<span style="font-family:Handlee"><span style="font-size: 15px">As memory served, their last meeting had happened somewhere just outside of Bogotá, though she hadn't said more than the whispers of casual farewell she often offered in those days. There was no formal split between the pair. As with all the unresolved conflict following the Company, so too was their relationship splintered by circumstance rather than a decision on either of their parts. Recollections of the sleepless nights that followed were easier to admit to herself when she was alone, as there were still countless eyes tracking her every public move, but having a melancholic outlook on the entire affair did little but sour her mood. Jory McArthur missed all that she had lost and more, but there was no use shedding new tears over her past mistakes. That much hadn't changed about her perspective.<br/>
<br/>
Outwardly, the woman hadn't much changed either.<br/>
<br/>
Long legs, sharp hips, and a figure meant for centerfold spreads; there was no mistaking her. How she remained so intimately involved with the underbelly of the underworld, no one could be sure, but she was the most social of social butterflies and bore no distinction from other socialites of her stature aside from the years of underhanded dealings with terrorist organizations of varying caliber and quality. The manner in which she presented herself was beyond necessary, of course, but a woman did well to remember that her existence might be measured by the raw sexual appeal she exhibited at any given moment. Jory wasn't just sexy, she was <i><b>sex</b></i>. She was a promise and a whisper, a sweet treat and a full meal, a quiet plea and a loud roar; she was, quite frankly, the most beautiful woman in the room.<br/>
<br/>
And in a bar in Tulsa, which was the last place one might expect to find her...<br/>
<br/>
Yet the blonde stood peering through the haze of smoke and dim lighting at Jack's back, a cigarette nonchalantly gripped between two french manicured fingers. Flicking it absently to dust the floor in salt and pepper flecks, cobalt hues settled on the larger body in a reminiscent fashion. He hadn't really changed much. A bit older, a bit less well-kept, and a tad drunker - but he still held his glass the same way. Her heart ached in that realization, a near physical throb of emotion gripping the muscle in the center of her chest so tightly, she felt faint. Exhaling a billow of smoke toward the ceiling, Jory straightened her posture and took a steadying breath for the sake of her plans, well aware of the few scattered patrons now watchful of her. Not in a suspicious way, but in a hungry male way that earned only what could be considered a forced smile from the foreign femme.<br/>
<br/>
Heels clicking smartly along the floor, she sashayed from the entryway to the counter and took a seat silently at Jack's side, half tempted to leave him alone to notice her presence on his own time - but there was much to do and not enough time to get it done. Her games planned for him could wait. "You know," Jory offered softly from a seat away, stocking covered legs crossing at the knee beneath the hem of her skirt, "It might be difficult to explain this sort of hangover to your employer. It's Tuesday, in case you've forgotten." A knowing smirk etched over full crimson lips as she added in time with a nod, "But perhaps not. You may very well have nothing to do and nowhere to go, and that would make my being here easier to explain." Tapping her cigarette against the ashtray on the countertop, her sights focused on the bartender.<br/>
<br/>
"What he's having, please, and I'll pick up his tab."</span></span>