[For Rory]

When Pippa didn't show up for her Tuesday night shift at Last Call, the owner came in to make sure set up and opening was completed. Then he started making phone calls. No answer on her cell phone. No answer on her home phone. Mike left messages on both voicemail systems: Pippa, where are you? You're on the schedule for tonight in case you forgot. Call me, dollface.

She didn't return his calls or even show up at the bar. By the time the musical act of the night started their second set, Mike was getting worried. Not agitated. Pippa wasn't the irresponsible type. Where some of the other girls might simply pull a no-show for a shift, Phillipa Kerr had never once done that in the almost three years that he'd known her. Not once.

A thought occurred to him and he went back into the storeroom/office and pulled out the binder that held contact information for the bar's bookings. Pippa was dating one of the musicians that played at the Call regularly. Rory, wasn't it? The Irish guy...Stone. Finding the cell phone number for the man, Miked dialed. Maybe she'd been whisked off somewhere. Or maybe Rory knew where she was...hopefully.

[For John Larch]

ooc: Takes place hours after this post and concurrently with this post here. Same warning for content applies.

Tuesday Evening, The Circe

She was tied to wooden chair, hands bound behind her back. The way he had pulled her arms over the backrest rungs of had been intentionally painful—her muscles forced into a state of constant strain. Her ankles had also been secured, rough corded rope digging into her skin and tied tight enough that her bare feet were beginning to lose circulation. And she was cold, her skin clammy.

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