D.C. Gage

I almost missed him in that corner. Back to the wall, eyes on the exits, he couldn't have picked a shittier table at the club but I recognized his kind. Half my friends are in law enforcement, the other half run a bit shadier, and if his suit was an indication my money was on the shadier spectrum of career choices.

Drink in hand I made my way to his table and took a seat without waiting for an invitation. He wouldn't have invited me anyway. A disinterested, if slightly annoyed glance was the best I was gonna rate but I wasn't there to hit on him. Plenty of better looking honeys than me were just a dollar bill away. I introduced myself and waited patiently. Sometimes they were eager to share, others had to be worn down a bit before they began to open up. I was halfway through my margarita before this one finally cracked.

"Gage."

"Gage. What's your first name, Twelve?" I smirked, pleased at my own cleverness, but he remained silent, impassive and unreadable as his attention returned to something across the room. "Got a first name?"

"D.C." he sighed, refusing to look my way but at least replying.

"What's that short for?"

"It's short for Gage."

Getting anything out of him was like pulling teeth, and if he was balking this much over his damn name it wasn't likely I'd get anything better from him. Common sense told me to find someone less walled off, but I hadn't made a habit of listening to it in the past and didn't see any reason to start now. "Let me guess," I grinned, taking a sip of my watered down 'rita while I considered the possibilities. "David Carl? Danny Cain? Dmitri Collin?" The last one earned me a slow, irritated blink. "Come on, throw me a bone."

At last he turned his attention to me. "Did you need something?"

"Just a story, man," I said with a grin and a shrug. "Everyone's got one. Even you, Dennis Craig. Donovan Corey? Denny Crane?"

A muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched. At last a crack had appeared in the Alcatraz worthy walls this guy had put up.

"You don't want my story," he mused as he absently caressed the glass before him, the whiskey within still untasted. "You should talk to the bartender."

The bartender. That was who he was watching, and now that the patrons had migrated towards the main stage I could finally get a good look at what held his attention in a club full of nearly naked women. Steampunk goggles and brass and mesh cat ears perched atop her head and her hair, a mixture of dreads, braids, and loose locks in a raucous blend of ocean blues and greens, was pulled into two high pony tails that cascaded over her shoulders and halfway down her back. She wore a white blouse, high necked and long sleeve, and on top of that a green brocade corset. The bar blocked my view of the rest of her outfit but already she wore more clothing than any strip club bartender I'd seen in my life.

"Who is she?" I exhaled. "I want her to shop for me and dress me up."

"Her name is Nikki," he chuckled, "and she loves to tell stories. You should talk to her."

"I will, Dylan Coltrain. Dumbledore Cornellius. For fucks sake man, just tell me what it stands for."

A nod was all he would give. Exasperated, I left him to his shadowy corner and made my way to the bar, hoping my luck would be better with the steampunk princess than it was with Drew Christopher or Duke Corey or whatever the hell his name was.

"Margarita on the rocks please."

Her hands flew independent of supervision, her eyes fixed either on me or briefly skipping along the bar to see if anyone else needed attention. "That guy in the corner told me I should talk to you," I said when she returned with my drink. "I feel like an idiot but I already forgot his name. Gage something or other."

"D.C." she giggled. "NO one knows what it stands for. He doesn't like his name."

Dammit. I had hoped she would spill the beans. "Well he sure likes you. He hasn't taken his eyes off you all night. You guys dating?"

Giggling, her hands flew to cover her mouth as she rolled her eyes. "He's my Daddy," she stage whispered, and there it was, the story I knew the watchful guy in the corner table was holding back.

Tell me your story and I'll buy you lunch, I wrote on the back of one of my cards, then handed it and a ten dollar bill to her before heading out the door.