Page 8 of Diamond In The Rough

“What?” Music thuds louder, the deep bass leaving a ringing in my ears until all I hear is noise, but no distinguishable sounds. “Mister, you need to?—”

He slingshots me past security guards and into the club bursting at the seams with bodies. Heat. Noise. Alcohol and nicotine. They all battle for dominance in the air.

“Dancer?” He turns a sharp left and pushes me against the wall so I hit with a thud.

I’m not sure he’s shoved me; rather, my body simply crumples backward, slamming against the closest hard surface and knocking the oxygen from my lungs.

He releases my arm, but his body crowds me. His chest almost touching mine. “Your legs are long, and your arms are spindly. You a dancer from Iowa?”

“Um…” I look down at my spindly arms and what I suppose might be knobby elbows. I guess. If I was forced to find an imperfection. “I’m not from Iowa.”

“Dancer, though?”

I look to my right, into the belly of the club. Women in their underwear. A stage. Poles. Money, but not dollar bills.

Realizing he might be asking if I’ve come for a job, I swing my head quickly side to side. “Not a dancer, either. Not a stripper—or a sex worker, just in case that was your next question. And I’m not from a small town.”

His eyes—green, even in the darkness—pinch closer. “New York?”

I flash a wide grin, playful despite the dread coiling in the pit of my stomach. “My whole life. I’m living in the East Village now, but I grew up in the Bronx.”

“East Village?” He pulls back and looks me up and down, a second wave of curiosity as he mentally plucks me out of Nebraska and places me in the city. “You’re an artist. Clay. Or metal, maybe.”

Again, I poke a thumb back at myself. “Me?”

“Hm.” His jaw grits beneath thick stubble, making him look all the more threatening. “Why are you here?”

“Here…” I firm my lips and gesture limply toward the crowd surrounding us, “at CeCe’s? You, uh… you dragged me here.”

“I dragged you off of a dangerous street. Why were you on it?”

“It’s Wall Street,” I laugh. Kind of loud. Kind of naïve.

Which only results in my companion growing more irritated.

“The crimes committed on this street are not the same as those committed where I grew up… Different demographics,” I tease. “Why are you here?” I allow my eyes to slide along his fit body. The muscle he carries with ease, and the gap his loose tank leaves at the armhole, showing off scarred ribs and ink on one side. “This is a gentleman’s club, is it not?” I bring my gaze back to his lips. “That’s not to say I doubt your gentlemanly behavior. But your clothes are a tad?—”

“I was jogging.”

I snort. “Do you often jog at night? Why?”

“Because that’s when I have time.” He looks down at my body once more, his probing gaze almost as warm as an actual, physical touch. “What’s your name?”

“Uh…” I watch his lips move; it’s the only way I can understand what he’s saying inside a club bouncing with music. “My name is Kate.”

“No.”

Startled, I swing my focus up to his eyes. “What?”

“Your name is not Kate. Try again.”

“Taylor?”

He shakes his head. Though, in his defense, I practically smothered my offering in question marks.

“Stephanie.”

“No.”

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