It had been a long week, evenings spent gambling in the comfort of a fine woman's company was in Vincent Pierce's opinion the perfect way to find a temporary relief. He had come tonight with no arm candy, the one he would have usually derived his need from as the night wore on. There seemed a large crowd in the lobby however, and in his experience, crowds ran thick with emotion. There was knowledge that he could always go to food but there was a different hunger within reserved for lust, anger, contentment, greed and fear.

Tonight Vincent came in a suit. A couple he had known for awhile invited him for some party, he thought he should at least look formal. The fabric of the jacket and slacks where a fine silk dyed a shimmering black, the shirt was white and translucent revealing his chest. His hair he had chose to leave down, holding it back in a pony tail seemed too typical, it framed his face before falling over his shoulders and against his back. Violet eyes seemed luminesent in the light of the chandelier above.

His silk lips curved in a smile as his friends waved to him from across the lobby of the casino. He could see them almost perfectly, the slight dilation of their stark blue eyes, the slight flush in their cheeks. The smile faltered slightly. Vincent didn't drink, he had no wish to make himself a fool infront of his peers. The mental image of vomit smoldering the upholstry in his car made him nautious. The option was to continue the night and manage somehow to cease their drunkened merrymaking, or continue the night in the gambling area as often as possible and avoid them. He paused in his steps. They did seem happy enough without him.

A hand stuck out in front of Vincent's face. There were dice in it.

"Blow," said a voice.

An odd command but then again, they were in a casino so it wasn't too outlandish.

It was a dark hand with light palms and the arm disappeared into a maroon collared shirt. His shirt was unbuttoned at the sleeves and the neck, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Thick brown dreadlocks hung in the man's face, almost touching the table he was leaning over. He had black suspenders that stretched over his broad shoulders, connecting to his equally black pants with silver fasteners.

It was clear that he'd been drinking. Some of the guys from the farm were really convinced that Montrez didn't get out enough and had given him enough drink to get him down to the casino. Now they couldn't get him out of the room. Just keep feeding him drinks until he passes out, they guessed. However, it wasn't a bad thing--the guys finally got something on him.

Vincent paused suddenly in his steps to keep from being clothes lined by the outstretched arm. He looked at the dice in front of him, before slowly tracing the arm back to it's owner. Interesting in appearance and as drunk as Bacchus. As a thought came to mind he smiled, it wasn't the brillant show stopper but a wry and thoughtful one.

He pursed his lips slightly as he blew onto the dice, his breath, hot enough to singe fell against the dice. Drunk ... hmm. Drunks tended to give more emotion than others, it would make him an easy target.

The couple across the lobby waited, since he had no desire to have an audience Vincent waved to them to tell them to go on. He took the man's wrist with his other hand before it could be drawn back.

'Can I buy you a drink?'

"Only if'n I win, Mist'r. Table can be mighty treach'rous to the un-keen eye," yes, he still believed his eye was keen after the four drinks he'd had after being drunk enough to come here.

If he knew he was acting this way, Montrez would have sworn off drink forever. But let us be glad that he won't remember this in the morning, especially with the addition of the drink he was sure to get from Vincent. Being telekinetic sort of helped his luck along.

His lack, drunk fingers flung the dice out on the table--or tried to. M.C. looked bewilderingly at his arm. It was caught on...something.

"Oh, 'scuze me Buddy," with a great amount of concentration he removed the fingers holding his arm. He used his fingers, though, not his head. The concentration was only because his fingers didn't want to do what he'd told them, "Think I might need this.."

Then the dice rolled from his fingers without much apparant force. The odd thing was that they kept going until they landed perfectly.

"Well would'ja lookie there.."

A brow quirked as he watched the man slowly remove his fingers. He was more drunk then Vincent had thought to begin with. He rewarded himself with a dazzling smile of triumph before stepping closer to the table. It looked like he would be buying a drink after all, the man was having no difficulty at the moment.

As Vincent waited on his new found friend he glanced casually over the table, taking in the emotions of the crowd surrounding it. There was a young woman clinging to the arm of a man at least twice her age, her make up was exceptionally heavy, the lipliner tracing her botox enhanced lips reminded him of those sharpie markers. The older man at her side had probably paid for the cosmetic surgery that screwed up what would have been a pretty face.

A crowd of people around one of the tables close by gave a joyous cheer, it startled him causing him to bring back his power swiftly. A few people blinked at the sudden rush they probably felt in their head. Vincent pulled his silk jacket around his chest, tossing a few strands of his auburn hair back as he returned his attention to the man. His primary target for the evening.

(sorry I took so long I was having difficulty deciding what to write)

"Whoo! I am in the money tonigh'! You got lucky breath, man," he flung an arm around the man's waist, giving the signal that Montrez wasn't going to let him leave. No no, that breath was way too valuable to the drunk gambler.

Of course, I don't think the dealer was very keen on allowing Montrez to stay. He didn't see any sign of cheating other than the fact that the dread-locked guy just didn't seem to know how to lose. And he knew how much alcohol was in M.C.'s system. He'd watched most of it go down. But he knew how to deal with this type of drunk. They generally took whatever you said for the truth.

"I'm sorry sir, but the table's full."

"M'kay, pal." He clumsily grabbed all of his chips, pushing them in and together with sloppy hands. There were a quite a few of them, but the way he was holding them just didn't seem to make sense. They were staying in his hands but no one could tell how they managed to keep from falling.

"Hey friend, how's abou' tha' drink ya owe me?" Whoops! He didn't mean to stumble onto Vincent.

Even when stumbled into Vincent still held the appearance of some patient, graceful predator. He smiled, his teeth only a tad whiter than his pale skin, all thanks to the miracle of a combination of possibly hazardous chemicals. He'd pay for that later though. Now there were drinks to be had, and perhaps the woman at the end of the bar if the evening turned up well.

He slipped the man's arm from around the designer jacket as he waved to the bar tender with his other hand. Vodka, his friend might like a little Jack though. Vincent didn't bother sitting, he wanted to get what he had come for and soak in the remainder of the evening. His drink came in a wine glass, martini glasses always held too little, the man at his side with the head of dreadlocks was rewarded with a iced mug of Jack. Vincent had chosen to not be picky about his friends drink, he doubted with the amount of drink he had already consumed that it would bother him.

Showtime.

'So my friend what is it exactly that you do?'

There was no interest what so ever, it was a distraction not a good one but good enough. Vincent's mind laid over the man's, heavly drowning and consuming. If the man would pass out it would be no suprise, at least if he did Vincent would have an excuse. Everyone would just assume he had had way too much to drink.

There's nothing that could cut through his drunken haze quite as well as asking about his job. Good feeling swamped through him and he smiled wide, his eyes twinkling. "Horses," you could hear his love for them in his voice. Drink notwithstanding, Montrez gained some lucidity when he thought of them.

"I work with horses, train 'em, ride 'em, break 'em, love 'em. And mules, too. Basic'ly any four-hoofed...thing."

His hand slipped around the cold drink, lifting it to meet his thick lips.

"Wha' abou' you?"

Vincent hated horses, the blasted things. A childhood incident had brought him to believe that every hooved animal had it in for him. His expression didn't change, in fact it remained quite neutral and still, he resembled a manquin, the slight movement of his breathing was perhaps the only thing they led others to believe he was real. He seemed very attentive, listening like a friend would, although his mind was elsewhere.

'I inherited my fathers business, a software company.'

Like Bill Gates ... just without half his money. Vincent strengthened his grasp on the man's mind, love of the horses was only a taste, if there was more he could drain for the evening he wanted it. Often when Vincent was hungry enough he would hurt people to get what he wanted ... lets hope the evening wouldn't come to that.

'I assume you work in a barn? Do you do this with your family.'

When his father was alive he was a pure Lachus, he would turn black-hearted businessmen into crying heaps on the floor. Though since Vincent was only half he had to use more than just his mind to achieve his goal.

If Vincent thinks that there's something Montrez loves more than horses he's going to be sorely disappointed. There's no love in M.C.'s life other than the love he gets from his animals and the love and care he gives them in return. There's no woman. No man. No significant other at all. There never has been, in fact. It's difficult to begin a relationship with you're not attracted to anyone at all. Montrez only sleeps with whores and even then with his eyes closed. Why bother looking at something that won't do anything for you? Concentrate on the feel.

"No," his voice trailed, "Not with family."

Montrez did not think highly of his mother. He didn't understand the type of person who could leave their son and lover for a career that would be over in a matter of years. Six at the most. Then all you'll be is a washed up has been. He may not feel love strongly, Vincent, but he does feel the opposite emotion with surprising intensity, given the right situation. Then again, Montrez is a rather laid back sort of fellow. It's unusual for him to even find the right situation.