Saleh Roethke

occupation: Inn and bar manager at the Middle Of

story: What kind of name is Saleh, anyway? It was late. Patronage was low, and so were the lights at the Middle Of. She'd sent most of her staff home for the night, already. The few who remained were essentials: a bartender, a sous chef, a line cook or two. Somewhere further into the building there moseyed an aging housekeeper who didn't usually get a whole lot done, but she'd been there so long that neither Jo nor Saleh could bear to let her go. The night concierge sat behind the front desk that separated the bar from the inn, doing... well, probably nothing that Saleh paid her to do. The night shift was usually pretty slow. A single security guard stood stoic just inside the glass-paned front door, watching the wind throw exterior arborvitaes' thin, evergreen lace into wild, unpredictable dance.

Stormy weather had kicked the Puget Sound's waves up into jagged black crashes and crested them with fleeting white; sent high-pitched smatters of rain into the Middle Of's windows and then sliding down them like the course of the Temperance, without mercy. Saleh had always liked stormy weather. It was one of very few things that pulled the guard down out of her shoulders and let it fall to the floor like a discarded jacket after a long day. She liked the peace that it brought with it. The hustle and the bustle of both life and tourism just sort of stopped when an ominous cloud formation rolled over Nowhere Island. Unfortunately, peace was all too often a crack in her tormentor's ever-watched window of opportunity.

Go away. Her response was a clipped psychic hiss. Saleh's fingers curled around an empty glass that she'd picked up while bussing a table. A bin of other dirty dishes was held between her elbow and her hip, neverminding that she usually paid someone else to do that dirty little job, neverminding that it was...

Sassing your father? Bussing tables? Aren't those things a little beneath you, Rocky? The glass found its way into the bin safely, but there was no telling whether or not the next dish would. She tried to hide the clench that the gentle square of her jaw became.

Don't flatter yourself. And don't call me that. Go. Away. Saleh leveled her sea glass gaze on the table and availed herself of a brief, quiet inhalation. Sassing her father. She'd never even met her father, at least not in the flesh. The Monster of Nowhere Island had always been lurking in the darker corners of her mind, though, bent on making sure that what he believed belonged to him knew it. Her half-sister, Clio, lived the same Hell. It was what brought them together as children. They were stronger together. They could silence him together.

The sous chef happened to peer out over the service counter and take in the familiar sight of his boss paused in motion but for the slow knit of her brow. His matched it. "Hey," he called, waving a left hand marked by white indent around its ring finger at her. "You okay, out there? You're doing the thing, again."

Her head jerked to the right, toward the guy in the white coat. There were days she almost thought it was funny, the way she was usually surrounded by guys in white coats. There were days that she and irony got along swell. A dark brown ponytail followed the movement of her head, as ponytails do, and feathered a collision into the quickening pulse alongside her throat. "Yeah," she called back, lifting her right hand to kind of wobble it from side to side in lieu of a wave that packed any energy. "Yeah, I'm fine." She pulled a full mouth tight and pressed it thin, utterly failing at a smile. "Just distracted by the storm." Oh, how people who know things that they aren't supposed to know learn to lie! She'd been telling that little white one ever since she could remember. Saleh got the sous chef's not-quite-reassured wave-off and went back to bussing the table.

You never answer my questions, Daniel continued, unphased by her almost violent attempts to eject him from her consciousness. Why don't you ever answer my questions? A gust shook the window she stood across from, and in it, her reflection. She watched her willowy, golden form waver.

Because you already know the answers to the questions you ask. Leave me alone.

face claim: Sara Sampaio

aol/aim sn: It is you spirit (itisyouspirit)

#local #psychic #playedcharacter #female