up and getting defensive. "If anyone's desperate, it's you." He mumbled scathingly between cigaret filled lips. It wasn't true, but it felt good to just blatantly insult her like she was insulting him.

Sighing bitterly, he rolled his shoulders back, twisting his neck slightly to release the tension embedded between those muscles. This is how it went down. From one form of emotion to another. Damn sexual tension, it was the only thing that kept him around. That and the drugs. "So are we done with all this fun and games shit? Because really, I'm ready to head back inside. Get the real party started, yeah?" He stated with that arrogant swagger that was undeniable in his form. Hah, real party. He was constantly partying twenty out of the twenty-four hours of the day.

[remy thibodeaux]

"Desperate? Yeah, right," was her meager reply. She was pretty drunk by this point. All the alcohol she had ingested within a period of three hours was now deliciously flowing through her bloodstream. She felt like she was saturated in vodka, and she loved it. However, this made it hard for her to control her mouth.

Who the fuck did he think he was? Who the fuck did he think SHE was?! His arrogant, cocky display was so ... so infuriating. That fucking bastard. She hated him, hated-hated-hated him. She hated his swagger, she hated his smirk, that long lean body that moved like water. That unappealing attitude he had completely dragged down his looks, making his stunning eyes, flowing hair and pouty lips seem altogether unappealing. Those arms, made muscular and sinewy from the years of bass-playing, only repulsed her. The thought of her becoming one of Reagan Delcambre's many "conquests" made her stomach churn. What a fucking waste of talent on a man.

"I'm not going back inside," she said firmly. "Once I put out this cigarette in your eye, I'm going back to my hotel room - alone - and then get high - again, alone - and then go to sleep. Alone. Which is what you should be doing. Actually, I would prefer if you just OD'ed. Can you do that for me?" She shot him the sickliest, sweetest smile she cold muster at the moment. "You know, a lot of artists didn't make it big in their lifetime. They didn't gain any fame until after they took the dirt nap. So, you know ... that's something to think about."

[reagan delcambre]

He leaned in close, invading her personal space and not giving a shit about it. He hardly gave a shit about anything. Either way, this was addicting, she was beginning to be addicting. And the boy was all about addictions. Once he was hooked, well, there was no saying when he'd get off this road of addiction. He purposefully brushed rough fingers against her cheek, tucking a strand of her jet black hair behind her ear. A pleasant contrast to the paleness that was her skin. "We're all a bit desperate for something," He murmured with a heavy Irish accent. His blood was boiling, the deadly mixture of cocaine and vodka swirling within his veins was finally making his heart race faster. "Some are too cowardly to admit it," he continued on with a scathing edge to his drunken tone. Even was smashed beyond belief he still managed to be cynical. It was a trait so deeply ingrained in his nature. It was a living, breathing, part of him.

He hated giving up, and Reagan had already set his sights on the fiery Antonia, so he wasn't about to give up so easily with just a toss of her words. Once his sights were set, it was hard to pry him off. Like a bee to the sweetest damn honey. Sure she was someone he should have hated, but the boy loved contradictions. Even in his own love life. None of it made sense to him anymore. And he wasn't going to lie, he enjoyed that so fucking much. It made things less dull, and more reviving.

He pouted childishly, his lower lip quivering in disappointment at her harsh and biting words. He simply brushed them off of course. Leaning in closer, he slid an arm around her waist bringing her closer to him, really not giving a fuck about respecting that damn personal space again. He knew there were possible repercussions for his forward behavior, but these were risks he was most definitely willing to take if it meant getting him what he wanted. "That's boring," He spat out candidly, "Company always makes things much more exciting, don't you think?" Oh yes it did. Or at least that's what he personally thought. "You know you can't resist," he teased with a snaky smirk. "But, if you prefer to spend your night fucking alone, then fine. Be my guest. I hate begging. And I guess that means I won't be sharing some especially fine goods tonight," he trailed off vaguely, cocking his eyebrow.

He grinned a wicked ass smile, one that seemed almost void of emotions; a cold sardonic smile that exposed a sadistic boy with such a cynical view on the world it was almost frightening. He laughed hollowly, his head tossing back slightly the noise sounding almost foreign to his own ears. He took a much needed puff from his cigarette, the smoke comforting his restless body. "Give me a few more years and your wish will be granted, doll," He said it in a joking tone, as to whether he was truly joking or not, none would ever truly know. It was scary how Reagan himself had convinced himself that he wouldn't live past the age of twenty-seven. It was the twenty-seven curse, and he was desperate to go down like the legend he believed himself to be. Jim Morrisson, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, and Janice Joplin, rock legends who all died at the prime age of twenty-seven. All music legends. Legends that Reagan saw himself following in their grimy footsteps. But that was something he would always keep to himself. He just knew, at the rate he was going, with the drugs and partying, his expiration date would come sooner than most. He accepted that.

He stepped back, his arm leaving her slim waist. He had another thing up his sleeve. A little new drug he had picked up that he optimistically hoped he could convince Anti into trying with him. The way things were going though, it didn't look like he'd be trying any shit tonight. "Well, it's up to you Anti. You know where I stand, the balls in your side of the court." He turned slightly, as if to head back into the club, but really it was all his mind fuck of a ploy. Reagan had a thing for women who could take charge, control, take certain matters into their own hands. And he was ardently hoping this would be the case with dear little Anti. He wasn't in the mood for getting his hopes down tonight. [/size]