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</div><br/><br/><b>Nicklaus Mikaelson</b><br/><br/><br/>"My dear, you know that what one would like and what one gets is usually two different things." Klaus leaned against the bar and gave the cute blond bartender his best, tight smile. All around them the chatter of buzzed couples and dance music drowned out a lot of the noise from the street. It was a busy, healthy place for people to hang out on a warm evening, and the Original had hoped to run into someone in particular here. He found the next best thing, though.<br/><br/>"What I need from<i>you</i>is something that you can tell me." His gaze turned serious as he pivoted his head slightly to regard her. "So, dear Cami..." he reached over the counter and plucked a bottle of rum from her side of the bar, pouring himself a large drink. "Have you seen our mutual dear friend, Marcel?" He said his adopted son's with an emphasis on each syllable, as if he was tasting the way the name sounded in his mouth.<br/><br/>He took a sip of his drink, still regarding Camille with that 'I might just kill you tomorrow' look that he had around people when he felt guarded. "He's been avoiding me. He hasn't answered my calls." Klaus pouted slightly as if he was talking about his lover not returning his calls, rather than the self-declared King of New Orleans.<br/><br/>He glanced up at the blond and gave her a soft smile as he set the glass down. "Lend me your phone, darling. Come on," he gestured with one hand, folding his fingers in a 'come hither' manner, "maybe he's avoiding me, but if he doesn't answer your call then we know that something is amiss. Maybe he's lying in a ditch somewhere.<i>Wounded</i>." He turned his gaze onto her and gave her his most endearing look. "You'd feel badly if he was in need of help and we didn't render it, would you not?"