Page 8 of Rafi

She doesn’t offer her name, nor does she offer her hand. Instead, she picks up the glass, swirling the liquid inside before taking a sip. Her lips curve into a faint smile. “Out of all the girls here tonight, you walked right in and chose me. Why?” She is curious but intrigued, and I can see that her mind is razor sharp; she picked up on my movements even before I stepped toward the bar. It must be obvious to her that I sought her out.

“You seem like the kind of girl that likes to have a good time.”

Her lips curve, a smile that feels more like a dare than a greeting. They’re small, delicate, yet commanding, drawing the eye despite their subtlety. Her eyes, long and feline, tilt upward, set just a bit too far apart. It should throw her face off balance, but against her sharp cheekbones and the unapologetic confidence she exudes, it works. She’s not conventionally beautiful, but there’s something magnetic about her—a pull that makes it impossible to look away.

She tilts her head, studying me with an expression that’s equal parts intrigue and condescension. “You might be interested to know that your idea of a good time and mine are probably worlds apart.”

Before I can reply, she sets the glass down with a flick of her wrist. The movement is so smooth it seems rehearsed, the glass skimming the bar’s surface before sliding back toward me. It stops just short of my hand, and for a moment, I’m struck silent. The message is clear:have your drink back. Whatever game I think I’m playing, I’ve already lost this round.

“Thank you for the drink. But it tastes better when I pay for it myself.”

I nod, acknowledging her sentiment. She’s not going to make this easy on me.

Her stormy gray eyes flick to my bruised knuckles, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You don’t look like the clubbing type,”she says, her tone laced with dry humor. “More like the fighting type.”

She doesn’t mention the swelling around my eye or the split in my lip. Maybe she’s too polite, or maybe she just doesn’t care. Her laugh follows, soft but sharp, like the edge of a blade. It’s not a laugh meant to put me at ease—it’s a challenge.

“So tell me,Rafi,” she says, leaning in just enough to close the space between us. “What brings you to my little corner of the world?”

Her words land heavy, her tone claiming this place as hers, like I’m trespassing on sacred ground. And maybe I am. For a second, I forget my lines. The plan, the questions I’m supposed to ask, all dissolve under her gaze. My pulse quickens, loud enough to drown out the music.

“I’m just out looking for a good time,”I lie, forcing a casual shrug.

Her smile falters, just barely, a crack in her armor so brief I almost miss it. She signals the bartender with a quick gesture, her attention shifting as a fresh drink appears in front of her. Picking it up, she leans closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “Now, why am I finding it so hard to believe you?”

The question hangs between us, sharp and loaded. I scramble for a response, but she’s already pulling away, her movements smooth and deliberate. “Careful, stranger,” she warns, her eyes flicking back to mine, “or you’ll end up with more than just bruised knuckles.”

And just like that, she’s gone, swallowed by the crowd. A sea of bodies moves to close the space she leaves behind, men stepping into place like sentinels. They form a line, arms folded across broad chests, their stances daring me to follow.

I stand rooted to my spot near the bar, watching as she disappears deeper into the thrumming chaos of the club. Whatever I thought I’d walked into tonight, it’s clear now. I’m playing a game that she’s already mastered.

6

TAYANA

From my spot at the railing above the dance floor, I spot him instantly. He’s seated at the bar, a drink in hand, leaning back like he owns the place. He’s actually hard to miss. The casual confidence in his posture sets my teeth on edge. This ismyturf—my domain. What the hell brought him back here again?

“You actually don’t remember him?”

The bass shakes the floor beneath my feet, the crowd a heaving, sweating mass of bodies lit by strobes and neon. I push through it, threading my way back to the VIP section, trying to ignore the lingering heat of irritation. Rafi. The name sticks in my mind like a burr, not because of who he is, but because of what he represents—a distraction I can’t afford.

“No, actually. I don’t.”

Cassie fixes me with a look that tells me she’s skeptical at best. Not many people would forget a face like that.

Her voice pierces the din as we reach our table. She leans across the low table, her perfectly manicured hands wrapped around a nearly empty glass. Her eyes, wide with excitement,are locked on me. Or, more accurately, on the man she’d seen standing at the bar earlier.

“Come on, Tayana. I rattled on about him incessantly. Tell me you weren’t listening to me all that time!”

I sink into the cushioned seat and reach for my drink before I answer. The vodka burns as it slides down my throat, a welcome reprieve from her constant badgering.

“Of course I was listening. Any time I was actually awake, I was listening.”

Cassie and I shared a dorm room in college. I don’t know how I survived it, especially since all she ever thought about was boys. More boys. Just boys. And for me, that got kinda old, real quick.

Cassie isn’t deterred. She sets her glass down with a clink, scooting closer to me. “How could you not rememberTheRafi Gatti. Come on, Tayana, no-one who’s anyone doesn’t know who he is. I pined after him – miserably - all through uni.”

“Ah!” I exclaim, snapping my fingers with exaggerated realization. “The one that got away!”

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