Sweet Tooth

Arrival is already crowded when Lynn and I reach our table. A server turns sideways to squeeze past us, lifting a tray above someone’s shoulder. Amber light catches the bottles behind the bar, while shifting blue and purple lights sweep across the dance floor. The bass is loud enough that I feel it through the soles of my shoes.

Lynn keeps hold of my hand until we’re clear of the passing drinks. She helped choose the backless red dress I’m wearing, then insisted it needed heels. The dress, I like. The shoes have been digging into my toes since we left the apartment.

Above us, a curved staircase leads to a section with fewer tables and a man stationed beside a velvet rope. There’s enough space up there for people to move without rubbing against strangers. Down here, someone’s elbow has already caught my back twice.

Harold stands when he sees us. His fitted black shirt pulls across his shoulders as he gathers a jacket from the booth, making room beside him.

“You made it.”

“We had to negotiate her release from the computer.” Lynn drops into the booth first.

“I was finishing something.”

“You said that three times.”

“And then I finished it.”

She gives me a look as I slide in beside Harold. He’s handsome, with broad shoulders, a careful haircut, and a smile that makes Lynn nudge my knee beneath the table. I ignore her. She’s spent enough time explaining why I should be interested in him. Unfortunately, I can’t seem to develop an attraction on her schedule.

“You look good,” he says, leaning closer so I can hear him.

“Thank you.”

He offers me a shot, and I accept it. Bottles sit in ice buckets between scattered napkins and glasses nobody seems to be claiming. I glance at the labels before looking back at him.

“Please tell me we aren’t splitting the bill.”

“My table, my tab.”

“Excellent. I can afford to remain seated.”

He laughs, but I’m only partly joking. Mama picked up another shift tonight, and I nearly stayed home so I wouldn’t spend anything else. Since Dad left, there’s always been a bill waiting behind whatever I consider buying.

But I worked all week. I wanted to wear the dress, see my friends, and spend a few hours somewhere other than my bedroom. I take the shot and set the empty glass down.

Across from us, Keyshia bends toward Lisa, brushing her lips against her ear. Whatever she says must be impressive, because Lisa turns and kisses her.

I glance at Lynn. Last weekend, Lisa spent twenty minutes explaining why she couldn’t stand her.

“I’m not getting involved,” Lynn says.

“Very unlike you.”

She bumps my shoulder and reaches for the bottle. I cover my glass before she can refill it.

“Give me a minute.”

With a disappointed sigh, she pours her own instead.

“So, Josie, how’s work going?” Orion leans across the table, raising his voice over the music. He’s a friend of Harold’s, although every conversation we’ve had has started with the same question. I shift back against the booth to give myself some space.

“Still retail. Still hoping someone offers me something else.”

“A friend of mine works in retail,” he begins. “He was telling me—”

“Let’s dance.” Lynn catches my hand before Orion can finish telling me about his friend who also works in retail.

I put my glass down and follow her. Between the tables and the dance floor, someone steps backward into our path, forcing us to squeeze past a column. Lynn turns sideways. I follow, holding my dress against my thigh to keep it from catching on anything.

“Still glad you wore the heels?” she asks.

“Ask me when I regain feeling in my toes.”

“You look good.”

“You’ve mentioned. Apparently, that’s supposed to restore circulation.”

She laughs and pulls me into an open space near the middle of the floor. The music is louder here, the bass coming up through my legs. I start moving while she gathers her hair off her neck, already watching for the next beat.

For the first song, I’m conscious of everything—the dress, my footing, whether I’m about to elbow somebody. Then the DJ changes tracks, and Lynn grabs both my hands.

“Oh, we’re staying for this.”

“You say that about every song.”

“Because I have excellent taste.”

She turns beneath my arm, nearly colliding with a woman dancing behind her. They exchange apologies, then laugh and keep moving. I stop worrying about whether anyone’s watching us.

By the time Keyshia and Lisa find us, my hair has started slipping from its bun. I pull out the loose pins and redo it while Lynn complains that I’ve stopped dancing.

“Maintenance,” I tell her, securing the wrapped lollipops I brought with me.

“You brought snacks?”

“Preparedness is an attractive quality.”

Lisa reaches for one. I duck away before she can take it, and she laughs, lifting both hands in surrender.

We stay until we’re hot enough to need water, then head back to the booth. Harold moves the ice bucket so we can get to our seats. Lynn steals a napkin to blot her forehead and immediately starts arguing with Lisa about which song they should request next.

I settle against the seat, smiling despite my aching feet. I needed this more than I wanted to admit.

Over the next two hours, we alternate between the table and the dance floor. My careful plan for the evening gets less careful somewhere around my second drink. By the time I’ve had four Long Island iced teas and three shots in total, my bladder has become considerably more demanding than my friends.

“I’m going to the restroom,” I announce.

Lynn lifts a finger without looking away from Lisa. They’re still arguing about the music.

Wonderful. I slide out of the booth and leave them to it.

The hallway is quieter than the dance floor, although I can still feel the bass through the wall. I pass a couple arguing beside a closed door and continue toward the back, concentrating on my footing. The drinks were easier to manage while I was sitting down. These shoes are becoming a separate problem.

I push open the first door I reach, already looking for a sink.

There isn’t one.

There’s a desk, a computer, and several men who stop what they’re doing when I walk inside. One of them is seated in front of the monitor. Another stands beside him with a gun pressed against his head.

I keep my hand on the door. The man holding the gun turns toward me, and my attention catches on his face before returning to the weapon. Dark hair, tattoos disappearing beneath his clothes, and an expression that makes it clear I’ve interrupted something.

“Who forgot to lock the fucking door?” His gaze moves briefly past me, then settles on my face. “Kiddo, I need you to leave.”

I should. There’s no sensible reason to remain in a room where someone is holding a gun, especially when the person holding it has offered me an exit. But the man at the desk starts typing again, and I look toward the monitor.

A request fails. He tries it again.

“You’re going to get the same result,” I tell him.

The room goes quiet. The man at the desk looks over his shoulder, his split lip opening slightly before he closes his mouth. There’s dried blood on his shirt. Whatever’s happening here, the computer apparently hasn’t improved his evening.

“I can help.”

The gun turns toward me.

“That wasn’t an invitation,” its owner says.

“I know.” I look from him to the screen. “But you seem to be waiting for something he isn’t giving you.”

He studies me long enough that I become aware of everyone else watching. I’m curious about the computer, attracted to a man who has given me no reasonable cause to be, and apparently willing to make both things obvious. I should work on keeping at least one thought to myself.

“Move,” he tells the man in the chair.

The man gets up immediately. I take his place, pulling a wrapped lollipop from my bun before setting my bag beside my feet. The monitor shows enough for me to understand what he was trying to reach. I check what he’s already attempted, then begin working while the room remains unpleasantly quiet behind me.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“Street footage.”

“From where?”

He gives me a location and a time. Ten minutes later, I have the cameras on the screen and the footage he requested saved beside them. I sit back, taking the candy from my mouth.

“There. You can check the time against the recording.”

He leans over my shoulder. I keep looking at the monitor, although I’m considerably more aware of him than anything on it. He smells good. That feels like an irritating detail to notice while there’s still a gun in his hand.

One of the other men moves toward the desk. I collect my bag and stand, letting him take over.

“Alright. I’ll let you get back to whatever this is.”

I reach the door before a hand catches my waist. He turns me toward him, closing the distance until my back meets the wood. His other hand settles around my throat, holding me still while he studies my face.

“You should’ve left when I told you to.”

“You let me sit down.”

“I noticed.”

His gaze drops to my mouth. Before I can decide what to say next, he takes the lollipop from my fingers and puts it in his own.

I stare at him. Of everything happening in this room, that small act is what sends heat through me. I’d like to blame the alcohol, but I suspect I’d find him just as attractive sober, which is considerably less reassuring.

“That was mine.”

He takes it from his mouth and holds it between us. I reach for it, keeping my eyes on his as I put it back between my lips.

Something presses against my stomach. I glance down at the gun, then back at him. His expression doesn’t change. Neither does mine.

“Bring him,” he says.

The man from the computer is pulled toward us. He starts speaking, but I can’t make out everything he says over the music coming through the wall. The hand around my throat stays where it is while the gun moves away from my stomach.

He looks at me as he pulls the trigger.

The man drops. For a moment, nobody moves. I look toward the body, then back at the face in front of mine. He’s waiting for something—a scream, a struggle, some reaction that will explain me to him.

I don’t give him one.

I know what I’ve just watched. I also know I should feel considerably more than I do. Instead, I’m aware of his thumb beneath my jaw and the candy resting against my tongue. Whatever he hoped to learn from doing that in front of me, he looks less certain now.

“You’re not scared?”

“You keep asking me to leave, then stopping me when I try.” I take the lollipop from my mouth. “Pick one.”

His fingers loosen. I put the candy between his lips before he can answer, then open the door and walk out.

I still need the fucking restroom.

By the time I return to the table, someone has ordered another round. I leave mine where it is and reach for water, taking a long drink while Lynn shifts over to let me sit.

“Where have you been?”

“Wrong door.”

She looks toward the hallway, then back at me. “Did you find the right one?”

“Eventually.”

I’m not explaining the rest here. I wouldn’t know where to begin without sounding like I’d invented it, and the man responsible has already given me enough attention for one evening. I settle beside her, intending to spend the next few minutes doing something ordinary.

Then Lynn touches my wrist.

“Don’t turn around immediately.”

Naturally, I turn.

He’s upstairs in the private section, one hand resting against the railing. Even from here, I can tell he’s looking at me. I hold his gaze for a moment before turning back to Lynn.

“That was immediately,” she says.

“What?”

“Do you know him?”

“Briefly.”

Her eyebrows rise. I can practically see the questions arranging themselves.

“He’s been watching you,” she says.

“I noticed.”

“Are we going to say hello?”

“I think we’ve covered introductions.”

“Then you can introduce me.”

She stands before I can explain why that might be a terrible idea. I take the last lollipop from my hair and unwrap it while following her. If she’s going upstairs, I’m going with her. Leaving Lynn to conduct this conversation unsupervised would only create more work for me later.

At the rope, the bouncer looks toward the booth. The man watching us gives a small nod, and we’re let through. Lynn heads straight toward him, smiling as she says something I can’t hear. I stop beside the railing, taking in the dance floor below.

“Hey, beautiful.”

I turn toward the man approaching me. He’s younger than the one Lynn is speaking to, with dark hair, tattoos, and a black shirt fitted across his shoulders. His smile is considerably more welcoming than anything I’ve received upstairs so far.

I take the lollipop from my mouth. “Hey—”

A hand closes around my waist and turns me away from him.

I look up into the face I’ve apparently failed to avoid. He catches my wrist, guiding the candy toward his mouth while his attention remains on the man behind me. He tastes it slowly, then returns it to my lips.

“Flirt with another man in front of me again. I will kill him.” His eyes settle on mine. “Got that, kiddo?”