“That’s not good enough!” Ramona’s fork hit the table with a loud smack as she leaned over the fine white linen and glared daggers at the red faced pack of old dogs sitting around her. The party of eight business men and a single business woman was not odd at Petit Paris anymore, but her outbursts and always set every stuffed shirt in the building on edge. Their lives were all so dull with decorum that Ramona’s mild scandals of unladylike behavior gave them all something to look forward to. She did, however, quiet herself slightly - one of her investors (Mr. Pinckum, as usual) was beginning to turn more violet than red.

“Gentlemen, you must understand,” she admonished as kindly as she could, though her Romanian accent became heavier and more clipped with her aggravation. “A Quarter horse simply wont last, even if I side bread one with a Thoroughbred, it’s not going to happen. These are mile long races, not quarter mile sprints. I tell you, we need a well built Morgan! And I can breed you one if you’d just supply the damn bloody money!”

Her voice had risen again, but Ramona hadn’t noticed until it was too late and her curses echoed off the walls back to her ears. Mr. Pinckum was nearing a heart attack or a seizure - she couldn’t determine just witch one it would be this time - and half the waiters in the place where hurrying to shush one of their most expensive, and yet most problematic customer. Yet again she’d made a nice little spectacle of herself, and yet again she’d singled herself out. One of these days she was going to pay for that sort of behavior. As she eyed the broken fork hidden beneath her hand, she rather hoped it was a mortal that tried to make her pay.

Ramona let out a long sigh, telling herself to calm down. She hadn’t fed the night before, and she had yet to get a chance to feed this night. That was what was making her so edgy and irritable, at least, that is what she kept telling herself. Once the waiters were all fanned away with apologies and the manager was off fetching the restaurant’s finest wine with several extra bills tucked into his jacket pocket, Ramona turned her eyes back onto the pack of men she most wanted to set her teeth into.

Pinckum was somewhat back to normal, though still slightly maroon, and the proceeding went on as Ramona siphoned off more of her meal onto other people’s plates. The whole lot of them were bloody annoying, and she took a particularly deviant pleasure of putting her slightly garlicky chicken onto Mr. Bristol’s plate (he was mildly allergic, you see, and would puff up like a great balloon… not that his particularly wide girth didn’t do that all ready).

Behind a winemenu Max raised his eyebrows as Ramona had her outburst.
"Wow..." He muttered, cheking the wines which were aviable in this rather chique restaurant. He had ordered a fine salmon, yet already knew that his stomach more ached for blood rather than food. Yet for the sake of old times and the cosyness of the resaturant, he had chosen to delay his feeding for the night.
The restaurant had indeed been what he had expected tho he hadn't known his fellow Vampire and horselover had chosen this restaurant too, to discuss, or rather fight the ideas of the men hiring her.
A thoroughbred/quarterhorse cross, an insult to the horseworld, he thought, to let such a abomination race would truly be a joke.

Ramona was nearly half way through savoring a nearly raw steak before she had calmed down enough to feel reasonable again. Mr. Bristol was only just beginning to show signs of distress, and his pompous son was whining in a voice that reminded her vividly of a squeaking rabbit. Had it not been for the son, she would have honestly enjoyed watching Bristol begin to squawk around his swelling tongue. As it was, she at least got a private laugh out of watching his useless son’s eyes roll in terror, watching his source of money begin to gulp for air that would not go past his thick tongue.

When it seemed no one else at the table was going to dig out their expensive cell phones‘ to make the call needed, Ramona waved over one of the staring waiters and handed him her cell. While he spoke to the dispatcher, she stuck her finger down Bristol’s throat and held his tongue out of the way. The squawking stopped, and Bristol began to breath easily, but his son was still squealing like a stuck pig. With a desire to have her hand back and to shut the boy up, Ramona snatched his arm, and forced him to hold his father’s tongue out of the way.

“Now, be a good boy, and make sure your father doesn’t die.” The youth’s eyes went so wide that she expected his eyes to pop out completely, but he finally calmed down enough that she shut up, and concentrated on making sure his father was breathing. This mess taken care of, Ramona turned away from the mass, aiming to escape to the restrooms.

She became rooted to the spot, however, when her eyes fell on the familiar form of Maximilian Mainor. For a moment she wondered if he realized she’d been the direct cause of the entire mess. And then she wondered if she should even care if he, or anyone else knew?

Flatly, she decided she didn’t care, she was too irritated to bother worrying about it. Instead, she mastered a smile, and continued on her way. He sat alone it seemed, and if that was still so when she came back, then she would opt to say hello.

He finally decided to order some salmon, since he had enjoyed it in real life as well. Ordering his chose hen the nearest waiter came by he sipped his wine, looking over to where Romona had started her little tantrum. The old mortal had indeed been on the brink of dying, but he didn't care. He was old, but the boy could perhaps be a nice drink for the evening.
He was interested in those horses, and to hear a man talk so carelessly about them made his heart ache, but whether Ramona wanted his help or not; it was a choice she had to make herself, he had the money.

Ramona reemerged as calm, collected, and cold as ever. She gave the cluster of people around the table she had vacated a disgusted look before she slid herself gracefully into a seat at Max’s table. She settled herself comfortably into the chair, and rested her elbows on the table in a sort of disinterested, and yet depressed fashion; nearly mimicking a prissy, modern teenager when her parents have decided she can’t go see that R rated movie, she is still just seventeen.

“Do you mind if I sit here until they realize I have left their company?”

"Oh sure you might," he said. "Tho I believe it is hard for them to believe you are gone when you are just sitting three tables away.." He pointed at with a grin. "But of course you are welcome, is there anything I can perhaps order for you?"
He got the menu for her, offering it.
"I decided to eat something today, Idunno, got bored of blood I guess and wanted something not so... liquid perhaps..." He shrugged. "Did you make them angry again? Or did they angered you this time?"

Ramona chuckled as she lightly pushed the menu back toward max, “I’ve eaten enough solid foods to make me hate them for a month. Thank you, though.”

Her eyes slid back toward her pervious table, and fairly hoped that the red faces Bristol was enough to keep her unwanted. “It was a little of both, I think. Though Bristol’s malady came from the chicken off my plate.”