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intheheartTitle: Women
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Brad has better things to do.
Warnings: Sexism, sexist slurs, general horrible-personness.
Notes: Brad is Ivy's biological father, or, as she likes to call him, her biohazard. I promise to write some less skin-crawly villains soon.
The bitch calls him right when he's about to score.
Brad considers just ignoring it, but every time he's done that she's rained hell down on his head, and he is just so not in the mood to hear her screaming. So he smiles at the blonde he's been hitting on and tells her he'll be right back, then sneaks out the back and answers.
"What."
"Where are you?" Christ, even her voice grates on his nerves now. Why the hell did he ever fuck this woman?
"None of your business," he snaps back. "The fuck do you want?"
She inhales, a quick sigh that reminds him of all his bitch teachers and the way they rolled their eyes when he didn't turn in his homework. "You were supposed to be here an hour ago. To see Ivy."
Like he wants to see her brat. "Yeah, well, I got things to do."
"Better things than seeing your daughter?" Her voice is pitched low, dangerous, and he curses inwardly.
Whatever. He's going to catch hell anyway, now, so he might as well go for broke. "Much better things," he tells her, acridly. "You got something to say, say it. Otherwise I'm hanging up."
Another inhale. It makes him kind of want to punch things. "Your next appointment is one week from today. Be there." There's a click-- she hung up, didn't even give him the satisfaction.
Bitch.
He ducks back into the club and sees the blonde halfway across the bar, arms folded beneath her breasts, leaning forward and talking earnestly to the guy beside her. Which, fucking hell, but just like a woman, wandering off the second you move your attention. He really thought he had her, too. Fuck.
Still, there's a brunette at the bar with tits out to there.
He'll give her a shot.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Brad has better things to do.
Warnings: Sexism, sexist slurs, general horrible-personness.
Notes: Brad is Ivy's biological father, or, as she likes to call him, her biohazard. I promise to write some less skin-crawly villains soon.
The bitch calls him right when he's about to score.
Brad considers just ignoring it, but every time he's done that she's rained hell down on his head, and he is just so not in the mood to hear her screaming. So he smiles at the blonde he's been hitting on and tells her he'll be right back, then sneaks out the back and answers.
"What."
"Where are you?" Christ, even her voice grates on his nerves now. Why the hell did he ever fuck this woman?
"None of your business," he snaps back. "The fuck do you want?"
She inhales, a quick sigh that reminds him of all his bitch teachers and the way they rolled their eyes when he didn't turn in his homework. "You were supposed to be here an hour ago. To see Ivy."
Like he wants to see her brat. "Yeah, well, I got things to do."
"Better things than seeing your daughter?" Her voice is pitched low, dangerous, and he curses inwardly.
Whatever. He's going to catch hell anyway, now, so he might as well go for broke. "Much better things," he tells her, acridly. "You got something to say, say it. Otherwise I'm hanging up."
Another inhale. It makes him kind of want to punch things. "Your next appointment is one week from today. Be there." There's a click-- she hung up, didn't even give him the satisfaction.
Bitch.
He ducks back into the club and sees the blonde halfway across the bar, arms folded beneath her breasts, leaning forward and talking earnestly to the guy beside her. Which, fucking hell, but just like a woman, wandering off the second you move your attention. He really thought he had her, too. Fuck.
Still, there's a brunette at the bar with tits out to there.
He'll give her a shot.
