Hector Rodriguez practically sprouted wings to fly out of the Fleet Hall theatre once rehearsal was finally called to an end. Cohen and his goddamn nitpicking had the actor ready to blow a gasket of his own, even as he bolted to his dressing room after the last line. He was certainly in a rush to change as he’d made plans for the evening, and with important company. Odd company, sure, but important none the less.
The dark haired disciple quickly peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt to replace it with a clean, black cotton tee. It irked him that he hadn’t the time to run home and properly shower the day off. But, he still managed to make due with the cologne he kept in the vanity drawer. With a few generous spritzes and a quick tousle of his hair, Hector grabbed his jacket and headed for the lobby. He made a point to hurry past Sander as if to avoid another barrage of “constructive criticism”.
Luckily, it hardly took any time at all to reach the Pharaoh’s Fortune casino. The walk to and through the Plaza was short, though Hector strode briskly. He didn’t want to keep the good doctor waiting, after all. And he needed a drink. Direly.
Passing through the front entrance, the actor immediately made his way up the steps and into the pool hall on the second floor. He was pleased to see it mildly empty- no wait for a table, no crowd at the minibar. He glanced around for Steinman, too, relieved that he’d apparently arrived first. Now he had time to unwind a little, to let his nerves settle, before the surgeon showed up. A very small part of him secretly hoped he might’ve forgotten their little “date” altogether. Then again, that very small part was still petrified from the last time they’d associated.
Ignoring the twinge of anxiety that tugged at his insides, Hector took a seat at the bar and ordered himself a glass of scotch. He sat with his head rested in one hand, his other picking at a bowl of bar nuts as he waited.