Authors: Linnea May
She looks just like her. The resemblance is so strong that I almost believe it to be her, until the girl lifts her arms into the air and I see that there are no tattoos on them. The ink is missing.
When she turns around and shows her face to me for the first time, I can be sure of her being someone else. Someone pretty nonetheless.
She’s dancing wildly, throwing her arms up in the air, her body moving like a flag waving in a heavy storm. Her eyes are closed and she’s completely lost in the song that’s playing. She has no idea that I’m watching her – and she doesn’t care if anyone is.
That’s one of the major differences between the people in here and the guests at the gathering I just fled from. Money feeds the shallow traits in most people, it seems. There was dancing, but it didn’t compare to this club. The girls were busy holding their hair in place, only moving their starved bodies in delicate motions as to not break a sweat or lose control of their gazelle-like frames. Dancing is nothing they enjoy; it’s something they do because it’s expected of them. It only serves to lure in a random guy, loaded of course, who will take their hand and drag them off to the side to treat them to an expensive drink. Champagne, preferably.
I’ve done it. Several times. If you’re a man like me, it’s beyond easy to get laid in a world like that, especially if you are an industry name like me. They come to you like moths to the flame. The girls are pretty, there’s no doubt about that. But they are all pretty in the same way, and they lack personality to a degree that is almost painful.
Besides, they couldn’t give me what I needed. There was no challenge, no joy in breaking them, because there was nothing to break. Most of them got scared and whiny when they realized what I am into. Scared in a bad way, the real kind of fright. It’s the biggest turn off imaginable.
Sheila was different. She looked like she was one of them, but I knew she wasn’t. She was fierce, strong and opinionated. She was a constant challenge.
A challenge I lost.
The long brown waves of that eccentric girl on the dancefloor keep reminding me of Sheila. I certainly do have a type – and this is it.
Streams of sweat are running down the girl’s face and when the song is over, she finally opens her painted eyes and absentmindedly brushes the hair that’s sticking to her face away. She’s breathing heavily, as if she just finished a workout.
It’s so fucking sexy. I can only imagine what she would look like under my touch.
I want to see that face drenched in sweat because of me. I want tears ruining that heavy make-up of hers. I want to hear her scream.
My cock rises to attention. Has it really been that long?
It has. I’ve been busy as hell, and the last fuck I had was anything but satisfactory. Like I said, getting laid is easy, but getting what I need is incredibly hard.
The girl walks away. I’m right on her heels as she staggers over to the bar. She collapses onto the counter and yells something at the bar tender. He places a bottle of cheap beer in front of her and she greedily grabs it, downing half of the bottle in one gulp.
I love everything about it.
“Same as her,” I say when the bartender turns his attention to me. He quickly glances over to her and I can’t help but notice the short moment of wariness when he casts a look back at me. He might recognize me, even though I’m sure most people in this place wouldn’t. My face and name are out there more than I’m comfortable with, but I doubt that any of the folks here follow the kind of news that would reveal my identity to them.
He might just acknowledge my inappropriate clothing. I came here straight from that other party, the one that was thrown by one of my business partners. My getup is more suitable for a gathering with fancy drinks around an extraordinary rooftop pool instead of the underground bar I find myself at now. I’m very aware of that, but I couldn’t care less.
I keep my eyes on her long enough for her to notice. It’s just a mere moment, not even two seconds during which our eyes meet. She frowns and instantly turns around. She sees it, too. I’m out of place, and she sees nothing but an intruder from another world when she looks at me. At least, that’s what I think is going through that beautiful head of hers.
She walks away from the bar, taking the beer with her. I let a few moments pass, before I nonchalantly stroll in the same direction.
My environment is soaked in smoke, the smell of beer and sweat and flaring lights that breach the darkness like glowing daggers. The music is so loud that it vibrates deep inside my chest, and I feel the urge to dance myself. It’s been so long since I’ve mingled in a place like this, and I hate myself for it right now. How could I ever think that I could change into a soulless robot like the ones I work with?
Sheila took more of me with her than I was aware of. Losing her almost made me forget who I am.
And now I’m chasing a girl through a club who looks just like her. A girl who dances like a maniac, who loses herself in the music, a girl whose blasé manner has me mesmerized from the moment I saw her.
What does she look like when she’s drunk with pleasure? What happens if she’s brought right to the edge of climax?
What does she look like when she orgasms?
Fuck. I need to know.
My cock twitches at the thought of taming her, making her bend to my commands. She doesn’t know it yet, but I’m sure she’d love it.
I lost sight of her in the mass of people around us and now have to actively search for her. A good song comes on, and I’m sure I’ll find her dancing somewhere if I just keep close to the dancing area.
I turn out to be right. There she is, shaking her slim body to the rhythm of the music. Her movements are so bizarre and mad that people move out of her way. She’s the exact opposite of the lame elves who swayed around on the rooftop.
I’m the only one who tries to get closer to her instead of getting further away, and of course, I violently get bumped into as soon as I enter her perimeter.
She stumbles and turns around, looking up to me. Her eyes are huge and widen even more when she sees me. Does she recognize me? It’s hard to tell in the dark. The way she looks at me could mean anything between shock and surprise. She’s endearing either way.
The heavy black frames around her eyes have crumbled and smeared, but I couldn’t care less. If anything, this gives me an idea of what she’d look like after sex. After getting laid the way she should be.
Her full lips are forming the word ‘Sorry’ but I can’t hear if she’s actually saying it out loud. Before I can engage her in some kind of conversation, she darts away once again. This time, she’s heading for the door that leads outside.
Again, I’m right behind her.
He emerges from the club just a few moments after me and now stands close to the door, looking left and right as if he was searching someone. Did he follow me?
Apparently, he did. His search stops when he sees me leaning against the wall just a few feet away from him and the other group of people who have gathered around the club's entrance. He smiles and approaches me.
I look up at him in confusion as he comes to a halt in front of me, carrying a suit jacket on his right arm.
"I am really sorry, I didn't mean to –"
"It's okay," he interrupts me. "Real dancing should come with clashes."
All right. What does he want from me then? Instead of asking, I just shrug and try to return his smile, but I feel that it must come across as a bad effort. It is not sincere, after all. He smells fucking good – and I don't like what his voice does to me. It's so deep, strong and... pleasant.
"I know, it's a lame opener, but: Do you come here often?" he asks.
I frown at him. "That really is a lame opener..."
He laughs. "I knew it."
"You obviously don't," I add.
"Come here often?"
"No," he says, moving closer and leaning against the wall next to me. "I don't. In fact, I have never been here before."
He is so close, that I can feel his body warmth. And his smell. Fuck, he smells good.
"Doesn't seem to be your usual crowd," I comment, nodding toward his outfit.
"What do you think my 'usual crowd' looks like?" he asks, now looking at me defiantly. I pause for a moment, raising my eyebrows as I blatantly check him out.
"Meal at a fancy restaurant?" I say. "Followed by cocktails on the rooftop bar of some prestigious hotel. Or – if you're in for a 'crazy' night – dancing at one of the hottest clubs in town after you've had to place yourself on the waiting list months beforehand. Maybe drinking champagne? Guess that depends on what level of corporate smug you are."
He raises his right eyebrow, obviously offended by what I said, but not willing to let it show too much.
"Are you always this prejudiced?" he asks.
"No," I reply. "But I am rarely wrong when it comes to people."
"Still, tolerance and an open mind don't seem to be your strong point," he says, hitting me at a weak spot. "I honestly expected more."
"Why?" I ask. "What did you expect?"
His eyes are still on me, his body dead still as he fixates on me. Why is he still here? His intense gaze sends shivers down my spine – the kind that would usually draw me closer. I am still trying to fight it, but he attracts me. And what scares me most: I think he knows that.
"The way you dance," he says, his eyes still fixed on me. "It's enticing."
I reciprocate his look and blush. He is intimidating. I want to look away, but I can't. No one has ever called me or anything I do "enticing". What is wrong with this guy? What's his end game?
"In fact," he adds, now whispering. "You are the most beautiful person I have seen in a long time. I couldn't take my eyes off you since the first moment I saw you."
"Oh, come on!" I object. "I mean, look at me! I am drenched in sweat, my hair is all over the place, and I am not even sure that my makeup is not running down my face in ugly black streaks right now."
"It's not, don't worry,” he says, shaking his head. “I’d love to see that, though.”
I’m blushing. How brash. Who does he think he is?
"And again, you disappoint me," he adds.
"Why?" I ask.
"Your definition of beauty," he explains. "So superficial. Why do you think I am talking about your body, your hair – your make-up even?"
I look up at him, dumbfounded.
"Of course, you are a beauty in that shallow sense," he continues. "You see yourself in a mirror every day. You know that you are beautiful. Your pale complexion complements your dark brown hair the same way it does on Snow White. Your lips are red, even without lipstick, and your long, wavy hair may be a mess right now – but it still decorates your slim frame in a stunning way that anyone would describe as pretty."
He pauses but keeps his eyes on me. I don't know if he is waiting for some kind of reply, or just soaking in my reaction. I am not saying anything or deliberately showing any signs that I heard what he has been saying.
But now that he has stopped talking, I notice that my breathing has changed drastically. My mouth is half-open and I am panting. Why is he saying these things? Is he trying to win some kind of bet? Pick up a trashy hipster girl at an underground club, just to show his buddies that he can do it?
"I'm sorry," he says. "You don't seem to be used to hearing these kinds of things."
Again, I don't reply anything.
"They're true," he adds. "But still, it's not what I was talking about when I called you beautiful. Not at all."
"No?" I finally ask. My voice is low and hoarse. I have to clear my throat before I dare to continue speaking. "What did you mean then?"
Instead of giving me an answer, he just looks at me. Observing. His eyes are fixed on mine, but flickering, searching for something as if he has a question he doesn't dare to ask.
"You're cold," he notices.
I am about to protest, but now that he mentions it, I notice how much I have been shivering. The heat from the club has left my body and the sweat has dried. I am freezing, actually.
"Um, a little," I admit.
"Would you allow me to invite you to a warm place where we could have a drink?" he asks. "And continue our conversation."
"A warm place?" I ask, narrowing my eyes suspiciously.
"A bar," he says. "I'm sure you know that there's one right across the street? A shisha bar. It's nice and quiet there – and warm."
I glance over to the door of the club, unsure what to do. He’s too full of himself – and I don't trust his compliments. And I have to wonder why he is still talking to me, even though I have been anything but charming.
"I wouldn't mind going back there," he says, noticing my look. "It's a cool place – but too loud to talk. And I would like to talk to you."
I look up at him. "Why?"
"I told you," he replies. "There's something about you that appeals to me."
I sigh. "Is this some kind of joke? Are you trying to win a game or something?"
Now he frowns at me.
"Why are you so suspicious?" he wants to know. "Has no one ever paid you a compliment before? That can't be it. Or are you mad, because I am keeping you from dancing?"
"I... I don't –"
"Look," he says, now sounding impatient. "I don't want to mess with you or ruin your evening. Let's make a deal. I'll go over to the bar and order myself a shisha and a drink. I've had enough dancing for tonight. I don't want to cut yours short, though. You go, dance as long as you wish until you feel you've had enough as well. And if you're feeling like having a little nightcap before going home – you'll know where to find me."
He distances himself from the wall and straightens up, looking down on me with a stern but friendly face. "I won't wait forever, though."
And then he turns around and walks away, crossing the street and heading for the bar.
I know the place well. I have been there a few times before.
But – what the hell? Is he really that confident that I will follow him? He didn't even give me his name or his phone number. I could just go back downstairs and dance until my head falls off before I tumble home and never see him again. I could just do that.
And I might.
My eyes follow him as he walks away. He doesn't turn around once. His confidence annoys me.
I shake my head and turn around, heading for the club's entrance to go back downstairs. And dance. Just as I had planned to when I first got here.
The club is a lot emptier than it was just a short while before. It is not even that late, but people are leaving left and right. Great, more room for me.
The song that is on is not especially great or catchy, but I start dancing to it anyways. I try to, that is. My mind is elsewhere, even though I try to fight it. I cannot get him out of my head.
What kind of weird game is he playing with me? And why does it work so well?
It scares me, actually. Because I feel like this is not up to me. As if someone put a spell on me, causing me to notice him in the first place, to be drawn to him even though he appears to stand for everything I despise.
And why did he come up to me and talk to me like this? Since when has it become this easy to charm me the way he just did?
Of course, I have heard compliments before, compliments about my appearance even.
But never like this. And they never did to me what his words did.
I feel like a giddy, stupid girl, who got brain fucked by a charming womanizer who is just trying to get one thing out of her.
But even if that's true – would that be so bad?
It's been a while since I have had sex. And he's hot, that's for sure. I have never been opposed to one-night stands and have had quite a few. It's just a matter of timing, my mood, the guy who presents himself available – just a few variables that need to fall into place.
He is interesting, he could be fun.
"Oh, fuck this," I whisper, more to myself than anyone out there.
I turn around and head for the door.