The smoke floating in the air made Aidan's eyes sting and he wasn't particularly enjoying the constant jostling of the closely packed crowd.
It was Saturday night, a little more than twenty-four hours since he'd pitched writing an in-depth review of Seattle's newest nightclub to Lynette. But now that he was here in the midst of the loud conversation and blaring music that made up the atmosphere of the club called 'Soleil,' he thoroughly wished he was home watching a Law & Order re-run. Despite his discomfort, however, he smiled when he saw the man he was looking for emerge from the smoky haze of the club's second-floor bar area.
"Jean-Philippe," Aidan said, clasping the shorter, dark-haired man in a firm hug.
When the two moved apart Jean-Philippe, the epitome of the dark-haired, romantic Frenchman in an Armani suit and Italian shoes, regarded Aidan's much more casual jeans and black polo shirt with a wry grin. "Only you would show up to the hottest new club in town wearing the clothes you do your grocery shopping in, Aidan," he said, his words faintly highlighted by the French accent he'd all but lost during his boarding school days in England where he and Aidan had met and formed a long-lasting friendship.
Aidan laughed, slapping his old friend on the shoulder. "And only you would be arrogant enough to call *your* club the hottest one in town despite the fact that you've only been open for, what, a week now?"
Jean gave a classic Gallic shrug. "Ten days. Ten days of revelry and dancing and," he let out an appreciative breath as a blonde in a halter dress that seemed much to short—on both ends—walked by, "...and beautiful, beautiful women," he finished his sentence and returned his attention to Aidan. "Besides, once you write this article about 'Soleil' opening in Seattle I'll get more press for 'Bamboo' opening in L.A. in four months. It's such a nice diversion, this taking over of America's nightlife," he finished on a chuckle.
As they spoke they'd made their way to the furthest end of the bar and took seats. From that angle they could see the entirety of the bar-level. With dozens of thick, dark-painted columns throughout the room, each one embedded with tiny glowing lights, the atmosphere created was one of stars sparkling in the smoky darkness of the room.
Ordering a beer, Aidan raised an eyebrow but didn't comment when Jean asked for only bottled water and a glass of ice. Once their drinks were served, Aidan turned on his stool to watch the energized crowd gyrate to the fast dance songs blasting out over hidden speakers. "It's an amazing place you've got here, Jean."
His friend smiled arrogantly. "Yes, I know."
Shaking his head at Jean's shameless overconfidence, Aidan smiled and brought the bottle of beer to his lips but turned his head to hear Jean over the music.
"And what about you," the Frenchman asked, slowly swirling the water in his glass like it was the finest of wines.
"What about me," Aidan tossed the question back.
"Where is your dream, my friend? I remember that you wanted to be a photographer, an artist, but instead you spend your time taking pictures of beaches and mountains that are better suited for postcards."
Despite his best efforts, Aidan felt his jaw clench in irritation. Leave it to Jean to bring up his life's path in the middle of a raucous nightclub; he'd always had a terrible sense of timing.
"You always have had a terrible sense of timing," he said aloud and drained his beer, signaling the bartender to bring him another.
"And what the hell does that mean?"
"What do you think it means?" Aidan glowered at him. "I do what I have to do to make a living, all right? I majored in print journalism at Columbia instead of photojournalism because I knew that I'd never make any money as a photographer. Hell, I barely make enough to put me through Grad school doing freelance work as it is."
"So is that all it is for you," Jean asked quietly. "It's just about the money? You'd give up something that you're passionate about because you think you won't make money? Damn it, Aidan, I'll give you money if that's all you need."
"Dammit!" Aidan slammed his bottle down on the bar, ignoring the copious amount of beer that splashed out onto his hand and the astonished stares of nearby club-goers. "I don't want your money, Jean. I didn't want my father's money and I sure as hell don't want to talk about this. What I do with my life is my business and no one else's."
Returning Aidan's hard stare unflinchingly, Jean momentarily wished that he'd picked a better time to discuss this, but, like Aidan had said, he had a terrible sense of timing and a bad habit of simply saying what came to mind without thinking it through. "Look, Aidan, as your friend..."
Aidan cut him off. "As *your* friend, I'm asking you to drop it. You wanted me to write a story for the magazine, I pitched it to my boss and she liked it as a feature about attractions in Seattle, so I'll do it. But when it comes to my *personal* decisions—just leave it alone."
They both simmered in silence for several heartbeats. Aidan's tenseness was palpable, as was the fact that Jean had obviously not said all he intended to say. "Alright, I'm sorry I brought it up," he said finally, laying a brotherly hand on Aidan's shoulder. "I think I'm becoming a mother hen in my old age."
Aidan snorted his skepticism of that point as he watched Jean eye a blonde in a crimson bustier and black mini skirt. "Don't worry about it," he replied and they sat in companionable silence for long minutes.
"It's like a delicious game of roulette, you know," Jean said after a while. He was still watching the blonde but his face took on a speculative expression. "When I opened that first club in Paris...that was the biggest gamble of my life. No one thought I would last three months." He smiled at the memory, his elbows resting on the edge of the bar as he watched the crowd. "Even I didn't think I would last the first month," he laughed. "But it's been almost two years and look at it...my fourth club in the States. Three in Europe. Do you know what I learned in all of this, mon ami?"