butterflyfactor | (no subject)

It was the first time since her arrival that Layla had been in a crowded place and not had anyone ask about or comment on her tattoo. The lace and feather butterfly mask she wore covered it completely. It added to her general feeling of well being- not the anonymity, because no one there knew or cared who she was regardless of her garb- because she did, she felt good. A pleasant buzz ran through her. She hadn't been drinking. She didn't dare, because she wasn't prepared for the sort of lack of control that came with booze, but not just observing the crowd but being part of it was pleasantly novel.

Potentially overwhelming, as well. She slipped out of it and down the hall, finding a few strands of silver and blue beads pushed into her hands by other party goers, and absently wound them around her fingers as she stepped outside the compound doors. The party had already spilled outside- Mardi Gras wasn't the sort of even that contained itself easily or well- and she watched the dancing and drinking from her place leaning against the wall, a little farther out of the light than anyone else.

There's a timeless quality to Layla Miller. Even with the mask, she looks like something out of an old movie, the dress hugging to her every curve, her hair pulled away from her face, leaving her neck bare and begging to be kissed. Chandler wrote that the good detective never gets married, but looking at her makes me want to settle for mediocrity. Or maybe that's just the booze talking, it's hard to tell. Either way, one thing's for certain -- she's stunning.

Dressed in gray and hands momentarily free, Jamie ambled toward Layla with the sort of confidence that came only with a few drinks. He was loose, relaxed -- less like Prime, and more like a dupe, that one, buried part of his personality that was good at mingling at parties and talking to beautiful women. Sliding in next to her, he leaned against the wall.

"Hiding from someone?"