Her and her damn pride. Some people were vain about their looks or their brains. Isabelle didn't really care about her looks and was perfectly comfortable with her brain. It did all of its jobs just fine. But her spine, well, that was an entirely different story. She was damn vain about her spine.

So what was she supposed to do when JaDerrick had said she was scared to go out with him? It was utterly ridiculous, kind of like him sometimes, but she, Isabelle Layla Carr, was afraid of nothing. At least nothing she let others see. And certainly not dating! She wasn't scared of dating at all.

Of course, lack of experience in that area did make her slightly wary, but wary was different than scared. Not that she'd never dated anyone, she just hadn't... done it very much. But JaDerrick had dared to say she was afraid, so, dammit, here she was. In a club. With him.

She felt... awkward and out of place here. After all, most of the girls she saw were all skinny, fashionable, and slicked up with makeup. And here she was wearing baggy jeans and a t-shirt. Her face was unpainted, the cool blue eyes currently hiding their awkwardness behind a shield of lazy unconcern.

JaDerrick turned to her. He gave her one of his trademark grins. "Come on, now, Carr. Let's us do some dancin'." Despite her reluctance, he pulled her out to the floor, began to dance --very, very badly-- to the quick, funky music. He looked so goofy, she couldn't help but laugh a little.

OOC: Mind playing with Vaughan...he's a bit silly most of the time. If you mind, I'll edit this post gone.

IC: Vaughan is a natural club goer. Is there a club gene? Well, there is a gene that says if your daddy can dance then you can dance and Vaughan took full advantage of the fact that his father, and he himself, were supurb dancers. It was an art. It was a game.

Vaughan wasn't dancing now, however. Standing at the bar, and appearing to be very out of place, he was leaning back against the bar, both elbows on it's surface, his butt barely touching the edge of the stool, holding a plastic cup of water without ice, and his tawny, wolf-like eyes were scanning the crowd, judging the dancers.

There are times in his life that Vaughan appears ten, sometimes twenty, years older then he is, aged by tragedy and sorrow. Then there are times, like now, that Vaughan releases all of that sorrow and appears as he should. Unfortunatly, "as he should" at the age of nearly ninteen appeared to be sixteen or seventeen. He often had to fight with the people at the door who would try to confiscate his ID, calling out "it's fake, next," like he wouldn't put up a fight and throw a fit. This mishap had occured several times at each club until he was known on sight as a regular. Now he no longer flashed an ID at all.

Vaughan was wearing leather pants that should have looked uncomfortable. He made them look like he was wearing cotton pj's. His shirt was tight and shortsleeved with a very low V at the neck. This V was held togather by a single strap that slashed diaganol across his chest. His wild curls were untamed and looked more like a mane now then ever and his lip was beaded with sweat. He'd been dancing all evening.

Usually Vaughan hunts for the good dancers, the ones that wow you. His eyes have found a silly pair and landed a slight smile on his lips. They were having fun. He liked people who had fun.