Smoke curls thick around the tall shape at the end of the bar. The place is crawling with available woman, a few of which have thrown themselves at him, but he’s not in the habit of plowing the same field twice.
The show had gone the way it always does, but he’d had to duck out after. They wouldn’t let him smoke, and none of the rich unsatisfied wives had fallen for his subtle winks, the upturn of his mouth. So here he is, enjoying his scotch while his eyes travel the throng of bodies.
He’d almost decided on a pretty redhead when he sees her.
Pretty, dark in more ways than one, eyes like the ice in his drink. He catches her eye, doesn’t hide the fact that his own gaze slips down and back up her body. He’s not always successful, but sometimes, the chase excites him more than anything else.
And it might be his imagination, probably wishful thinking, but she looks vaguely interested, and hey, vaguely is good enough for him, but she doesn’t come over like he expects her to. He watches her find a seat, watches her sit, and his eyes move back to his glass, swirling the amber, thinned by the melting ice, and downs the contents. He shifts the cigarette smoldering between his fingers to his mouth, stands, digs in his pocket to pay the bartender, and then grabs his coat. He’s in his usual after-show attire, well-worn blue jeans, a ragged tee shirt, hair lank with sweat and the product he used to keep it slicked back while he sang, though now he’s almost wishing that his shirt were a bit nicer at least.
Still, he isn’t too worried about it. If she doesn’t agree, he can always find someone else, or go home and call one of the girls on his list.
He shrugs into his jacket as he walks, hand coming to tug the cigarette from his mouth to settle between long fingers as he pauses by her chair. “Hey,” he says by way of greeting, smoke curling. A jerk of his head that dislodges a lock of hair, falling in his forehead as he asks, “Wanna get outta here?”
