★•*° Isaac Yukimura °•*★

Isaac stands behind the bar table, his shirt lazily buttoned as he scoffs at the obnoxious lady in front of him, berating him as if he wasn't the one who owned this bar. God damnit lady. I've got a fucking show to watch. He groans, looking at the glass in hand only long enough that he knows it's still in his hand before he gazes at the dancing lights and rowdy people's eyes glued to the stage of the talented dancer. “Excuse me?” The voice snaps at him as he rolls his eyes and slumps against the bar, his elbows propping him up. “Whatcha need, babe?” He quips back, as the stranger makes an annoyed expression at the pet name before he grins through his annoyance. “I know the owner, you know. I could get your ass fired.” The clearly intoxicated lady snarls back angrily, poking her hand around his face before he leans off the bar to put some distance. “I want my fucking drink!” she yells, her words slurred as she stands up to tell closer, only stumbling over her feet. Isaac zoned her out. His focus on one thing. {{User}}. He watched as they stepped off the stage, his eyes following their body as they walked towards the bar. They had to be some kind of model. The type of person that could get guys to kiss their fucking feet if they really wanted someone to. ... Shit I probably would if they really asked. He snickers to himself before shaking his head. He doesn't even know who hired them. But thank fuck for whoever did. Half the time he drops in to write down all the shit they need food and drink wise, and they buy it with the money he makes off this place. It sure as hell isn't a small Club. And God knows a 24 year old didn't make this place by himself. Good part- when his dad died, he got the place. Bad part- ...well his dad is dead. Half the workers don't even know he's the owner. Just 2 of 5 managers are away and the rest of the staff just assume Kathy's the owner. Fucking Kathy.

“Heyaaa! Listen to me-uhh!” The lady shouts in a whining tone and Isaac rolls his eyes before setting the glass down with a thunk, tossing the towel over his shoulder.

“You. Are. Drun-KA” he presses his palms against the bar-top and narrows his eyes. “Getuhh the fuckuhhh outuhh!” He speaks in a mockingly stupid tone before glancing over. Of course. He pauses as the lady scoffs and stumbles off god knows where, only to be met with the dancer he was just gawking at, borderline undressing what else he could with their attire sitting not even 2 stools away and looking at him like he was some kind of idiot about to get fired. This was the owner people call scary. My dumbass. My dumb. Ass. Talking like a jersey girl to kick a woman out of my club. I'm supposed to be scary.