The club was dark and smoky. I don't smoke, and I don't particularly like the smell when other people do, but I had been here exactly three weeks ago with a party from work, and there was absolutely no way I would not be here again tonight.
I had my Cosmopolitan in hand, tossing the ridiculous straw aside as soon as I'd tipped the bartender, and I'd squirmed my way to one of the long barrier tables adjacent to the dance floor. A big crowd of guys had just abandoned their seats because their number had come up for a pool table, and I grabbed a chair before the thronging mob could devour them all. Crossing my legs and facing the dance floor now, searching for tonight's goal.
The heavy bass sound made which actual song was being played barely distinguishable, if even relevant. It was evident the people on the dance floor were not concerned with lyrics, or melody: the dozens of bodies were here for the pulsing rhythm, to see and be seen moving to it. The clothes were high-fashion; most bars save their heavy dress code for men, knowing that no one cares exactly what women are wearing, as long as it reveals enough for titillation. This place, however, insisted we wear dresses, as well as suit coats for the guys; this assuredly cut into the numbers of their clientele, but they apparently made up for it with their exorbitant cover charge. And the ten-spot I had to throw down for this fucking cocktail. I sip it slower. I'm not rich and should really have accepted that drink from the guy with the bad moustache.
He's not here yet. He's coming, though; I can feel it in my bones.
Of course, that's what I had felt the last two weeks, too, and fat lot of good it had done me. A three-dollar gulp followed that thought, and I shook my head, but I refused to give in to frustration. I was using every iota of karma I had to modify the universe to my liking, and I'd decided that meant he just
had
to come back, because if he didn't I wouldn't find him.
I was down to my last dollar worth of the drink, and summoned the waitress to get me another, when suddenly I looked out past the dance floor to the other side of the club and saw him with a group of his friends. Most of them made their way to the dance floor, but he held back, sitting down by himself at the table, and looking directly at me. Predatory.
It was always the innocent-looking ones that got them, of course. I was demure, looking sweet as pie, like the thought of a cock inside me would be frightening. That got them hotter than anything...
especially
when it was a lie. And it was, because the façade was there for a reason: I was embarrassed by my wants and needs. Whenever someone finally invaded my head deep enough to find out, I was so pent-up and desperate that my gratitude was impressive. Very impressive.
My dress was black, form-fitting, and somewhat short, but nothing outside of the bounds of what I'd wear to listen to the preacher's sermon on Sunday. I held my head high with what I'm sure looked like a self-righteous arrogance when faced with the orgiastic body-tumbling on the dance floor, and only the flare of my nostrils betrayed any difference with what I was feeling inside. My legs were crossed tightly, primly, and I sipped at my next drink slowly and carefully. I had a ring on my finger, although it was, of course, impossible for him to tell if it denoted betrothal or the full deal.
He wouldn't care. Three weeks ago, in a politely brief but nonetheless stunning conversation, I had seen something in his eyes which I'd loved. Something which had called out to me in a voice like a caged animal. Something low.
Now there I sat, again, watching the mob on the dance floor, absently tapping my immaculate red-painted nails on the table as I felt the alcohol start to take me to a dangerous place. He was blatantly staring at me now, willing me to look his way, and I waited precisely three minutes longer than eternity before I finally conceded.
What I saw in his gaze made my heart race. I dropped my eyes back to my drink, my table, anything but back at him.
I glanced back up to him. His smile was... dark.
I looked for something—anything—in my purse. I drank most of the remaining half of the cocktail. I stared at the dancers again.
He'd apparently seen enough. He stood up and walked my way.
I didn't look up as he sat down.
"Hello, Jane."
I glanced into his face, then away. It hurt deliciously to look at him for too long. "Hello."
"You were here three weeks ago."
"Yes."
"Do you remember me?"
A pause. "Yes." I suppressed a shudder.
"I remember you, too."
Silence.
"Look at me."
