long days are just the beginning;; {{open}}

[taylor stewart richardson]

The day, or night as it was stretching into at this point, had not gone exactly according to plan; that much was certain. The pick up truck that he had requested from the rental company in Port Angeles had not been ready when he arrived, already two hours later than he had expected to due to a delay at a switchover somewhere between Utah and Idaho. He had not been all that put out with the clerical error at the rental company, in all honesty, he had not expected to start having to clear way, or begin transporting goods from and to the house in the day or two that the agent had said it would take to get the truck back in and redirected out to Dublin. He had even managed to retain something similar to high spirits when the agent handed him the keys to a small, aged compact that had to have been one of the oldest on the lot.

Mustering his good will, he had set off with a clearly labeled atlas beside him, following the brightly highlighted highways and state roads to... somewhere about thirty miles to the east, apparently, of what was his intended destination. Still, a half hour later, he had managed to catch sight of the sign that welcomed him to Dublin, Ireland.

Then, had come the agonizing sputter, the slow grind of what he guessed to be the death rattle of a transmission, or a carburetor, or some other mechanical device within the engine of what they had called a car. Still, he had been within a half mile, or so, from the city, if gauged by the flutter of lights on the near horizon. So, with his bags slung over his shoulder and draped across his chest, and his valise hooked through his hand, he had locked the car, and set off down the road as twilight settled in around him.

The breeze was brisk, just a hint of residual heat lingering in the gray air, but he did not let the cold dampen his already bedraggled spirits, the collar of his jacket upturned as he moved along at a slow jog along the curve of the road. It took only a few minutes for the first lights to come into clear sight, the sign that hung off of the balcony overhang declaring the cozy looking building to be that of 'Stag's Head Pub' in weathered carved and gilded letters. He could not help but offer a smile, which only grew as he pulled open the front door and the smell of aged whiskey, keg brewed ale and something that was undeniably warm food greeted him as he stepped inside.

He lingered for a moment in the doorway, casting a curious glance around the interior of the room before he stepped forward, sliding through the tables and chairs that littered the main part of the pub with ease, directing himself towards one of the ends of the bar where he could settle himself comfortably in hopes of drink, food, and perhaps, directions.

[rebecca alyse nelson]

(

[/color] i can feel him like fire in my blood )

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FOR SOMEWHERE JUST BEYOND MY REACH;
THERE'S SOMEONE REACHING BACK FOR ME.
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T

[/color][/b]he Stags Head drew in nearly thirty thousand visitors a year, not counting the staggering amount of locals that the pub had essentially become a second home to. Though the number appeared small, it gave the handsome Nelson couple an immense feeling of pride to be able to create as addicting as an atmosphere as what they had. Hugo had always had an eye for good business, and the shrewd brain to keep his customers happy. Rebecca, on the other hand, was the tempo of the pub, known for her ability to pump out twenty-nine shots of tequila on the rocks in no time at all, and a good judge of what real, home-brewed beer should taste like. The woman was positively addicting. And if it wasn't her savvy for a great drink (mixed or straight) that reeled you in, you'd eventually end up falling prey to her kind graces eventually. Maybe not right away, but she had forever to wait.

Rebecca had to say that she'd grown tired of pick up phrases half a century ago. At first, she found them flattering, and that the same time loved to have her ego inflated: when she still wasn't used to clear, flawless complexion of her skin, or the sultry sound that her voice made whenever she spoke. What she hated more was the way that you couldn't tell a drunk no, no matter how many different languages you tried to tell it to them. The ruffles that danced down her shirt, creating symmetry between both sides of the fabric, hung slightly over her forearms as her elbows were the only thing propping her up on the counter of the bar. She'd been trying to coax something other than a come on from the same man for nearly ten minutes now. Even though ten minutes only seemed like seconds to her, Rebecca grew extraordinarily irritated with the fact that she couldn't tear the man's head from his shoulders without causing a scene. She didn't like using the water tap to snap someone out of their drunken stupor, because it only intensified the scent of human whenever it hit them.

Rebecca handled herself very well, so well in fact that she could easily ignore the delicious smell of human blood, and not be thrown into a ravenous fit.There were times when she'd had to excuse herself from the pub for a couple of hours when one human smelled particularly better to her than another. In which case she usually took off to hunt and drink to her fill, where then the temptation would dissapate and she'd be back to normal. Usually her and Hugo needed to feed around the same time, so this worked out extraordinarily well. The couple would either have Marty watch the pub, the girl was certainly reliable enough, and leave one half of themselves with her in case the pub were to experience a rush. Then one would go off and hunt, return, and then relieve the other for whatever amount of time they needed to themselves. It was a system that worked fairly well, given the temptation that came with running a tavern that showed no bias between humans and vampires. In fact, Rebecca often wondered what drew vampires to a pub anyway. Vampires did not feed on human food, although there were a few exceptions in which Rebecca only tortured herself by eating anyway. As a human she loved Irish barm brack, and missed this taste the most in her undead life. All that she could really do anymore, was try to remember the taste of it, hoping maybe she'd get the same fix. At least with Bloody Mary's, the drink was already foul to begin with, so she felt some kind of a tickle of taste whenever she drank them. It was why Hugo loved his particular brand of brew as much as he had, it gave him the same effect as Bloody Mary's did for Rebecca.

Slender fingers pinched the bridge of her nose as she began to feel a vampiric headache come on. Rebecca forced a weak smile and left her hand fall back to the counter, which she used to push her upper torso into straightening itself out. Tilting her head sweetly at the customer, her smile was just big enough to expose the hidden Shirley Temple dimples in her cheeks. "If there's anything I can get for you, sir, kindly let me know. Until then, try getting some of those pick up lines out of your head," her voice was so sweet sounding, that was easy to miss the sarcasm behind them. Rebecca had a supernatural power about her, but was an extremely weak one. Then again, it depended on whom she was using for or against. Rebecca could mentally block herself, making her near impervious to psychics or telekinetic abilities; which for some may have seemed incredibly useful. But seeing as how she and her husbands enjoyed a quiet life, no quarrels or warring covens, she had little use for it. In fact she found it much easier for Edward Cullen to simply read what she was thinking as opposed to talking most of the time, which she enjoyed when she and Hugo were in the Cullens' company. But her way of concealing an undertone with her voice, now that was a talent to her. She could turn the most disgusting, foul statement in the world and make it sound like a herald singing. In the business of running and owning a pub, Rebecca found this most useful to her and she utilized it well.

She'd begun to tap into the first keg of brew when the sound of the front bell ringing caught her ear. A small frown worked its way onto her face as she finished taking a small draft into a mug, testing how much she figured she and Hugo had left before it needed to be replaced. After this was done, Rebecca robotically pivoted on her heel and exited the back storage room where the kegs were kept, a most enticing smell catching her like a fish to a hook. Rebecca froze instantaneously in her steps, her pupils becoming insanely dialated and a small sting in the back of her throat. She clenched her eyes shut, her jaws tight against each other. What had been the source of such a smell that could make her stop so dead in her tracks? When she'd forced herself to become calm again, Rebecca fully entered the atmosphere in the pub, searching for whatever could have created such a reaction in here. The last time she'd felt herself clam up so tightly was seventy years ago when she was still a newborn and the fresh scent of wandering nomads filled her nostrils. Hugo had stopped her before she'd had the chance to take off, but it wasn't a side of her that she particularly enjoyed. When she zoned in the hunt so intently as she used to do, she felt unable to be controlled, a wild animal who deserved to be put to death. Which was why she needed to practice her self-control now, so that she could ward off even the most tantalizing of scents. No matter how much it stung.

Once out into the open, Rebecca was automatically able to zero in on the source. It had been a particularly good-looking male, human, obviously or else it wouldn't have evoked such a strong reaction from her. He looked weary and tired, by the way that his posture carried him and the suggestion of bags underneath his eyes. Trying her best to close off her nostrils, Rebecca proceeded forward cautiously, digging her toes roughly into the soles of her flats should she need to make an immediate get away. The young man seated himself at the end of the bar, and she found herself desperately wishing she wouldn't have dismissed Marty so early into her shift.

With the best smile Rebecca could muster, she sauntered along the counter, a slender hand sliding across its smooth, marble surface in a nonchalant fashion. "Hi there, handsome, what can I get for you?"[/size][/blockquote][/blockquote]

(

[/color] i'm holding out for a hero )[/color]
1358 WORDS | TAYLOR | THE STAGS HEAD | OUTFIT | LYRICS by BONNIE TYLER[/center][/font]

[taylor stewart richardson]

He settled onto his stool easily enough, his bags piled between the wall and the pole of his stool, shrugging out of his leather jacket and tossing it over the stack before he turned his attention briefly again towards the pub around him. The atmosphere was as warm as he had hoped, half expected it to be, couples and groups in quiet conversation or jovial debate, the wood and brass warm and polished to a dull gleam. He could see the draw, even in a semi-crowded room there was a sense of... normalcy, of being invited and welcomed.

He turned back towards the bar itself as the sound of movement greets his ears, a smile pulling up the edges of his lips as he turns to greet the waitress. The first thought that crossed his mind was that if he had known the Irish made them like this, he would have converted ages ago, followed promptly by the rebuking thought that one can't actually convert to being Irish... the second was that he wasn't quite certain he remembered how to speak, or how to breathe.

Hi, I'm Taylor, I'm new to town. No, obviously, he was new to town, he had only just set his bags down on the floor half a minute ago, and still had the dust of the road on his boots and jeans; anyone with half a brain would know that he was new to town, not counting the accent he would have the first words that he managed to get out, assuming he did at all. And surely, she was intelligent, not all beauty and no brains, he was almost insistent on it, his internal dialogue convincing himself that she was more than just... unearthly, more than Kallisti or Aphrodite given human form, that the spark in the beautiful golden eyes was proof of that.

I was wondering where ... what, where you go for a drink around here, or a bite to eat, or fun, all of which would be absolutely nonsensical and likely insulting, considering the fact that he was sitting in the pub where she worked... How long had he been staring? He tried to count the breaths, the heartbeats that had passed from when he had looked up from the edge of the bar, and couldn't. Thinking, in and of itself, was a miracle, and he struggled to regain some sense of himself, finding himself in the scent of... what, lilies? Honeysuckle? He couldn't place it, couldn't put his finger on it, the alluring scent that drifted from her as her hand slid across the surface of the bar, but it was comforting, somehow reminescent of his childhood, or of the first time that he opened the door to the office door on the Cambridge grounds that had his name etched into the glass. Strange, wasn't it?

How long had he been staring? He wondered, again, as the sounds of the pub rushed back into the vacuum that had been created in those seconds of silence after she spoke, and he hoped, prayed that he hadn't actually been staring, mouth agape, slack-jawed, like every instinct seemed to indicate he had been, or should have been. He forces his lips into a smile, trying to keep it casual and friendly, rather than schoolboy-ish as he clears his throat softly, his hand rising off of the edge of the bar to rub almost self-consciously against the shadow of stubble that crept along his jaw.

"I'll have --" A brief pause, as he tears his dark brown eyes away from her to cast a glance down the bar, looking to what the others nearby had in front of them, coming up short on what even to call the food they had, not even sure what brands of beer, or ale, they had here, and those precious moments that should have been spent studying the menu on the wall behind the bar had instead been spent drinking in the radiant beauty of the woman in front of him. He glances back to her, a somewhat sheepish smile, a small shrug. "I'll have whatever you recommend, I think." He says, trusting more her judgment for the time being than his own.

Where was she from, that faint lilt, the slightest familiar burr to her words? Did she have family here, brothers, sisters... was she married? What did she like, what did she hope for? The thoughts pinwheeled, spinning in a tangled jumble, as he tried to thrust them away, force them aside, focus on breathing, on the tingle in the palm of his hands, at the nape of his neck, the flush of color that threatened to slide over his cheeks. "If it's not too much trouble, that is." He was surprised, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he wasn't squeaking, perhaps that was good, maybe feeling would return to his feet, some stability to his legs and stomach soon. "I'm Taylor Richardson, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He says, his right hand offered out towards the woman on the other side of the counter, surprisingly steady, and free of clammy sweat.

[rebecca alyse nelson]

(

[/color] i can feel him like fire in my blood )

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FOR SOMEWHERE JUST BEYOND MY REACH;
THERE'S SOMEONE REACHING BACK FOR ME.
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H

[/color][/b]e'd been staring at her for around a minute now, though whether or not the young man actually realized it, Rebecca wasn't sure. What she was sure of was that the man was already beginning to work on her nerves as a sense of deja vu washed over her. Half tempted to snap her fingers in front of his face, Rebecca moved her free hand from her side, and propped it impatiently onto her hip bone, which was slightly exposed do to her leaned over position. Here we go again, Becky, she thought to herself, eyeballing the a yellow tablet right underneath the bar counter. With every intention of grabbing an ink pen and laying it with the tablet in front of them so that he could write down his order, Rebecca leaned backwards to one of the many pen cups she and Hugo had scattered in their work station. She was about to reach for the tablet when the first sign that the young man might be conscious finally began to arouse.

She wished he wouldn't move; she almost would have preferred him still to be locked in his dreamy state. Every time he moved seemed to send a tsunami washing ten fold over her, as the smell began to attack the back of her throat in thirst. Her hand instinctively found her throat, as though maybe it would suppress the burning sensation, although it came to no avail. However she cleverly disguised her distressed motions by dragging her palm around the back of her neck, coming to a rest at the first of her verterbrae, which she pretended to massage. "Well-" she started off, thinking for a moment of the different brews and ales that the pub served. Hugo was a fan of his own personal favorites, and usually only carried what he preferred, and screw those who did not agree with him. Her smile cocked sideways as she immersed herself in thought for a few seconds. Her hand sliding from her neck back down to her side signaled she was ready to make her reply. "It depends, really, on the person. If you prefer sweet ale, I'd recommend our Diamond Bear Irish Red, which has a smidgeon of caramel and butterscotch with a very faint fruity flavor. For malt, Dublin's own George Killian's Irish Red. Then we have Pub Draught, which is very dry. Those are my-" by my she meant Hugo's: Rebecca never was one to down straight ale or whiskey. "favorites, but I could get you a menu, too. We only serve management favorites here, so we really don't offer much. But apparently we've been doing something right for around two hundred years."

In the end, she decided to fetch him a draft of the Diamond Bear, just so she could have something else flooding her nostrils. Diamond Bear wasn't a very strong ale, but it has a delicious odor. She disappeared to the backroom again, shortly before doing so, however, she received a chilled mug from one of the refrigerators up front. The chilled mug felt warm and comfortable, then again all things considering that she was much colder than humans were. There was no stinging as she held the glass firmly around the handle to pour the draft, the only stinging she felt was a small trickle of the ale onto her hand after it left the handle. The ale was apparently slightly warmer than both the glass and her hand. She frowned slightly, but found herself turning brisquely back on her heel to re-enter the open setting in the pub. This time when the smell hit her, it was a little more bearable because she found herself slowly becoming accustomed to it. But it still caused her throat to sear with thirst, so much that she almost downed the mug of ale herself. Not that it would have helped much, but at the time it seemed like a reasonable idea, although it would probably scorch her throat seeing as how warm it was coming out of the keg. Rebecca made a mental note to inform Hugo of this, shortly before she arrived back in front of the young traveler, whom she suspected was American.

"Eh, don't worry about it, mac." she responded sweetly, satisfied that her guess was right. Only an American cut straight to the chase by introducing themselves. A bemused grin fell onto her lips, she studied the hand that had just been outstretched to her. First thing that came to her mind was push it away, but figured getting herself off by just planting her hands on the counter was far more kinder. Rebecca did exactly this, choosing neither to accept his handshake or not. He was her customer, and he needed to know that. When Hugo was absent, Rebecca was in the position of power; and where she and her husband had built the pub upon a cozy, homely setting, there were still certain rules that everyone who visited the pub needed to know. The most important was never to touch your servers, no matter what temptation. The burning in her throat was back, however, when he outstretched his hand to her, due to the movement that he'd caused. So quite eager to have him put his hand back where it belonged where it could shield the smell, she took his hand featherlight with hers, allowing the skin of her finger just barely to brush the skin of his knuckle, which was white hot to her touch. "Rebecca," she said, returning the introduction. "So obviously you're no Dublin native, but my guess is American...?"[/blockquote][/blockquote]

(

[/color] i'm holding out for a hero )[/color]
934 WORDS | TAYLOR | THE STAGS HEAD | OUTFIT | LYRICS by BONNIE TYLER[/center][/font]

[taylor stewart richardson]

It was a force of will to tear his gaze away from her even for the briefest of moments, to sweep across the bar, taking in the rest of the occupants, partly to reassure himself that they were in fact still present, and he had not let himself sit and stare long enough to close out the bar, and partly to see if the elegance and beauty of the woman across the counter was inherent in all of the others here. He was not entirely surprised to see that it wasn't, that it was just her. There was something... enticing. He still couldn't put his finger on it, and it seemed the more than he tried, the more that he tried to find what it was, whether it was the opalescent skin, the glowing amber eyes, the luxurious curls, the inherent elegance in even the way she moved, the play of her fingertips against her skin, trailing along the curve of her neck to knead at aching muscles... each item that he tried to catalog, seemed only to pull every other detail to bleed into it. It was like trying to tear apart the Mona Lisa color by color, brush stroke by stroke, to try and figure out what it was that made it so damn fascinating, and he knew that he could spend forever trying, and still not place it, still not figure it out.

Did that mean he wasn't going to try? He didn't know, he couldn't tell... Surely she was tired of people like him, gaping and ordering drink after drink just for the excuse of having her close again, however briefly. He listened, as she described a couple of the drinks that they served, his posture slowly relaxing, his sturdy shoulders loosening, normalcy returning to his breathing and heart patterns, and something resembling normal color settling into his rugged features.

"American, yes." He finally was able to reply, with an easier smile, having settled into a more comfortable stance and having regained something of himself in those few moments when she had disappeared to fetch his drink. He had never been overly suave, he had to admit, his was more a natural, easy pattern of speech and conversation, and he tried not to let that worry him, focusing instead on the fact that he had always felt comfortable whatever his environment... except, apparently, where pretty -- no, beautiful, breathtaking girls were concerned, he countered, with a slight smile touching his lips again.

"I am here on sabbatical from Dartmouth, actually. My uncle, Samuel Fischer, he left his estate here in Dublin to me some six months ago, only I wasn't able to get away until the end of summer term." His hand fell away to rest easily against the coaster that was set upon the counter to hold the beer as she set it down, accepting her lack of initial contact without much discontent, his slightly calloused inner knuckles curling around the base of the mug even as her fingertips brushed, feather light and silky smooth against the back of his hand, creamy white against his darker, bronzed skin. He forced a slow swallow, and a steady breath, despite the spark of ... something electric, that sent the hint of a shiver along his spine.

Rebecca. He played the name over in his mind, imagining the feel of it, rather than the feel of his lips against the back of her hand, or brushing against her cheek... Another steady breath comes, as he wraps his hand further around the handle of his mug of ale, bringing the glass to his lips to take a couple of long swallows before offering an appreciative nod as the glass comes back to rest on the coaster. "It is good, thank you." He says, appreciatively, holding up a hand, one finger offered up to draw her attention, to hold her here unless she should decide to try and wander off.

One hand curls around the edge of the bar, as he half turns, leaning over to retrieve a packet from the inside of his recently discarded black leather jacket. A soft manila folder, tack bound packet, folded in on itself, the creases well worn to indicate that it had been oft opened and folded in again, as he sets the packet onto the counter beside his drink, opening it up to reveal a number of pieces of paper and photographs bound into the small satchel. The top paper, one of the few that were loose inside the packet, is the one that he seemed to be indicating. It proves to be a written out list of directions next to a hand-drawn map showing what should be a path of back streets and short cuts from the outer edges of the city to a final location marked with a large X in a square at the top right corner. "I don't suppose that you would be able to clarify these for me, by any chance, would you? The attendant at the car rental drew them out for me, but she also had me pointed more towards Cleary than Dublin, so I'm not entirely certain if I trust the fine points here." He says, with another warm glint of a smile, as he turns the paper to face her, his expression leaning towards hopeful but still genial.

[rebecca alyse nelson]

(

[/color] i can feel him like fire in my blood )

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FOR SOMEWHERE JUST BEYOND MY REACH;
THERE'S SOMEONE REACHING BACK FOR ME.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------[/center]

T

[/b][/color]he electric current in her fingertips had finally began to falter, as Rebecca became aware that she'd lost the boy... again. Only, as a relief, he had taken a short recess in order to scan the rest of the bar, yet she had yet determine if this was a good thing or a bad thing. Oh! Where was Marty when Rebecca needed her, honestly?! Marty could always be counted on to detract attention from her since Marty was a pro at attracting attention herself. Rebecca had her own style, conservative yet always somehow formal, no matter the setting she placed herself in; and Marty... well, Marty's style consisted of very little. Marty's wardrobe entailed a couple well-placed pieces of fabric, and a lot of exposed bare skin. Which was why it would have been so easy for Rebecca to simply melt away back into the background now, if she had not been daft and sent her right hand man home already. Yet, she found herself somewhat relieved whenever the young man spoke again, although their conversation thus far had resembled nothing close to civilized conversation. It was more like trying to watch a child pick out his favorite flavor of bubblegum: he just kept jumping to the next ones down the line until he hit the candy bars as opposed to the gum.

Of course her assumption had been right. The boy lacked particular vernacular and slang to be anything but American. He'd skipped right to his first and surname, a common American gesture, whereas the European custom was to make light, casual conversation first. The Americans lived in a fast-paced society, so Rebecca acknowledged that the boy probably didn't realize the forwardness to his statement. For a minute after his initial response, Rebecca sized him up, dressed him, any form of surveillance. Sure, she wasn't going to deny that the boy wasn't handsome (although she wasn't sure what it was that her feel so aroused at the moment), in fact Becca found that he had a certain kind of naive, boyish charm about him. But so far the boy had said nothing to her that would make her feel that he had anything really dilligent to say. At least the regular drunks she served in the Stags Head on a daily basis could carry a highly amusing conversation with her, in which she'd never have the speak. This one, this Taylor (what woman named their son 'Taylor' anyway?), was vexxing to her. She wanted to get closer to him, just take him in, the whole lot of him. If it meant sexually, at this point Hugo was pushed to the farest regions of her mind. Hugo was her soul mate, yes, and she'd gladly face the burning stake for him if it would ever come to it, but she also found herself wanting to get as close to this boy as naturally possible. If it meant going to sexual means just to satisfy this insatiable pull toward him, at this moment Rebecca would have jumped at the opportunity. Just once, and then she'd good the rest of her existence. Hugo would ne-

She couldn't finish this though because in the same moment she felt an invisible stake jab itself into her chest. Her Hugo would be devasted; her husband, though never a possessive man, Rebecca wasn't sure would be able to handle his wife doing anything as to what she had been suggesting with anyone. Let alone a human... Hugo was so perfect, though, she had no idea how she could've thrust him into her subconscious so easily. Everything about that man made her melt like butter. Whether it was his perfect, marbel chest crushed against hers, two unstoppable forces battling it out to see who would surrender, or something as sweet as a kiss from his lips, made Rebecca weak at her knees. She knew that she'd attained perfection when she first laid eyes on her Hugo, even though at the time everything human about her seemed to send up red flags, when he first walked into her life. But Taylor was... different. Rebecca couldn't be one hundred percent sure what this was; if it was simply an attraction that made her beg for his blood, or if this was a vampiric version of a mid-life crisis. But a midlife crisis seemed far too human, even for her, and Taylor's pull kept yanking on her like a dog on a leash. As much as Rebecca wanted to turn the other way and disappear into the back room, the burning was far too strong to ignore.

Rebecca could have inwardly groaned, if it were not for the inexplicable amount of self control she had been practicing right now at that moment in time. One on hand this proposed two scenarios: Rebecca had time to distinguish why she felt such a draw to Taylor Richardson, why she pictured herself allowing his hands to free wander her cold, marbelline body, and her lips, tasting testing his before she worked her way to his throat, to hell what means she would have to go to attain it. The other hand meant that this was extended time that she'd have to endure the burning in her throat, at least until he returned to the states. She'd have to remember to ask Carlisle Cullen if their were any kind of pain-killers that could have an effect on vampires, though she highly doubted it.

Her eyebrows pulled up her forehead in acknowledgement, her head nodding quite slowly. "Fischer? I'm sorry to hear about that: he was a good man, he was. He was one of Hugo's favorite customers, came in every Sunday morning just to shoot the breeze with him. I'm terribly sorry for your loss," she said quietly, before she could really stop to think about how to go about her response.

Would Taylor think much of the fact that she'd just thrown a man's name into the mixture, or would he simply ignore it, too taken up with her own personal beauty? Still, she slid on a weak smile, shortly before looking down at the mug she'd gotten for him. "Looks like I've still got it then. No one's ever not liked their ale after I've suggested it to them; it must be a gift, I suppose," she joked, her eyes working to follow his hands into his leather jacket, from which he withdrew a manilla folder. One of her eyebrows creeped up her forehead, pushing any additional wrinkles to the surface while she tried to figure out what the purpose of the folder was.

"May I?" she gestured, though did not wait for a response before she slid the paper slickly from his fingertips. It appeared to Rebecca to be a very crude, hand drawn map. To her, it seemed like something a four year old drew, she could really understand how reading the map could have ever confused him. Still, with no listing of street names given on the map, it was very hard for Rebecca to decipher all on her own. She assumed the long, bold line was the main road that cut through Dublin, that much she figured. So then that meant that the pub was roughly in the center of the line: the pub was deliberately placed where it was for the simple idea that people could always find it. Leave to Hugo to iron that one out... So then that the last street on the right would be the one for him. "Alright, so---" she laid the paper flat on the bar counter, her finger marking the location of the pub. "Here we are, the Stags Head Pub. If you go straight on the main road, all the way at the end, the last street on the right, is what you want. From there, it's very windy, but should take you where you need to go. Whoever drew this I fear should probably take some formal art classes... this map is very crude, very."[/blockquote][/blockquote]

(

[/color] i'm holding out for a hero )[/color]
1332 WORDS | TAYLOR | THE STAGS HEAD | OUTFIT | LYRICS by BONNIE TYLER[/center][/font]