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chaseroleplaying · 4 years ago

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“Oh no,” the young woman spat. The flat tone of her voice was contrasted starkly by the way her body rocked into a flurry. As she whooshed towards Chase and Mr. Sinclair like a vengeful spectre, she brought with her the stale musk of perfume lingering from an evening out. That scent was blasted into obscurity by the smell of fresh wine and cigarettes. The burning haze of her cigarette smoke built in front of her like her own personal, defensive fog.

“Eh-HEM~” Paul cleared his throat, scrambling internally to salvage this abysmal introduction. “Edith Chase. My daughter, Rose. My most precious asset,” he said. Although, there was a begrudging tone to his voice that betrayed the mounting irritation that spurred from his daughter’s uncontrollable behavior.

Chase’s expression was impassive. Her face was flat and almost entirely blank. Although — if one were to look close enough — there was a shadow of...something there. And by God, it almost looked like amusement. Her lips were pressed together in a stoic line, but the very right corner of her mouth quirked in the quietest of smirks. Her left brow lifted but a fraction of its usual resting position as the girl’s fury built and built like a breath of wildfire.

Chase said nothing as Mr. Sinclair seemed to puff up in embarrassment at his daughter's lascivious and wholly disrespectful display. Chase had spent only a few moments with the man, but she could already tell… The dangerous, powerful, vaguely mad, and utterly infallible Mr. Paul Sinclair was at his bloody wits end with his daughter. He was in desperate need of help — someone to wrangle her, or at the very least ensure that she was relatively safe in her escapades. Chase could only imagine the dismal failures of the previous bodyguards. Particularly if they were of the male variety (which they were inevitably were). A man could be of the most highly trained, and of the most disciplined caliber. But they, after all, were still men. Chase imagined that Miss Rose was the flame to their moth-esque instincts. Fly too close and your wings will burn away, dear Icarus, the poor chap. How many sun-charred corpses did Rose leave in her wake?

“Rose-” Paul attempted to cut in through her haughty tirade. The authority in his voice seemed to diminish in the face of all of Rose’s fury. Chase didn’t have to be a mind reader to know that the man was weak for her. Weakness, in the dark underbelly of a world controlled by crime and politics, was never a good thing. In the midst of a street war, all it would take was on crafty and quick handed individual to swipe Rose off of the street and demand whatever their heart’s desired from her father.

“Am I understood?” Rose huffed, barreling through her father’s half-hearted attempts to cool her and her wicked tongue. Her chin was lifted and her eyes were narrowed as she stood expectant for an answer.

“Hnn~” Chase hummed. “Almost twenty-one, eh?” she drawled. Her accent twanged with the dull elegance of something foreign. English, certainly. Americans told her constantly that her accent made her sound intelligent — but such wasn’t quite the same in her home country. Cockney was the poor man’s accent in London. It was scrappy, not posh. Many a Londoner would turn their nose up at such a voice, and many had. Chase bobbed her chin in a slow nod and for a moment it seemed as though her surrender was imminent. Was it — dealing with an uppity brat — truly worth the cash this job would bring? Chase didn’t have an answer to that question. Money was hardly an object to Mr. Sinclair when it came to the competent protection of his daughter. However, money was hardly an issue for her either. It left a question in her mind that echoed the first.

Why was she here?

She didn’t quite have an answer for that, however, she did have an answer for one of the Sinclairs — both of which seemed to be eager in their anticipation for her reply.

“I’ll take it,” Chase said. Though she was addressing Paul Sinclair, her sharp, bemused greens didn’t leave Rose’s sullen gaze for a time long enough to even blink.

“Excuse me?” Paul started. His confusion and partial dismay was practically palpable.

“I’ll take the job,” Chase clarified. She finally broke her fixated gaze on Rose to look back to the girl’s father.

“Ah-” Paul said. The very look on his face showed just how startled he was by Chase’s acceptance of the position. With Rose’s behavior, he had been expecting Chase’s outright refusal, and he was already running through the dismally short list of names that remained for eligible candidates for his daughter’s body guard. “Well that’s fantastic!”

“Hnn~” Chase conceded. “I expect I’ll be provided a car to transport Miss Rose to her… appointments. Lodging. A fitting salary.” Chase looked back to Rose Sinclair and this time her subtle smirk bloomed across her lips. Full, prominent, and fully amused as she calmly observed the girl’s façade of authority unravel. Her hand dipped in her pocket and she flicked her fingers at the mafia-man. Nestled between her index and middle finger was a slip of paper. Paul took it and a furrow creased his brow as he unfolded it. “If you could please have someone go to that address,” Chase continued, “ to fetch my bags, and Jacques, I’d be appreciative.”

“Jacques...? You’ve packed then,” Paul said with a note of victory in his voice. Chase’s initial reluctance even before she had even met Rose had, admittedly, made his nerves fire.

“I travel light,” Chase said simply. Her hands slipped in the pockets of her tailored slacks and she glanced back at Rose before what could have been considered a charming smile panned over her lips. “Well, I’m looking forward to working with you, Miss Rose,” she drawled. That accent of hers ever more prominent with every flick of her tongue. “I suppose I’ll need a tour of your lovely home, hmm?”

Winter and Whisky

December, 1926 – Manhattan, New York City

This wasn’t the first snow storm of the year, however it was the heaviest. The wind would have been gentle in any other weather — it would have been mostly forgiving. This wind, though, was flecked with sharp white flakes. It snaked violently through the wind tunnels that formed between the towering buildings. It threatened to steal hats from heads, and to rustle skirts indecently.

Detective Max Brinks stood tucked in a stoop that sheltered a doorway from the punishing wind. His hands were tucked tight in the pockets of his thick wool coat and he glared up the street from under the brim of his hat. The sidewalk was mostly deserted in this weather. Only a few lonely souls scurried along the winter hellscape. Brinks watched with a subtle glare as each figure passed. Not one of them was the woman he was looking for. His nostrils flared in an irritated huff and a plume of vapor dissipated in a blink of an eye under the wind’s greedy and relentless fingertips. Brink’s gloved fingers dug into the pocket of his vest to withdraw a pocket watch. Another huff. Irritation mounted as he stuffed the watch away.

“Chase,” he grumbled. “It’s gonna be summer by the time she shows up.”

“Hmm~” A thoughtful hum materialized in the drifting croon of the wind just by his ear. Had Brinks been anyone else, he very well may have jumped clean out of his skin. He didn’t, though. He only blinked once and turned his head in the precise direction he hadn’t been looking to come face to face with a pair of bemused green eyes — shadowed under the brim of a fine hat not unlike his own. The woman shuffled her feet and stepped into the alcove beside him.

“You’re late,” Brinks groused.

“Your watch is fast,” she replied. There was a foreign flick to her tongue. Brinks had never been very good with accents. The most his Brooklyn ear had even been able to pick out over conversations with this woman was that she was probably European of some manner. His face scrunched up in annoyance, to which the woman simply tilted her head. Her mouth fell in a subtle, but crooked smirk. “Well? I assume there is a good reason why we are standing in the middle of a storm on a Sunday, Detective.”

“Right,” Brinks grunted. “I have a job for you.” His hand disappeared into an interior pocket once more, and he pulled a folded slip of paper free — holding it between his first two fingers. With a flick of his wrist, he flung it at the woman. Her own quick fingers snagged it from the air before the wind dared to whisk it away.

A low whistle slipped from between her pursed lips after she unfolded the slip and read over its contents. It was an address. “Murray Hill?” she cooed. It was one of the more upscale neighborhoods in New York City. “Interesting.”

“A job, and a high paying one at that,” Brinks boasted before blowing on his hands. The cold was sinking in through his jacket. He tried not to marvel at the way the woman seemed entirely unaffected. Cool greens studied the paper before she clenched the paper in her fist.

“I thought you heard I was retired,” she said easily.

“If you were really retired,” Brinks grunted, “You wouldn’t be standing in the middle of a storm on a Sunday.”

She stared at him for a moment. Brinks felt his guts squirmed, but he met her eye with a steely glare of his own and held it until she broke into a loose smile. “Touche,” she conceded. With a flourish, she leaned against the wall — rocking back on her heels. “So, are you going to tell me what this job is? And which Murray Hill bloke is looking to hire? Or am I strolling up into Murray Hill and figuring that out myself?”

The tension that roiled in Brinks’s stomach loosened the moment she grinned. Though, he still felt a bit like squirming as he dropped a name. “It’s… Paul Sinclair.”

The woman scoffed. “And here I thought you were one of the few who were on the straight and narrow, Brinks. Making friends with mobsters isn’t quite the same thing. Is it?”

Brinks cleared his throat before muttering through a tense jaw. “I owed him a favor.” He caught a glimpse of a coy shine in her eyes, but said nothing. Instead he stuffed his hand once more into the interior pocket of his wool coat. This time, he passed on an envelop. Inside bills were lined together side by side. It totaled nearly one thousand dollars. The woman clicked her tongue and glanced at him.

“Consider it a deposit for your services, Chase,” he elaborated.

“What if I say no? What’s going to happen to your favor?” the woman said thoughtfully as she dragged her thumb along the sheaves of green.

“I don’t think Mr. Sinclair thought that far,” Brinks admitted before lifting his shoulders in a shrug. He adjusted his hat and cast a side eye back at the woman. “People don’t typically say no to Paul Sinclair.” He cleared his throat before stepping out into the wind and the snow. “Afternoon, Ms. Chase.”

______

People don’t typically say no to Paul Sinclair.

Paul Sinclair was a man of a certain kind of reputation. Edith Chase knew him — though, not personally of course. She knew him in the way most people did. In the way of stories. Stories whispered from the mouths of the underground. Stories that lined the top of newsprint in bold lettering. Mr. Paul Sinclair was a powerful man. A mad man. And a dangerous man. Max Brinks was right. Not many people said no to him and managed to walk away in one piece.

Edith stood on the stone steps that led up to a fine brownstone townhouse in Murray Hill, Manhattan. The money tucked away in the folds of her suit almost burned against her skin. It wouldn’t have been difficult to take all of that cash and spend it on a pleasant vacation — ignoring Sinclair’s proposition entirely. Here she stood instead, staring at the ornate door of an expensive townhouse belonging to a mad-man of a mobster. What brought her to this stoop, though, wasn’t the promise of more money. It wasn’t even fear stemming from Sinclair’s infamous reputation. She supposed, as she lifted the heavy door knocker and dropped it thrice, that she was just intrigued. Or, maybe she was just bored.

Three knocks later and the heavy mahogany door swung open on silent, oiled hinges. A pretty young woman stood straight with her heels pressed together. She wore the classic garb of a maid. Bright, youthful eyes looked up to Edith’s shadowed face. “Yes?”

“Chase. Mr. Sinclair should be expecting me.”

“Oh! Miss Chase! Of course, come in out of the cold. Mr. Sinclair will be so pleased to see you,” she fluttered, ushering Edith in through the door and fussing with the gathered snowflakes on her shoulders. “May I take your coat and hat?”

“Thank you,” Edith conceded. The wool coat fell from her shoulders at the prompt of the maid’s hands. Edith dropped her hat on top of the coat as it lay draped over the maid’s arms. Chase slipped her hands in the pockets of her slacks as she caught the maid’s wandering gaze. “Help you?” she crooned.

“Oh! My apologies. It’s just. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman in a suit before,” she fumbled before straightening her spine and gesturing down the hall with a fervent nod of her head. “Uhm, Mr. Sinclair is in his study. Down the hall and to the right. He’ll be so pleased to see you,” she said again. Chase watched with an amused gleam in her eyes before she sauntered down the hall. Heeled boots clacked over the smooth, polished wooden flooring until she came to a closed door. Inside, she heard the low muttering of a single voice. A hushed, one-way conversation. She didn’t knock.

The door swung open, and there at behind a desk that likely cost more than some homes, was Paul Sinclair himself. There wasn’t a mark of concern, disgruntlement, or offense on his face as he looked up from the sprawl of papers that were scattered over the surface of his desk. With a slow movement, he unfolded himself from his chair and stood. Dark, beady eyes locked on Chase as she wandered deeper into the study.

“Ms. Chase,” he drawled. His head tilted at the slightest degree.

“Ed is fine,” she prompted.

“British Sergeant in the first war. A clean, exemplary record. Medals of honor to the British Crown. Ah!” He paused and glanced down at a folder that lay open beneath his hand. He squinted before his eyes flashed back to her. “My apologies,” he hummed. “No, that was for a Mr. Edward Chase, wasn’t it? Women don’t fight. They don’t kill. It simply isn’t in their nature, hmm?”

Edith blinked once before she lolled her head to the side and moved to wander along a line of bookshelves. An abrupt hand pulled a book free of the shelf and she allowed a volume to fall open. She fought to ease the tension that rose from the sound of an old name, an old disguise she had used years ago. A focus gaze stared down at the pages that spread bare over her palm. She didn’t see the words though. Images crept back into her mind. Flashes of war. Horror. Companionship. Honor and disgrace. They were memories she would much rather leave in the past. Sinclair had done his research, she had to at least give him that.

“I was told I could find employment by you,” she said crisply. “I was not told it would be an interrogation. Why am I here, Mr. Sinclair?”

“FIFTEEN confirmed kills. Warrants in Germany, France, Bulgaria, Russia. I don’t know about you, Ms. Chase. But I am impressed.” He lifted the folder he had previously been pouring over and bobbed it in the air. “Mr. Chase’s records…” There was a coy smirk on his face as he stared at her. Edith sighed and snapped the book closed before tilting her head to glance back at him. With a flourish, long legs took her in front of the desk. She braced her hands on the surface and leaned down to meet Sinclair’s conniving eyes.

“What is this, hey? I didn’t come here to stand under the eye of a man who thinks he’s a god. If you know everything, then you know I’m retired.” Chase paused for a moment before she straightened. “I don’t do hits anymore.” With a flick of her hand, she dropped the envelop stuffed with cash onto the desk.

“Ah. But you came anyway,” Sinclair murmured. “Hmp~ I am not looking for a killer, Ms. Chase.” With a tired huff, he retreated from their mutual staring contest and settled in his chair. “In fact, just the opposite.” A slick hand slipped into the drawer of his desk and he withdrew a bottle of whisky and two tumblers. “I have a… very valuable asset. One in need of a soul who knows what it takes to take a life, but is paid rather to uphold it. And from what I have heard, Ms. Chase. You are exactly the soul that I need.”

��A guard?”

“A protector,” he corrected, lifting the tumbler in offering to Edith’s idle hand. “The compensation will be handsome. The hours will be long. And I trust,” he said before taking a sip from his own glass. “Largely… rewarding. This asset. Is very important, very valuable to me. I trust few people in this world, Ms. Chase. Especially with what is most precious to me. But, you’ve served causes loyally despite society’s exclusions of your sex. I value that. I trust that. And I believe I can trust you…”

Curious, Edith thought. She took a slow, measured sip of her own glass before lowering the tumbler back to the glass. An idle thought flicked through her head — wondering if it was possible that Mr. Paul Sinclair was losing his entire mind. If the rumors and the headlines were true, it wouldn’t have been much of a surprise. There was only so much a man could lose before his mind followed. Edith tapped her finger on the edge of her glass.

“So… What will I be protecting?”

Sinclair beamed and rose swiftly from his desk. “Come,” he said simply.

Exiting the study, Edith followed with a steady gait as Sinclair lead her through the complex labyrinth of the brownstone’s lavish interior. With a flourish, Paul pushed open a pair of french doors that led to an ornate drawing room.

Edith had been expecting a safe. A valuable painting. A sculpture. Perhaps even a weapons cache.

She had not, however, expected what sat on a velvet chaise lounge in the drawing room.

The asset that Paul Sinclair so desperately sought a protector for was no inanimate object of immense value.

Rather, it was a girl. His very own daughter. Rose Sinclair herself.

Edith blinked. Idle thoughts rolled in her mind before settling on one unspoken thought. Ah… Not a guard. Not even a protector. He’s looking for a babysitter.

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chaseroleplaying · 5 years ago