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</div></div><br/><span style="font-size: 12px">Tinkling a few fingers in a mock wave, Chance let Errol retire without any attempts at a retort, though her silence was often enough to leave an impression of how she felt. Straightening her posture, the Fae hummed a few times low in her throat before her tongue clicked in thoughtful observation. "I see. You wanted structure and stability... and to help, of course. What a noble cause to join." His story was the most flimsy topic of the evening, she realized, but sore spots often hid in plain sight. Her own issues were in every move she made if one was capable of seeing the full picture. Lucky for her, they usually weren't, and even when they were, they cared more about getting between her thighs than they did about investigating what made Chance Arden tick.<br/>
<br/>
If she looked the part, she was expected to act the part. Such was always the case with her kind, donning earthly disguises to fit in with a population of extempore dream cattle. To what end, Chance wasn't sure. She just hated being alone.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, no, Brock. You misunderstand me. He made the clones and I was their muse." Which, to her credit, was a far politer way of stating she was gangbanged. With practice, Chance had learned to pretty up many of her conversations for the sake of her company. "But I'm sure your dancing skills are worth a dollar on their own. Here," she tucked two deft fingers between her cleavage to retrieve a bill from where she had hidden it and stood, hovering well within the officer's personal bubble as she placed the money down on the counter. A hundred note, to be precise, because Chance didn't carry anything smaller. "Is this enough to buy a dance?"<br/>
</span><br/><a class="username" data-user-id="2986" data-username="@GMO" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/2986/">@GMO</a>