Hit 'em right between the eyes [Frank]

This was a new low for her. She had, up to this point, been a strong independent woman who don’t need no man. Of course, she still was, but now she found she wanted one badly enough to pay someone to find one for her. It was very difficult to meet someone in her line of business. She had few coworkers that weren’t otherwise accounted for, and all the new people she met through her jobs were criminals or worse. She rarely got out of the house, spending most nights taking work home, petting her cat, and making her way through boxed chardonnay. It was long past time for her to try to meet someone, even for a little bit of fun. Lorin had never been the relationship type. In fact, she couldn’t remember ever having a true crush on anyone. Sure, there was passive liking here and there, but she usually got what she wanted. She rarely made a move on a man that wasn’t reciprocated—especially since she only made moves when she could tell he was interested in at least a night with her.

The date had started off a little slow and awkward, but had quickly gotten worse as time progressed. This boy was nothing like his picture, not even remotely a good match, and boring to boot. Worst of all, he was pushy and handsy, overtly objectifying her. She tried her pest to gently put his hands back on his side of the table, but it was mostly in vain. This boy would not take no for an answer and Lorin was trying to get out of there with a shred of dignity.

The food at the Delicatessen was good, at least. It was rather late that Friday evening, and she was eating a sandwich while her date was eating pizza. She had a few more drinks than she typically would, trying to numb the dull conversation—but she was far from drunk, maybe a little tipsy. She looked around again, as he reached out to honk one of her breasts through her clothing, swatting his hand away. “Wow, it’s getting late. Perhaps it’s time to head out.” She offered, the third time she had tried to get out.

“What’s the rush? You got someplace to be? You could always come home with me.” He said, and she tried her best not to roll her eyes. This was going to be a long, long night if she couldn’t get out of here soon.

@Frank Adams

Frank wasn't sure what was worse— drunk dickheads in Pittsburgh or drunk dickheads in London.

It was Saturday night on the other side of the world, exact time unclear, but it was dark outside and The Deli was filled with a strange amalgamation of guests. As if divided in two, half of them looked to be on their way out for the night while the other half were settling in for a feed after day (and evening, and night?) drinking. These people did not play around when it came to their alcohol intake he was quickly learning. They could put them back for hours on end and waltz into a night like it was fucking Summer Camp in '82.

The owner found himself in the trenches of the kitchen that particular night— not cooking, but observing, keeping things moving, making sure they were up to his unique standard. There were a few new faces that he wanted to keep an eye on. His friends from back home he could trust and that was why they were there now, but they still needed outside help (despite his initial judgment).

Every now and again, he scanned the room, making up scenarios in his head to fuel whatever background story he thought might fit for the strangers who had gathered there. What were they saying? Why had they chosen here, of all places? He had noticed a young couple early on in the night, truly only because he overheard the guy try and order pizza with goat cheese and fucking fennel.

Where the fuck did he think he was— Frida's?

And Frank had said as much as well, to him, suggesting that he might find something more suited for his palette there. Poor customer service, maybe— well definitely— but he was nothing if not honest. The girl he was with seemed to convince him otherwise (he could see why) and they sat over in a corner booth. He had noticed it getting handsy at some point, but the little alarm bell in his mind went off when he saw her pushing his hand out of the way.

That was all he needed to see.

"Hey, shitbrains—" He had pushed his way out of the open kitchen to the floor, pointing directly at the kid. "—out now," Frank's finger dipped before indicating to the door. While he was perfectly happy to assist, he figured he'd give him the chance to at least leave gracefully. 

Lorin was startled when a man approached them, telling her date to get out. She furrowed her brow, embarrassed. “Ah, yes, we’re leaving.” She stammered a bit nervously, gathering her things. What a good excuse to get out of here, though she wasn’t sure what exactly they had done wrong. She stood up, but her date put a hand out to stop her. This annoyed her, but she didn’t want to cause a bigger scene than she already was causing.

“Actually, no, we’re not done here. What’s your problem?” The boy asked Frank, raising a brow at him. Lorin wanted to facepalm. This was what she got for requesting an ‘arrogant Gryffindor-type.’ She was attracted to the arrogance and she loved Gryffindor-type men, but at the same time, stupidity wasn’t a turn-on, and presumption was really a turn-off. She hated when guys felt entitled to her, and she knew that he thought that if he bought her dinner he would deserve sex after. She had taken it upon herself to pay for her own for just that reason. She didn’t want him to think he owed her anything.

“Andrew, let’s just go.” Lorin said, trying to get in the middle.

In a not-so-shocking turn of events, this kid, who had already proved his penchant for being a dick, had made matters worse by not leaving when he had been asked so politely. In fact, he was now stood up and mouthing off. Merlin, help him. Frank let out a little exasperated breath of air— the nonverbal way of saying that he really had hoped he didn't need to do this.

"Yeah, no, you're done here," Frank cast a glance to the girl getting up from the booth, his eyes dark, for a moment he felt bad that she thought she was the target of his anger. His intention had been to only get the scum from the place, and presently that was only Andrew. There was no reason she couldn't finish her sandwich. In fact, he wanted her to. Though, there were more pressing matters at hand because the kid with the wispy mustache and bad cologne had apparently decided to square up.

"Andrew, baby, no," Frank was smiling now, deeply sarcastic— the very way he knew would set himself off if he had been on the receiving end. In a sick kind of way, this was going to be the highlight of his night. As the witch tried to push her friend out the door, he shoved her aside, and that.... was the last straw.

Francis towered over him, easily grabbing the scruff of his shitty button-up shirt. He tried his best not to use too much force as he shoved him out the door but he enjoyed watching him stumble when he did. He didn't intend on telling the woman what she should or shouldn't do— that wasn't in his nature— but it was clear that leaving with him was a bad idea. And he couldn't allow it on good conscience.

"Nothing to see here, folks..." The door slammed behind him with a ding of the bell, only the soft sound of old music pumping hauntingly through the walls could be heard amidst the otherwise silence. They would get used to that. To him. Frank made his way back to the booth. "Doesn't even eat the fucking crust, you should have known he was going to be an idiot," Frank grabbed the forgone crust and dropped it, sliding into the booth. "You should finish that," He gestured to her plate that was essentially still full.