The guy glares at him.
Andrew's posture straightens?—
Until the guy melts back into the crowd.
Andrew exhales,
as if not beating the shit out of him took effort,
and holds out his hand.
I stare at it, then at him.
I have no idea where he'll lead me,
could be heartbreak straight into Hellfire,
but I take his hand,
jumping in head-first anyway.
His fingers wrap around mine,
and he helps me off the stool,
pulling me through the crowd,
his grip firm,
his thumb kneading into my skin.
Before, I used to think he did it to convince himself I’m real andhis.
Possessive. Protective.
Never wanting to let go.
But then I remind myself he already did.
On the way to the back,
the music swells,
the lights go down.
People disappear as a door swings open
and we step into a private room.
An intimate room.
An empty room. With a dusky glow.
One smelling of bourbon
and old books
and lipstick-stained cigars.
