Pool tables, with one foosball table and an air hockey table hiding among them, dominate the space of the hall, hardly yielding any space for the motley crew of players chalking their sticks and eyeing the brandy bottle at the bar lining one wall. The dust and scratches on all surfaces save the green velvet lining the pool tables indicate this hall as skimping on maintenance and cheap on cleaners. Its lack of flashy videogames and surplus of toothless kibitzers underscores its appeal to the older crowd. No natural sunlight is permitted into the hall, its lighting provided by bulbs swinging from the ceiling.
A recent 'renovation' to the hall has caused many splinters and embeded bullet holes, adding much to the aged atmosphere. Ruddish stains, dark and ominous even under the lights, refuse to be washed out of the floor. A dart board brightens up the walls with its red-and-black scheme, and a moosehead looks down on the proceedings.
Mounted from the ceiling, a television blares its glaring brightness and noises.
The sooty smell of smoke lingers after the recent city riots. The power is back on.
A set of double doors, one locked, the other unlocked at the whims of the hall manager, lead out to the street. Unobstructive doors behind the bar undoubtedly lead to storerooms.
Tenements, small businesses, and tiny restaurants line the street. Heavy metal bars encase the glass fronts of the stores. Battered cars, almost falling apart with rust, are parked haphazardly here and there along the sidewalks. People travel in groups, here, wary of the small gangs of young boys at street corners. Several blocks have the same dull repetitiveness, from Fifth Street all the way to Twelfth. Only the graffiti marks a difference between the blocks, the occasional rudeness sometimes broken up by light colors and strange designs.
God, he's thin. So painfully skinny, scarcely a hundred pounds on his 5'4" frame, if that; all slim lines and delicate angles. His features are finely drawn, high cheekbones and classically beautiful bone structure; his dark eyes, dusted with golden-brown shadow and lined with black kohl and mascara, are made large and luminous by his spareness and the paleness of his skin. Feathery, true black hair, shining blue when the light hits it, falls constantly across his face, curls down around his ears, flirts with the nape of his neck. The overall effect is at once disquietingly fragile and ethereally lovely.
His shirt is heavy black cotton, long-sleeved, with a very shallow v-neck; the fabric skims his body, managing to make him look, if anything, even smaller than he really is. Beneath it, his slightly faded black jeans fit closely -- it's amazing he could find them small enough -- and, perhaps predictably, disappear into battered black knee-high combat-style boots. Chipped black enamel coats his nails, but he appears to have no jewelry, no piercings, no tattoos; no such adornment of any kind. Overall, he wears a rather expensive-looking ankle-length woolen coat, hanging open and letting the breezes in.
Konstantin is a young man in his late teens with a lean, wiry build. He has a generally unruly collection of close cropped sandy brown hair, long, almost delicate fingers and a definite, although not unattractive Slavic look about his facial features. He's dressed like a young Republican, wearing a pair of freshly polished and stylish Italian leather loafers, a pair of smart looking lightweight olive grey shaded fine wool slacks and a fine weight shirt in a fetching solid shade of a light charcoal grey. Around his neck is a simple woven leather rope with what seems to be a raven charm.
Tall and dark, he stands a few inches over six feet, a well-built and rather dangerous-looking man somewhere around thirty years old. Thick black hair, cut to just above his shoulders, frames a somber, hawkish face, the left side of which is twisted by scars. If not for this disfigurement, he could be considered handsome -- albeit in a dour, moody, saturnine kind of way. His face is one designed for brooding and cynicism, and the short black beard that lines his mouth and jaw makes him look all the more satanic. His left eye is dead white, lost within the tangled jungle of scar tissue covering that side of his face; his good eye, on the right, is dark brown, not quite black. Both are shadowed, as if from lack of sleep. In short, he has the look of the very devil about him, or of a Christ figure gone bad.
His attire is strictly monotone, black on black, plain t-shirt and BDU pants and combat boots that have been well broken-in. He wears no watch, but a thin brass chain goes from one belt-loop, where it's attached by a clasp, and into the left-side pocket of his pants. Something hangs from a cord around his neck but is tucked away under the shirt, out of view.
Summer's name suits her well: the young woman has a fresh girl-next-door prettiness about her, a clarity of feature and a shine in her eyes. She looks to be in her late teens. Her complexion is a little dusky, tanned from long hours in the sun but not as dark as Latin skin. Long, wavy chestnut hair falls nearly to her waist when loose, although she often braids it. Her eyes are an interesting shade of hazel, bright and intelligent, green mixing with gold and brown in the irises. Well-defined features, a strong jawline, and a longish nose fall a little short of beautiful by most standards. She's neither tall nor short at about 5'6", her build willowy but not quite thin, and she is clearly a person given to activity and motion.
Slim, faded jeans ruck over her battered burgundy Doc boots. She wears a gypsy shirt in a colorful red-orange-brown print, with sleeves that gather and then flare at her forearms, and a drawstring around the wide neckline; the hem hangs loosely, light fabric fluttering around her hips. From time to time one side or the other will fall over the curve of a shoulder, and she'll automatically tug it back into place again.
The highschool sports jock all grown up. This decently tall slavic has enough definition to showcase the body of one who takes good care of himself. Dark black hair neatly cropped short crowns a lightly tanned face of a man pale by ancestry yet spending much time in the sun. Blue eyes, dark like a stormy ocean night with little but the stars to see by. He wears a pair of tight jeans, a tucked-in black collarless silk shirt... and what appears to be a blue and red letter jacket, sans the letter.
New moon, warm evening, cold beer. Salem's as relaxed as he ever gets in public, most likely; the tall Walker is perched on a stool at the end of the bar, nursing a glass of something from the tap and keeping a lazy watch on the weeknight crowd.
Raphael slips in through the door, wending his way like a light breeze through the pool players and drinkers, heading for the bar with no acknowledgement of any of them, even the couple who give him appreciative or disgusted looks. In fact, one might almost think he didn't notice the other patrons, if he didn't do such a good job of slipping through the spaces between them.
Konstantin wanders into the bar, just a moment after that, and he loiters in a corner with a view of the door. He doesn't seem to notice much beyond that.
Salem watches Raphael for a moment, looking bemused at the sight of the pretty goth boy in the rather rogue establishment. Recognition passes across his face a moment later; he nods to himself, glances away, and notes Konstantin. He gives the Shadow Lord a nod from across the smokey room.
Raphael finds a stool at the bar, considering the array for a while -- he chooses a seat one down from Salem, with no one seated to either side of him, and glances sidelong at the tall man before turning his attention to the bartender, and waiting quietly, but with an impatient and intense stare.
With a glance toward Salem, Konstantin gets an "oh shit" look on his face before he can fully conceal or control it. He offers a quick nod back toward the older Garou, still mostly watching the door intently. He seems unnaturally tense -- and for no easily discernable reason.
Salem arches an eyebrow at Konstantin, then narrows his eyes, mouth thinning. With a slight shake of his head, he turns away, and his good eye falls on Raphael. He nods briefly to the smaller man (or boi), offering a curtly polite, "Hello again."
The bartender's busy obtaining a rather large round of beers down at the other end of the bar; Raphael abandons trying to summon him by focus alone, and tilts his head a little, looking up to Salem again, a bit less sideways this time. "Hello, again," he echoes quietly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair behind his ear. "I haven't seen you anywhere in a while, I think."
Konstantin seems about ready to burst each time the door opens, but after about three or four minutes, he seems to perceptably relax. He heads toward Salem, only sparing one glance over his shoulder as he does this.
"I've been busy," says the Glass Walker, after a sip of beer. Glancing up, he notes Konstantin's approach and arches an eyebrow at the Shadow Lord.
"I can imagine," Raphael murmurs, as the bartender finally approaches, letting him order himself some vodka. He's quiet, after that, hands close together on the edge of the bar in front of him.
"What is it you do, anyway?" Salem asks Raphael, before Konstantin arrives at the bar. He seems honestly curious, though in an aloof kind of way.
Raphael wraps his hands around the glass, and takes a rather large initial drink from it than he looks as though he should ever be allowed to. "...I'm a musician," he replies softly, then, watching Salem in quick glances from the side. "What do you do?"
Konstantin makes his way toward the opposite side of the imposing Philodox. "Good evening, sir," he says lightly, glancing down toward Raphael curiously.
Salem smiles in a thin, crooked, cynical sort of way. "Repo," he says, in answer to Raphael. Then he nods to Konstantin again. "Evening. Expecting someone?"
Konstantin coughs, covering his mouth with one lightly formed fist. "Hopefully not, sir," he answers in a respectful tone. He offers a bit of a smile toward Raphael. Then, to Salem, asks, "Underwear model?"
The corners of Raphael's lips turn up the tiniest fraction, the miniature smile directed, apparently, at his drink, and he has another swallow, looking over to examine the new arrival. There's another tiny twitch of his lips, this one only at one corner, and a hint of amusement in the comment to Konstantin: "...you look like my father."
Salem makes an amused noise, though whether at Konstantin's remark or Raphael's is unclear. Smirking faintly, he sips his beer.
Konstantin snickers at the comment too. "Yeah, I'm often mistaken for an older man," the teen says proudly. "Why I've even got a fake ID says I'm 44 years old." He pauses for a moment, then adds, "Ah, what's your name, sonny? Dead old dad seems to have forgotten it, dag nab it."
"The mind's the first thing to go," Salem murmurs, utterly deadpan.
Raphael finishes off his vodka -- three swallows, that can't be healthy -- and gestures to the bartender with it, catching his eye. "Mine just says I'm twenty-one," he murmurs, before the man arrives, and then inclines his head slightly to Konstantin. "Raphael Spencer. Hello."
"Konstantin," the teen answers back. He spares another glance toward the door, drumming his fingers anxiously.
Summer comes in, her hair windblown from the cool summer evening. She glances around the room, and then spots Salem and Konstantin; a startled smile comes to her lips as she heads for them.
The front door swings open, the motion smooth almost like it was willed open forcefully rather than simply pushed. In from the open doorway swaggers a tallish man of obvious, if you know these things, slavic origin. Alone and not looking too dressed up, he seems to be out for himself tonight. Heading quickly to the bar a little down the way he grumbles to the bartender something highly accented, but difficult to quite hear exactly what.
Salem swallows another mouthful of beer. "And Salem, if I'd forgotten to tell you the last time we met." Kon's anxiety gets him a bit of a look and an arched eyebrow; he doesn't notice Summer until she's quite near, and for the moment misses the slavic man entirely.
Raphael sips the new vodka, a little more slowly, and there's that ghost of a smile again, still to the glass. "I know," he replies to Salem, "...you had. But I found out."
Salem might've missed the slavic man, but Konstantin sure hasn't. He's been watching the tall man of slavic origin closely. As Summer nears the pair of them, Konstantin seems to wilt a little bit.
"Oh?" Salem asks, distracted by Raphael. "From whom?"
Summer offers Salem a quick, open smile, and then glances to Raphael; her attention returns to the others. "Like, who's our amazingly gothly friend here?"
The bartender moves away quickly and brings back two shot glasses for the stranger, filled to the rim, with a water-clear liquid. As the shots are placed in front of him, the lightly tanned slavic eyes the tender with a scowl sending him on his way as quickly as possible. Lifting a glass without spilling a drop, he turns to look directly at Konstantin over the shoulders of anyone between the two, holding up the shot glass as if in offering; gruff scowl giving way to a tinge of a smile, though it seems forced. He holds the glass for some time in inviting fashion, looking at the other man in the bar of similar decent to himself.
Another sidelong glance to Salem, and the hint of amusement touches Raphael's voice again. "I don't remember; it wasn't important." He takes another drink, and replies to Summer's question with an expressionless look over the rim of the glass; someone else will have to handle introductions, if there are to be any.
Salem gestures toward the goth. "This," he tells Summer, "is Raphael. He's a musician. And one with a taste for vodka, it seems." The Glass Walker drains his own glass, his eye flicking briefly between Konstantin and the slavic jock who's eyeballing the Shadow Lord.
Konstantin steps away from Salem, Summer and the musician, toward Tolja. "That for me?" he asks, eyeing the shot glass.
Summer holds out a hand to Raphael. "I'm Summer," she offers with a smile that suits the game. "What do you play?"
Tolja places the shot glass back on the bar, closer to Konstantin this time. "Yes," is all he says on that matter. "Your friends I've seen around before. You... you are new. I just wanted to give proper greeting." That said, he lifts the second shot glass and offers a bit louder with eyes that seem to be looking only at Konstantin, measuring something mentally.
Konstantin picks up the glass and glances down the bar, wearing a faint smirk. "Friends? Don't jump to any conclusions," he murmurs. Lifting the shot, he adds, "Your health," before slugging it back.
The Slav's remark catches at Salem's ear, and he lifts his head to eyeball the tanned man critically, frowning. After a moment, though, he shakes his head and rises. "Pardon," he says to Summer and Raphael, as he prepares to leave.
Raphael glances after Konstantin, observing the interaction with the stranger with detachment, and then inclines his head in something like a tiny bow to Summer, though he doesn't take the proffered hand -- his hands remain wrapped around his glass. "Pleased to meet you. I play keyboards, mostly -- and computers. And yes," he agrees, glancing to Salem again, "I do like vodka." He looks as though he might be considering sayng something else, but just looks slightly disappointed as Salem takes his leave. "I shall see you around, I suspect."
Tolja nods and offers, "Budem zdorovy!" with a wider, almost sardonic grin, before shooting his glass back as well. Strong vodka, nothing compaired to some stuff you can get if you look in the right places, but the strongest stuff they had in the bar... acording to the bartender.
Summer catches her lower lip between her teeth; she, too, looks sorry to see the older Garou leave. "Cool," she tells Raphael. Then she flashes Salem a grin. "See you around, 'kay?"
"Probably, yes," Salem says to Raphael, albeit a bit distractedly. He gives Summer a nod and a faint smile -- Konstantin seems occupied -- and heads out.
Konstantin downs the shot in a single gulp; and the strength of the alcohol does not seem terribly punishing for the young man. He flips the glass over and sets it on the bar with an audible clink. "Konstantin," he says. "But you probably already know that. What should I call you?"
Summer's brow furrows slightly as she watches the tall Walker leave. She glances to Raphael, and then looks over to Konstantin's new acquaintance with bright, curious eyes.
"Thank you," Raphael replies to Summer, politely, eyes on the exit for a few seconds. Another good sip of his drink, and he addresses her again, an observation, "....you're not drinking anything."
Tolja slams the drink down in similar fashion, his smile fading a bit when his name is being asked for. "My name? That depends Konstantin..." he eyes the Shadow Lord for a few moments longer, "Are you buying the next round?"
"To be polite," the ragabash replies. He unfolds a crisp new $20 bill and lays it on the bar. <Let's cut through the bullshit,> he continues, in Russian. <You seem to know me, and I bet it's not because you're recruiting for your soccer team.>
Summer flashes Raphael a grin, and glances to her hands. "It looks like that, yeah."
Raphael shifts on his stool, curling one leg beneath him. "Why?"
She catches her lower lip between her teeth, and glances sidelong to Konstantin. "I totally love hearing that," she confides to Raphael quietly. Then she answers, blithe, lifting one shoulder a little. "'Cause I just walked in, mostly?"
Tolja eyes the twenty with quickly darting eyes and an expression startled into neutrality. Slowly lifting his eyes back to Konstantin, the Slovic jock narrows his eyes slightly and lowering his normally gruff yet soothing voice offers, <I know of you... Kostya. I am Anatoly... Tolja they all call me. I don't matter though, do I? No... I think you are the one who matters. You came to St. Claire at an auspicious time for people like us.>
Raphael gets that ghost of a smile, gaze darting to follow hers to Konstantin and his companion, and nods, just slightly. "You ought to hurry," he advises her solemnly, "...you're falling behind."
Summer shrugs, and glances to Tolja and Konstantin briefly. Then her attention returns to Raphael, and she says, a bit wryly, "I don't think I want to /try/ to keep up..."
Two more shots of vodka are placed on the bar. The $20 disappears into the till. <To prosperity,> Kostya offers lifting this shot. <I'm willing to work hard,> he continues, downing it, and putting the empty upside down along side the other one. <And I think I could be a very useful employee -- for the right organization.>
Raphael's lips quirk up at just one corner, and he inclines his head to her, another little nod of acknowledgement. And that's it -- back to sipping his drink, slowly now.
Tolja repeats Kostya's words in a murmur and does the vodka more justice than it deserves, throwing it back as easy as taking a breath, leaving a fourth empty shot glass upside down on the bar. <There are only two 'companies' in this city... the right one and the wrong one. Obviously,> he lets his grin return, <the right one is the one that speaks Russian, ya?>
Summer glances to her watch, and then looks contemplatively over to the door. "Hmm," she murmurs, narrowing her eyes. Then she gives Raphael a cheery smile. "D'you want a game?"
<I've heard there's really not much choice in the matter, if the street whispers are to be believed.> The young man looks critically at the other Russian. <What do I need to do to prove myself?> His eyes narrow faintly.
A hand snakes into Tolja's pocket, producing a handwritten business card which is spun onto the bar in front of Kostya with a flick of his wrist. <Its as simple as this. Call that number at that time, and ask for the "Doctor" if you are interested. Oh...> he says standing from the bar and starting to head to the door, swagger already implied as he looks over his shoulder to regard Kostya despite walking away, <Say hello to your babushka for us, ya?>
Konstantin picks up the card, looking at the cramped lettering. <Paka,> he says as the man turns to leave. If the threat was intended to get a reaction, there will probably be disappointment. Konstantin doesn't seem terribly taken off guard by Tolja's parting words. His eyes, however, remain narrowed.
And out the door the Tolja goes.
Raphael turns to look at the pool table, thoughtfully, and then nods. "...yes," he decides, "...all right. I've never played, but I've watched..." He finishes off his glass, and leaves it on the bar.
Summer smiles, heading for the empty table in the corner. "It's all right," she says, "I like /totally/ suck."
"Then we shall have something in common," Raphael replies, and it's nearly impossible to be sure whether there was anything like a joke intended in there. He slips from his stool, and slides through the crowd to the rack of cues.
Summer racks up for a game of traditional eight-ball. "You want to break, or should I?"
Konstantin watches the door again, tucking the card away in his pocket. He takes a deep breath, exhaling audibly and then peers through the smoky room.
Raphael hesitates, looking the table over. "...you may. I'll go second."
Summer finds a decent cue after rejecting a couple, and sets the white ball down with an audible thunk. Then she leans over the edge of the table, splaying out her hand and giving a strong shot for the break... sending stripes and solids in all directions.
Konstantin wanders over toward the pool table and watches it. His thoughts are clearly not very near to this game.
Raphael claims never to have played before... and his playing does nothing to disprove that claim, at all. He does make a few shots, but this is not his forte, no matter how hard he concentrates on it.
As a result, the game goes on quite a while. When Konstantin comes over, Summer glances up from her shot to give him a reassuring smile. "Cheer up, can't be that bad..." *Thunk*. She makes a straightforward shot, and circles the table to search out another; as she does, she gives him a sidelong look. "Sounded cool, anyway." The bank attempt misses by a centimeter, and she makes a face.
"Long lost family friend," Kostya says toward Summer. He looks over at Raphael a moment. "Had some interesting news." One shoulder shrugs.
Raphael glances over his shoulder at Konstantin, and gives that tiny smile again. "She is correct; it did sound cool. I might, perhaps, ask to sample you sometime?" Another attempted shot; another failure.
Summer bites her lip, and glances to Konstantin gleefully to see his reaction.
"Sample?" he murmurs. "Like on a computer?" The ragabash makes a face.
Raphael nods, holding the cue loosely in both hands, dangling across his skinny thighs. "Yes, exactly like that. Although I would probably wish to record you by analog methods, to start."
Summer paces around the table to make another shot. She tries another bank, and gets it. "Eight-ball, corner... people still use analog?" She doesn't sink the simple shot to win the game, though.
"I don't know," Konstantin replies. "Can't say it excites me." His cell phone rings and he heads off to answer it in a more private corner of the room.
Raphael looks disappointed. "...of course. It has a... it has a certain sound you can't reproduce in di-" he breaks off as, while he tries to line up a shot, a rather drunk young man grabs his ass. He whirls around with definite speed, eyes flashing fierce, and hits the guy with his pool cue. It's not very hard -- he's not very strong -- but it's such a surprise to the victim that he's briefly stunned. "Don't =touch= me!" Raphael hisses with intense venom, looking as though he'd happily shove the cue through the man's heart; instead, he turns in a whirl of hair and coat and is gone, out the door in a flash. Not so much as a by your leave.
Summer hurries out after him, the game forgotten. She doesn't speak, not until they're outside and a little way from the door--a voice, decidedly gentle, from over his shoulder. "You okay?"
Raphael turns around, already several feet ahead of her -- well out of reach -- and staying that way, and regards her warily. It looks as though he's trembling, and one hand is firmly in a pocket, apparently clenched around something. "...don't touch me," he replies, but quieter, barely audible.
Summer's hands are out, palms turned toward him, and she keeps a polite distance. Worry touches her eyes. "I won't," she says quietly. One corner of her mouth quirks up, wry and perhaps a little sad, a trace of anger in the shape of the expression. "Want me to go kick his ass for you?"
She glances to her feet, then, and up again, and adds, "I got my shit-kickin' boots on."
Raphael looks startled by the reply. His hand slides out of his pocket to dangle by his side, and yes, it appears to be clenched white-knuckled tight around something; his other hand moves up to grasp that arm just around the elbow, forearm protectively across his chest. He drops his gaze, and then his chin slightly, shaking his head. "...no. ...Thank you."
The attempted smile fades, when the words seem to have little effect in cheering him. Subdued and careful, she asks, "I could, like, walk you home, if you want... or just to your street, so you're not alone, y'know?"
Raphael hesitates, lifting his head to look her over, and for a moment his eyes are sharp and wary again. Then, he nods, and remains where he is; presumably it's all right if she approaches.
"Really bad to walk home alone, in this part of town," she says quietly. She steps toward him, then, keeping a good cushion of space between them as she moves to walk by his side. "I was s'posed to meet my boyfriend but he's probably off in the woods chasing..." Oops. "Butterflies, or something equally useless." She smiles faintly again at the recovery, and glances over to confide, "He's kind of a flake."
"Butterflies aren't useless," Raphael opines. "...beauty justifies its own existence." He walks along with Summer, arms crossed over his chest as if it were much colder out than it is. "...although I suppose chasing them might not be the best of pursuits. Especially if one's meant to be elsewhere."
Summer lets out a breath. "Yeah, well. He's got... things that keep him away, sometimes, and it's not always his fault... and I can't really throw stones, with the way my schedule is." She wrinkles her nose, and looks over to him. "So, where d'you live?"
Raphael gestures vaguely. "This way. It isn't too terribly far." He's leading them steadily upward in property value; an uncharitable sort might insinuate his presence at the pool hall constituted slumming. "...what's his name?"
Summer grins. "Cameron," she says, with the permanent smile of the truly besotted.
That gets a hint of a smile, and Raphael begins to relax a little, unfolding his arms and putting them in his pockets, instead. "I don't believe I've ever met a Cameron."
Summer lifts a shoulder. "He doesn't hang out in the city, much," she murmurs, glancing to the ground in front of her. Then she gives him a sidelong look, edged with curiosity. "So do you know Mister Salem?"
"I meant any Camerons at all," Raphael clarifies, "not only yours." The question gets a sideways glance in return, and what just might be a tiny hint of colour in the apples of his cheeks. "Not very well, just yet. But we've met a few times."
"He's great. Kind of all black-trenchcoaty on the outside, and nice on--but wait, I guess you'd like that." She flashes his a reassuring smile, then. "Are you part of his, y'know, family?"
Another sideways glance, at the question, but this one more appraising. "...Not to my knowledge," Raphael replies, "...and my family is rather big on geneology, so I suspect I would know." There's something slightly wistful there. "I do have family in town, however. I'm meant to look someone up... Edward Tobin, I think it is. ...you don't, by chance, know him?"
Summer blinks. "Tobin?" She pauses, looking over to him. "Yeah, he's-- yeah, I know him." A smile kindles, a touch startled. "But you won't find him in town. He's tough to get a hold of unless it's the middle of the..." She glances up at the sky. "...night."
Raphael tilts his head a little, to get a better glance at Summer. "Really? That's good to know, certainly. Perhaps you could give me his address." He sounds just slightly reluctant, but adds, "...or him mine," regardless. He stops, and gestures to one of the better apartment complexes in the city. "This would be mine." He heads toward the door, then, not indicating whether Summer may continue to follow or not.
Summer tips her head slightly. "It's... not really an address, she says, as he's heading for the door. "I'd have to show you, really, I think. Here, lemme give you my number, and you can just like call me whenever, we'll go out there some night... d'you have a car?"
Raphael shakes his head, pausing with his hand on the door handle. "I can't drive," he answers, explanatory but not apologetic. "But I could take a taxi."
Summer offers a quick, wry half-smile. "They usually won't drive way out the farm, unless you catch a gypsy cab. I can drive you if you want, though, or if you have a bike we could cycle it... that'd mean staying out there, though, or camping. I don't know if you're into roughing it."
Raphael's lips part slightly, hesitation, before he answers, "...I haven't ever =been= camping. And I haven't got a bike. But I would accept a ride, I think."
Summer nods, reaching into the pocket of her jeans. "I'll probably go out there this weekend anyway, if I don't hear from Cam by then." She takes out a little stack of several business cards, recycled brown with her information in a pretty calligraphic sort of font: just "summer," an email address at earthlink, and a phone number. "Okay, then just give me a call, some evening. I'm usually home." A faint smile, gentle and straightforward, comes to her face; she steps forward just enough to offer the card to him.
Raphael takes the card, fingers on the edges of it and not touching hers in the slightest, and favours her with one of those ghostly smiles. "Thank you," he murmurs, slipping it into a pocket. "I will call you this weekend, then -- if you won't be too inconvenienced by playing guide and chauffer."
Summer lifts a shoulder. "I drag tourists around in the woods all summer," she says idly. "It's all good!" Another of those sunny California smiles, and then she shakes out her hair. "Call before Friday, okay?"
Raphael tilts his head questioningly, and then nods. "Before Friday. Yes, all right. ...thank you. You're quite kind." Another ghost smile, and he turns again, ready to head in.
"Night," she offers, and then she turns to walk off down Regan. Along the way, she takes out a cellphone.