The very best part about 'some dive' in Sacramento, as Ixidor finds constantly, is how low-key the atmosphere is. People either didn't recognize him, were cool enough not to make a huge deal out of it, or simply did not give a single flying fuck.
Man, is that refreshing.
Not that the rocker Adrian Isaacs is incognito, exactly. He tends to draw attention to himself. If the t-shirt and jeans, with their busy mural of designs, or the cowboy boots and belt buckle that's never been near a horse, or the bandana that wipes away stage sweat rather than engine grease hanging out of his back pocket, or the various and nearly innumerable silver jewelry, or the vibrant tattoos that seem to cover every square inch of his skin didn't do it... well, a man wearing black eyeliner and a mop of hair that went out of style when he was seven usually does.
Only a few people at the bar really stood out to him. There was a fellow with that predatory look about him... probably cruising for ass, and more power to him, the big, mean-looking fucker with a bottle of whiskey, who Ixidor wouldn't want to tussle with even in the middle of a thunderstorm where he could drop a lightning bolt on the guy's head... and... well, hello.
Hitting the bar like he fits there-- a ball landing in a catcher's glove-- Ix orders two shots of rum and a bottle of whatever beer that's the house favorite, giving the hot redhead a sort of lazy grin while he pays. It's the sort of dry, yes I'm about to throw a dumb line at you, let's not pretend otherwise smirk that he feels like he can usually get away with.
"What's a beautiful lady like you doing in a place like this..." a beat. "ordering a drink like that?"
Edit: ninja'd by kaz, go with the flow
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