Page 30 of Dark Knight

“Hey.” She snaps her fingers close to my face and I swat her hand away.

“Do that again, and I’ll break your fingers.”

“Sorry, sorry. Maybe if you'd pay attention when I ask you a question instead of scoping the place out like Secret Service or whatever...”

Do not engage.

It's getting harder and harder every day to take the high road. She would love nothing more than for us to get in a fight out here and for me to walk away, leaving her alone to do whatever she wants. It’s not happening.

“What were you saying?” I ask with what probably looks more like a grimace than a smile.

“How are we doing this? Are we hanging out together? Are you hanging back at the bar? Do we pretend we don't know each other?”

“If only it was that easy.” I don’t like the looks of the guys walking in right now. Seven in all, young, looking like they shared a copy of theHow To Look Like A Douchebagmanual: tight shirts, gold chains, cologne strong enough to choke me at a distance. None of them can help looking her up and down, though she’s too busy glaring at me to notice.

“You could have stayed home.”

“So you say.”

She shivers in her thin cardigan, rocking back and forth on her heels. “Let's go in, yeah? I’m freezing out here.”

“If you didn’t insist on being half naked...”

“Not your decision,” she reminds me through gritted teeth. “Not my father.”

I have to bite my tongue while paying the cover charge for the both of us. She's not a stupid girl, far from it. Why does she have to be so hardheaded? What seems like common sense to me is mystifying to her. I've never known anyone so hell bent on having their way even if it hurts them, and I'm not sure as we enter the dark, sort of seedy club what bothers me most: her defiance or my inability to help her.

I hate EDM, but that seems to be the music of choice around here. The vibration from the heavy bass travels up my legs and makes my head pound. I know better than to complain because she'll only set down roots and refuse to leave until the lights come up and we're all kicked out. Even if she's miserable, she would do it to spite me.

That's why I put on the most neutral expression I can. “You know, it's been a long time since I've gone out. Thank you.”

“Fuck off!” she shouts back. “Don't even pretend you're enjoying this.”

“We just got here. I'm trying to keep an open mind. I especially love how sticky the floor is.” Spread out before us is a sunken dance floor two steps down from the outer perimeter of the room. In that perimeter there are chairs, tables, and a few booths in the back, with a railing separating drunken spectators from drunken dancers. I guess there would be more than a few accidents if there was nothing keeping people from tumbling down those steps. To my left, spanning the entire wall, is a well-stocked bar currently two or three customers deep from end to end. She picked a popular place. I guess there’s no accounting for taste.

“Want a drink?” I shout close to her ear. It's a struggle, pretending the floral perfume she wears doesn't make hunger pool in my gut, hot and needy.Get it together. This is a job. Callum would castrate you.

She nods and turns toward the bar, weaving her way through the crowd like she was born to do it. She's much more practiced at this than I am, obviously, but it does impress me that she seems to be handling her surroundings well. She's in control, I realize. She's not at the mercy of groping hands... yet. Judging from some of the grinding on the dance floor, it can only be a matter of time.

It's strange, the things that go through a person's mind at the oddest times. I can see my mother's face in front of me and almost hear her voice—disappointed but patient.“One day, you'll understand when you have kids of your own. It feels like watching them make mistakes and knowing there's nothing you can do to stop them. Some things you have to figure out on your own.”

And that's what this is tonight. She has to figure it out on her own. She has to go out in the world and see what she can handle. When I look at it that way, I can almost admire her bravery—though I'd rather cut out my own tongue with a hot knife than admit it. She would never let me live it down.

She asks for a vodka tonic, and I order one along with a soda for me. “You're not going to at least have one drink?”

“I don't drink, really.”

“Why not?”

“I thought we weren't supposed to know each other.”

Even in the dim light, there's no missing the way she rolls her eyes. “I'm trying to make conversation, you douche. Could you lighten up for once?”

“One of us has to keep a clear head.”

“God forbid you not be superior just once!” She shakes her head, turning her back on the bar to scan the dance floor. I stay still, watching her from the corner of my eye. I don't want her to know I'm watching, since that would make her self-conscious.

She's worried. Her brow is furrowed, and her teeth are sunk so deep into her bottom lip it won’t be long before she draws blood. “Here,” I shout, thrusting the drink her way.

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