find a flask (we're playing fast and loose)

where the gin is cold (but the piano's hot)

Jack started to return his attention to the bar, but this time he was distracted by the presence of a woman, about Claire's age, with dirty blonde hair as she sidled up a few feet to his left and ordered a drink. She looked...

Familiar.

Hm. Where had Jack seen her before?

The woman must have felt his attention on her, because she turned to face Jack, and her eyes promptly widened.

"Holy shit!" she exclaimed. She stepped toward him and immediately stumbled. On instinct, Jack reached out to catch her, though the reek of alcohol on her breath that flooded his nose in doing so made him mourn the semi-fresh air outside the club.

Not that drunkenness was exclusive to this girl. Jack doubted there was a sober person in this building besides himself, the bouncer, and the bartender.

The woman righted herself, and once Jack was confident she wouldn't topple over, he released her arms, almost shouting to be heard over the music. "Hey, are you—"

"Holy shit," she repeated, cutting him off as she shook her head. "You're him. You're him!"

Jack paused, raising an eyebrow. "Uh... Who do you think I am?"

The woman dropped a hand to her waist, the other gesturing wildly as she spoke. "You're—You're the main man. The head honcho. Claire's boss!"

'Claire's boss'?

Jack did a double take of the woman standing—and still ranting—before him, scrounging the depths of his memory in an attempt to put his finger on her familiarity. He doubted he knew her personally, or even in-person until this point, but clearly she knew Claire, so they must have—

Wait. Claire had mentioned she was going out with a friend.

What was her name? Amanda? Maggie? No, no, neither of those. Was it—

Jack almost snapped his fingers at the recollection, only stopped by his desire not to appear any older in the eyes of his young audience than he already was.

"You're Margot Bell," he said, finally understanding why her visage seemed familiar. Claire had a photo of herself and Margot from their Harvard days hanging in her hallway. While Jack had never stopped to study it, he wasn't surprised he'd glimpsed the picture enough for it to stick in his subconscious.

And if Margot was here, that meant Claire had to be here. Somewhere.

Jack could feel the soft fabric of her red dress beneath his hands already.

"Yeah, I'm Margot," the woman said, "and you're—you're McIntyre. McElroy." Margot shook her head. "No, McBoy!"

Jack fought down an amused laugh at her drunken attempts to decipher his name. "McCoy. Call me Jack." He glanced around to see if Claire had wandered anywhere near them, but he still couldn't see her familiar bob or her elusive red dress.

"Jack," Margot echoed. She frowned, eyes narrowing as she looked him up and down. "What're you doing here, Jack? You're dressed all wrong."

Had Jack not come to terms with that fact earlier, his face might've heated at her accusation. Even then, he still had to plaster on a tight smile in response.

"Yes," he said with a stilted nod. "You're right, this isn't really my scene." He stuck his hands in his pockets, stepping closer to Margot to avoid the continued need for yelling above the music. "I'm here because I'm looking for Claire. Is she with you?"

As Jack spoke, he realized he didn't have a damn clue what would happen next in his night out. He was about to find Claire, finally, and—and what then? She'd promised to make the trip 'worth his while.' But surely she didn't plan to call it a night already just because he'd shown up.