View source for 1-27-2015: Hate to sing and run, but...

{{#css:
blockquote {
     font-style: italic; 
     text-indent:0;  
     margin-bottom: -1.5em;"
}
blockquote.end {
     margin-bottom: initial;
}
}}{{Log
|cast=
*[[Jake Lord|Jake]]
*[[Mack]]
*[[Maya]]
*[[Skylar]]
|summary=A regular coffeehouse gig almost ends ''very'' badly.
|date=01/27/2015
|time=21:38 EST
|place_name=[[Jumpin' Jive House of Java]], [[Hamtramck]]
|log=It's one of those coffee places in Hamtramck--the sort Mack has been scouting for herself, in fact. It's like many others: eclectic decor and staff, housed in a renovated (only slightly) factory space. Only for a cold winter's evening in despair-ridden Detroit, this one seems... warm and welcoming. Rather than sitting apart and alone, even the parties of one are talking to each other, and there are more smiles per capita than one would normally expect, even in this part of town.<br> 

There's a sense of hope, an indefinable *something*. As if the air in here is a shade fresher than the crisp cold city air outside.<br>

There's a young woman with a guitar, the instrument just barely miked, in the middle of what sounds like a folk song.<br>

<blockquote>
"We are love offered on the wing<br>

that stretches across eternity, <br>

we are a chord in <br>

life's symphony, we are the silent awakening..."
</blockquote>
The singer's voice is a low, mellow alto, obviously trained. She has the house in the palm of her hand, and yet doesn't have their complete, focused attention in every case; some of them are enjoying the music as well as quiet conversation. But the energy in the room matches that of the song: fresh, wild, positive.

<div class="desc">
'''Mack'''<br>

A fair skinned young woman with straight black hair and light brown eyes. Her face is slender and somewhat elfin in feature; delicate, but with eyes brimming with potential for fierce emotion. Her form is slender, her movements well-controlled and lithe, though she oftens comes across as having to keep her energy levels in check. She has the overall appearance and nature of someone you'd expect to be cast in the next LotR movie as some elf or fairy creature--and there's just this odd sense of longstanding Gaelic regality about her when you catch her in the right light, or mood. Her attire is based on function over fashion; jeans, cotton shirts, sweatshirts, jackets and a pair of sturdy sneakers seem to be the norm for her on most days, though she might clean up quite nicely if given the chance.
</div>

<div class="ooc">
<<DICE>> Mack rolls perception + primal urge, difficulty 8 <br>
<<DICE>> 0 successes (1 3 7 10, Specialty: No, Willpower: No)
</div>

The door of the cafe opens to let in a slightly bundled up woman into the establishment. There is an immediate reaction from the girl upon her entering too, as she is noticeably taken aback by the warm environs she finds beyond the door. The cap she had on her head is taken off and clutched in just her left hand as she hovers at the door. Her attention, now that she's inside, is drawn immediately and wholly to the singer.

The thing that makes the singer so magnetic is not raw talent, or amazing skill. She *is* skilled, her singing voice pleasant, her guitar technique good enough--but it's the utter commitment to the performance, the fact that her entire soul is invested in the song and its message, that has some of the usually-blase coffee drinkers actually paying *attention*. And that has to be the reason for the mood in the room, the sense of hope and change and possibility.<br>

Maya moves into a verse, rhythmic strumming shifting to a softer, more complex arpeggiated accompaniment, her voice softening as she looks out over the watchers in yearning.<br>

<blockquote>
I dreamt that I could not find you---<br>

Always one step behind you---<br>

Could not see your face...<br>

I walked in tears and sorrow, <br>

Tempted by the taste of tomorrow<br>

And the hunger of yesterday...
</blockquote>
A stop time, her hand silencing the strings. This time, when she launches into the chorus, the strum pattern includes a few drumming strikes on the soundboard. A little smile kindles, rueful, and something in her body picks up the rhythmic drive of the song; a little sway that doesn't interfere with her playing.<br> 
<blockquote>
"But that was only a dream of a dream---<br>

This world it not what it seems, we are the wind<br>

that carries the seeds, we are the roots of the banyan tree... <br>

We are love offered on the wing <br>

that stretches across eternity, <br>

we are a chord in <br>

life's symphony, we are the silent awakening..."
</blockquote>
She repeats the chorus again, a few extra strums added in to create the illusion of volume--and ends it with another stop-time just before the last line, leaning in to let the mike catch a little of her voice as she sings it soft and a cappella:<br>
<blockquote class="end">
"...we are the silent awakening." 
</blockquote>

Whatever this place is, it's managed to completely mesmerize the woman that just entered. So much so in fact, that Mack remains where she first stopped, still largely in the way should anyone else try to enter. As the song continues there is a subtle tightening of her jaw that accompanies the dry swallow in her throat, and it's only as the door bumps her from behind that she snaps out of her reverie. "Sorry- sorry." She steps more fully into the shop now and moves to find an open seat that gives her a wide berth to those who might usually find her a little off setting.

There are a few scattered claps, enough to bring a self-conscious laugh from the performer. She scans the room, something awkward in her lopsided smile--she isn't quite at the height of smooth professionalism, still getting there, maybe in her early 20s. The flush of embarrassment makes a small scar visible, a little white line on one side of her throat, when she flips her hair out of her eyes. With that little lean forward to catch the range of the mike, she says, <br>

"Thanks. That was Tina Malia's. Um, this next one is for anyone who's experienced addiction. It was written by a friend of mine, and... well, although it's dark, she's in recovery. And if anyone out there is struggling... take this in your heart, and know that you're not alone. There are people out there who are on your side, and *want* to help you." It's not her natural charisma, so much as the fact that her heart is behind those words--that's what holds the attention, just as it did in performance.<br>

She begins a slow-pulsing, strummed pattern, marked by a syncopated slap to the soundboard and a few abrupt silencing-hits on the strings. It *feels* inevitable, and when she looks up, her expression is bleak, distant. Her eyes close for a moment, when she breathes.

Mack doesn't clap at the end of the performance, though it's easy to tell it wasn't for lack of approval. Her hat gets set on the small table she's managed to put herself at; small enough that it really only invites for one guest. A deep breath follows as she looks around the room, taking in the patrons and workers alike. When a server comes to check on her, the girl gives a faint nod and a quiet, "Just coffee please." Her eyes then roam back to the musician, brow creasing as she studies her a little more intently.

When Maya sings, there's a trace of a wince, a pain that tightens the corners of her eyes. The beginning is almost without melody, narrow span of pitches in a near-spoken rhythm, the words spilling out like improv poetry.<br>
<blockquote class="end">
"I don't ever wanna sleep again <br>

can't take the pain there's a hole in my heart and a<br>

runway train in my head again<br>

I think I might drown in the city so cold so wasted <br>

drown in the poison that I've tasted<br> 

drownin' in my dreams <br>

dancin' with the demons..."
</blockquote> 

<div class="ooc"> 
<<DICE>> Jake rolls Perception+Primal-Urge, difficulty 8 <br>
<<DICE>> 0 successes (3 5 6 7, Specialty: No, Willpower: No)
</div>

Sitting alone, at a table barely meant for two, is a young woman with her jacket still on and a knit cap set on the table in front of her. From her place in the audience, she is all eyes on the performer, quite nearly to the exclusion of everything else going on in the coffee shop.

Jake comes in from the cold and the first thing he does upon entering the place is to look around with a bemused, suspicious squint, nose wrinkled and mouth curled into a grimace. For a second, he even looks like he might turn around and walk right back out. But it's cold as balls out there, and his jacket's way too light for the weather. So instead he clomps over to an empty table -- kicking someone's laptop bag 'accidentally' on the way -- and drops himself into a chair with all the good graces of a surly child.

The refrain comes almost instantly, a shift to a longing-tinged major; the singer's expression becomes more open somehow, yearning.<br>
<blockquote>
"All the angels are calling me <br>

over a sunless sea, but the beast is--" 
</blockquote>
The return of the minor brings a hitch of one shoulder, the renewal of pain, a darkness in her expression that turns inward. The musical language turns straight into blues, the first syllable nothing but a long, leaning blue note. <br>
<blockquote>
"Feeding...<br>

on my soul, the beast is<br>

feeding<br>

on my soul..."
</blockquote>
Again that strummed pattern from the intro, inevitable as the tide, giving her a two-measure break before the next verse.
It's only the momentary rush of cold air and the sound of someone thumping into a seat that draws Mack's attention away from the performance. Her eyes fall briefly on the newest arrival, but the beckoning minor refuses to be ignored, so her attention falls quickly back to the woman singing. Even the coffee that is set down at her table doesn't draw her away from her focus right now.

Jake sits slouched in his chair, shoulders hunched and arms folded across his chest. He listens to the singer with the same scrunched, wary look that he gave the cheery coffeeshop in general, fidgeting and restless.

She starts the new verse with a whisper, a shake of her head.<br> 
<blockquote>
"You know I've-- <br>

I've seen it in the hollow of their eyes, lonely people in the city of desire<br>

The look of a lover: are you hungry, child? do you need me, need me?" 
</blockquote>
The next line begins high and keening, inflected with another blue note appoggiatura--and another tense lift of that shoulder, her body leaning into the pain of the melody: <br>
<blockquote>
"When the needle is in your arm, it's so easy <br>

'til your liquid love runs cold <br>

Can you feel me?

All the angels are callin' me<br> 

Over a sunless sea, but the beast is <br>

Feeding...<br>

on my soul, the beast is <br>

feeding<br>

on my soul..."
</blockquote>
Something like the verse comes back, but hangs around the dominant: a bridge. <br>
<blockquote>
"Sittin' in my room at night <br>

all alone... <br>

been wishin' that I had a lover <br>

gonna save my soul, but I can <br>

hear it scratchin' I've heard that<br>

sound before, it comes<br>

howling <br>

at my door..."
</blockquote> 
Suspended high for a moment... and then the contrast is stark, when that relentless opening pattern returns. The singer gives a little pained shake of her head, bowing it as if defeated by the inevitable rhythm. Back to the beginning, the words spilling from her, more pain behind them this time.<br>
<blockquote>
"I've seen so much I didn't wanna see-- <br>

Now I'm burning out of control <br>

Can I take another night of emptiness? I don't know...<br> 

And ain't nobody gonna save my soul, nothin' I can do anyway<br>

when the claws and feathers come and<br>

spirit me away..." 
</blockquote>
This time, the singer improvises around the refrain:<br>
<blockquote>
"And all the angels, all the angels are calling me..."
</blockquote>
She sings her winding way through that blues-ridden chorus, and then devolves into chant, a kind of mindless mourning that winds the song down and down until it ends in silence. Her head's bowed, and there's that moment of silence that comes when something has truly moved an audience (or, in this case, just *most* of it.) A second of sacred, hushed... 'whoa.'<br>

The singer swallows, and leans into the mike before anyone can think of applauding. (One of the baristas might be crying in the back.) <br>

"Okay, now let's get back to the light. This is 'The Road Ahead.'" <br>

And it's all about hope again, and love and light and finding the warmth of human contact. *That's* the feeling the place has, that doesn't seem to fit in with the darkness shadowing this city.

<div class="ooc">
<<DICE>> Mack rolls primal urge + perception, difficulty 7<br> 
<<DICE>> 0 successes (1 3 4 9, Specialty: No, Willpower: No)

<<DICE>> Jake rolls Perception+Primal Urge, difficulty 7 <br>
<<DICE>> 3 successes (2 4 5 9 9 10, Specialty: No, Willpower: No)
</div>

And it is <i>not</i> normal.

Jake shifts around in his chair again, looking even more antsy. He glances out a nearby window, grimaces at his own shadowy reflection, then fixes his stare on the singer, brow furrowed. Thinking. Thinking hard and staring hard.

Mack lets out a breath she was unaware she was holding and sits back a bit further in her seat to take in that last song. She blinks at seeing her coffee there, and adding no sugar or cream to it, takes a sip as the songs return to more upbeat and cheerful. She seems lost in her own thought now, though she looks back toward the musician again and again.

After this one, there's another smattering of applause, rather more than before. Again, the singer doesn't handle it quite smoothly--she isn't crippled by stage fright, but she isn't a seasoned pro either. "Thanks," she says. "I'm Maya, and I'm usually playing Tuesdays and Fridays, so feel free to time your coffee break appropriately." The lightness in her voice gets a laugh or two. She flips off the mike, twists to turn off the amp, and starts packing up her guitar, dropping to a crouch to zip it into its case.

<div class="desc">
'''Jake'''<br>

This guy's like an unholy hybrid of sneery video store clerk and 1950s greaser. He's white, about twenty years old, and somewhere around the six foot mark (maybe a bit under, but hard to say for all the slouching he does), and he looks like the kind of guy who revels in being an absolute steaming pile of shit to everyone around him. His straight brown hair is rarely brushed, rarely washed, and slightly too long, especially in the way it tends to hang in oily strings over his forehead. He's not ugly, and maybe if he shaved off that grungy stubble and smiled more (and not in that lips-pursed smirky cocky way that he usually substitutes for smiling), he'd look pretty good in a boyish kind of way. But he doesn't and isn't. So much for that idea. He's got nice blue eyes, at least.<br>

He's usually dressed in torn jeans, scuffed boots, and wrinkled t-shirts, sometimes paired with a cheap black jacket or flannel overshirt or hoodie. His voice is deep, rough, and growly in a way that's actually pretty pleasant on the ears, and may be his best feature. (If only what usually comes out of his mouth wasn't shit.) 
</div>

Jake shoves his chair back and gets up. Again he moves rudely through the collection of tables, giving a stray bag or foot a kick if they're not tucked neatly away out of his path. He stops at the door, cocks his head to one side as if in thought, then half-turns to look at Maya again for a moment. He smirks, then, an ugly expression, and side-steps to take a lean right next to the door, hands tucked in his jacket pockets.

Mack looks up again at the nose, turning to find the source. Her eyes narrow at the man making the commotion and a little chip starts to settle on her shoulder, and a muttered "-the hell" slips under her breath.

Maya goes through what might be a post-show ritual, or maybe a prayer; she's still for a moment by the guitar case, her eyes closed, one hand reaching into a pocket briefly. She finishes by touching the pendant at her throat. After a deep, grounding breath, she looks down to her watch. Then there's a glance round the room, cataloguing all its possible exits as she stands and moves the amp and accoutrements into a corner.

<div class="ooc">
<<DICE>> Maya rolls arete, difficulty 4 <br>
<<DICE>> 1 successes (3 3 8, Specialty: No, Willpower: No)<br>
<<DICE>> Maya rolls arete, difficulty 4 <br>
<<DICE>> 2 successes (3 6 8, Specialty: No, Willpower: No)

<<DICE>> Jake rolls Perception+Primal Urge, difficulty 7 <br>
<<DICE>> 1 successes (1 1 4 7 7 7, Specialty: No, Willpower: No)

<<DICE>> Mack rolls primal urge + perception, difficulty 7 <br>
<<DICE>> 3 successes (6 10 10 10, Specialty: No, Willpower: No)
</div>

Jake's upper lip curls, turning his ugly little smirk uglier, meaner. He sticks by the door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, taking a hand out to scratch at the stubble under his jawline, overall restless and antsy.

Mack's crease even further all of a sudden, and she repeats her, "The fuck!?" a little louder this time and less directed at the man smirking by the door. She turns toward the musician then, uncertainty on her features. The crowd is given a look and the girl clicks her tongue to her teeth in annoyance.

It takes a while for the singer to get things together--she collects the money from the tip jar, and a couple of people come and talk to her. She's awkward with whatever compliments they give. When she blushes, it's that thing that only pale complexions can do, a blotchy heat that turns her bright red with embarrassment. Then she has to throw on a rather disreputable-looking wool coat, and a scarf made of colorful granny squares, and slings the guitar case onto her shoulder. One hand comes up automatically, to hold the strap and keep the instrument at her back. She takes a breath, starts heading for the door... and stops cold.

Jake gives Maya a big, bold, bright, toothy grin that doesn't look at all friendly.

"Awwww c'mon." Mack lets out a groan as she stands up from her table, pulling her hat from it and putting it back on. There's a nervous energy to her now, far more so than when she was enjoying the atmosphere and music. Leaving a few bills on the table, she starts skirting the edge of the crowd to make her way toward the door, slow and casual. Yup. With a hand slipping inside her jacket for a quick bit of reassurance.

Maya sees that nasty grin, and pales abruptly, something wary coming to her expression. She looks away, and heads for the bar as if she's going to get a drink. It might just be a play for time, time to take a couple of deep breaths and master her reaction.

<div class="ooc">
<<DICE>> Jake rolls Perception+Alertness, difficulty 8 <br>
<<DICE>> 0 successes (1 2 3 4 6 7 8, Specialty: No, Willpower: No)
</div>

Jake doesn't seem to notice Mack; the coffeehouse is well attended, and anyway he's too busy watching Maya. He shifts his weight again, rolls his shoulders a little, not standing still, but not leaving his spot by the door, either.

Maya takes a slow breath--it's not like he's just going to go away, if she ignores him--and then turns decisively and heads for the door.

<div class="ooc">
<<DICE>> Maya rolls perception+awareness, difficulty 7 <br>
<<DICE>> 3 successes (2 3 3 8 10 10, Specialty: No, Willpower: No)<br>
<<DICE>> Maya rolls 1 dice, difficulty 7 <br>
<<DICE>> 1 successes (9, Specialty: No, Willpower: No)
</div>

Mack steps a few feet closer toward the exit, though she's not trying to make it there before Maya. Her hand leaves her jacket to come up to her hat, tugging it down a little lower on her brow.

Timing is everything, and just as Maya starts heading toward the door, it opens, and Skylar steps inside, shivering beneath the grey hoodie.

Jake gives the new arrival a brief glance -- and then a second look, recognizing her. His grin is mocking, his gravelly voice mock-friendly. "Heyyy, Princess Rainbow! Small world!"

Maya lets out a visible breath of relief-- thankfully Jake isn't looking at her--and then she ducks her head, and makes as if to just pass by Skylar as soon as she can manage to get out.

Mack gives a bit of a squint at the recognition between the two, but opts to try and bypass that and head for the door herself now. Her sights are on the fleeing musician more than the others.

Skylar's mouth opens and closes inside the space of a heartbeat, and at the sound of his voice, she gives Jake her full focus. Her eyes narrow slightly, but then she grins. "Peaches."

The musician slips out, her head still bowed to hide her expression. But then, lots of people step through doors that way.

Jake's eyes flit past Skylar to note Maya heading out. "'Scuse me. Suspicious persons and all that." He makes a move to pass her and follow Maya out into the cold.

Mack continues toward the door as well, not lifting her eyes to meet with any of the people that are in the vicinity. With Maya already out of the shop, she's left to stare at the back of Jake as he makes to leave as well. That frown returns and tightens on her features.

Skylar doesn't even have time to come all the way into the shop before first Maya and then Jake move past her. She turns quickly, once the latter starts to move, and follows them out.

The singer walks, but not with her head down. Out here, she is alert, aware, scanning her surroundings constantly.

Jake, once outside, breaks into a jog to catch up with Maya. "Hey, Indigo Girl! You, with the face!"

Mack pulls up the rear as she makes her way out of the coffee shop as well. The odd train of people erupt into the streets, and here, Mack feels a little more comfortable taking some risks to satisfy her curiosity. She jogs after Jake, making no call to him but trying to keep with twenty feet distance to him.

Skylar doesn't so much walk with Jake as she does walk near Jake, her pace matching his. Her attention is split between the singer and the unpleasant man and if she's aware of Mack behind them, she doesn't show it.

Maya's shoulders tense at the shout--and she halts, taking a deep breath and tipping her head back. And then she stands quite still, waiting. Taking stock of where she is, the alleys and houses and yards.<br>

Patrons continue to leave, buttoned up against the cold. The trio of Mack, Jake, and Skylar do a solid job of getting them to decide to leave in a direction that isn't towards Maya. Perhaps some part of of them is just as happy to /not/ be the center of all that attention.

Jake stops to within a yard of the singer, grinning that bright hard unfriendly grin of his. "You had the rubes reeeeeeally oiled up in there, Indigo."

Mack brings herself to a stop when Jake does, still trying to keep a short distance between them. If there's a building she can hover close to on the sidewalk, even better, but she's staying within quick charging distance of the scene.

The singer doesn't look at him; her gaze focuses somewhere ahead, down the street. She takes a deep, slow breath, grounding, centering. "Is there something you want?" She isn't as unsettled as most people would be--but she isn't quite as calm and fearless as she'd like to be, either.

When Jake stops, Skylar slips to the side, moving ahead to where she can see both, and she looks back and forth between them. Her fingers twitch at her sides, nervous or cold, perhaps both.

Jake flicks a sidelong look to Skylar, then back to Maya; he hasn't noticed Mack at all. "I dunno, Indigo, you tell me. I've got a reeeeeal strong nose for bullshit, and you were shovelling it pretty hard in there. For what? Get some extra tips, sell a few extra CDs? What's your fucking game?" He takes an aggressive step closer. "What were you up to?"

There's a definite look of being torn on Mack's face as the altercation heats up, and after a moment of harried self debate, she steps forward in a quick jog. "Hey. It's a good question, but scaring the shit outta her probably isn't going to get you an answer." The distance is closed in full then as the woman inserts herself right into the mix.

When Jake steps closer, Skylar does as well, and though her posture reads of contained aggression, it doesn't seem to be directed toward the singer. She looks toward Mack when she arrives, and her shoulders roll backward. Looking from Maya to Jake to Mack, she asks, "Y' know each other?"

Maya presses her lips together for a moment, her jaw going tight. She takes another slow, centering breath, and turns to face Jake dead-on. Not only that: she meets his eyes, her own utterly forthright. She doesn't answer just yet, given Skylar's question to the others.

Jake impatiently waves a hand very vaguely in Mack and/or Skylar's direction without looking at either. He stares back down at Maya, the smile and fake good cheer gone, pale eyes all squinty. "You gonna answer me, Indigo?"

"I'm doing what I believe in," Maya says quietly. "And I'm walking home. May I?" She's calm, steady, at least as steady as she can manage under the circumstances. Which is... a hell of a lot more than most people.

Mack turns a fast look toward Skylar, perhaps having lost track of her during her focus on trailing Jake. At the question, she audibly scoffs, "This jerk? No. Don't know him. Just know an asshole when I see one." Maya gets a look then, "What is that you believe in?"

Skylar gives a jerk of a nod at Mack's answer, but most of her attention is focused on Jake and the singer and she takes half a step closer, putting her nearly within reach of Maya.

"How 'bout you tell me what you believe in, Indigo," says Jake, who's starting to look more irritable and restless. He bounces on his feet a little like a fighter getting ready for the signal to start swinging.

Maya looks over to Mack, though not for long; she clearly considers Jake the greater threat, and when she answers her attention focuses on him. Tension ratchets up in her stance, just a little, but she doesn't step back from him. There's something sharp about that focus, an attention to his every move, the nuances of expression and posture. "This city suffers. Despair eats at its heart like a cancer. Apathy grows like a plague. Hope and change are my weapons."

"I swear to god dude, you throw a punch at her and I'll take you down myself." Mack's attention has shifted more to Jake just now, a seriousness to her tone that seems out of place on the slight woman. She looks then to the other woman, "How the hell are you all acquainted anyway!?"

Skylar repeats that roll of her shoulders rather than attempting to answer Mack's question, but it does earn the woman another sharp look. She returns quickly to the interaction between Jake and Maya, pulling the sleeves of her hoodie down over her hands.

Jake doesn't throw a punch at Maya. Nor does he laugh in her face -- though her answer makes his eyebrows go up in a brief expression of incredulity and then, very quickly, doubt. It's visible only for a moment, and then really only to Maya, who's actually looking him right up close in the face. And then it's gone -- abrupt and quick, he turns toward Mack, getting right up in her personal space and yelling. "For FUCK'S sake who the FUCK are YOU?"

''Now'' the singer flinches, and takes a step back--away from <i>all</i> of them. She hesitates for a second or two, but with that sudden explosion of fury all her calm and confidence have evaporated. Another step back, and then she turns to keep walking, <i>fast</i>, the same direction she was going before. Homeward.

Mack takes only a slight step back before attempting to steel her posture. "Someone who gives enough of a shit to not let you chase her down and put fists to her! That's who the fuck I am." The departure of the singer, for now, is either unnoticed or set to a far lower priority.

Skylar takes a couple steps after Maya and then stops, turning back to watch Jake and Mack, instead of following.

Jake sneers at Mack. "Except I <i>didn't</i> put fists to her, Captain Shitstain, and don't for a <i>second</i> think that didn't happen because your happy little crusader ass was here."

"No huh? Well bravo on your self control then, jackass. Want a gold star?" Mack retorts with a glare.

Skylar gives another glance after the departing woman, and then returns to the other two. "Y' two lost y' froot loops?" she asks. "What th' heck was that 'bout, anyway? Y' always chase random singers out 'f work?"

Jake bares his teeth in a twitch of a snarl, then steps back, turning to look at Skylar. "Not here," he says gruffly.
}}