I pull the phone from my ear to see he’s already hung up. I don’t know if I can get any more in two weeks, let alone double. Just because I have a lead and the urge to follow it doesn't meanthere will be any usable stardust at the impact site. My neck prickles, the sensation of fighting off tears when I have no tears left to give.
The phone drops from my limp fingers onto the bed and I shuffle back to the kitchen. I pull a can of chicken breast from a worn cabinet and pop the top off for the cat, then slouch back in front of my laptop. I don’t even have the energy to open it, which is apparently unacceptable to the refueled cat.
It hops from the counter to my table, then sits right in front of me on the other side of my computer, staring me down, tail flicking side to side.
“Fine,” I huff, and open the laptop.
The cat flops onto its side and rolls around, looking at me upside down around the side of my screen. I twist my lips to the side to hold in what feels suspiciously like a smile; this cat will not break me.
After a few more hours ofresearch, an entire pot of crappy coffee, and two slices of leftover pizza, I have four destinations to check out starting tomorrow. It’ll be a multi-day trip on my bike, but that’s nothing new. If I’m lucky, I’ll find some salvageable stardust and the evil boss man will lay off me for a while.
The cat has long since disappeared after demanding to be let back outside, and I don’t expect to see it until after I return. My brain is exhausted, but my body is wired from too much caffeine. I didn’t get the escape I was looking for last night, and that pathetic, hopeful part of me wants to try again. So I hop in the shower, scrubbing my scalp and rinsing the anxious sweat of today from my body.
I dry my hair and let it hang straight down my back, then wing out my eyeliner, dab an extra layer of mascara, and swipe blood red lipstick across my lips. I loop a jangle of silver bracelets around my wrist, and that’s the extent of my jewelry.
Then I pull on my usual outfit: skintight black pants, a black crop top, and black riding boots. I have very few colors in my closet—okay, I have no colors in my closet—and that’s exactly how I like it. Quick, easy, no threat of decision paralysis. Plus, fewer people mess with me when I’m dressed like a badass.
I walk the few blocks to Tempo and notice the dance floor isn’t as busy as usual. I wonder what day it is? It must be a weekday. There’s plenty of space at the bar, so I lean against it and order my usual, three shots of tequila.
The bartender catches my eye, and I remember him from the previous night. A few inches taller than me with messy, brown hair and a smile so bright it makes me cringe. No one has the right to exude so much happiness, especially not in a nearly empty bar.
I haven’t seen him here before this week. He must be new, although he clearly knows what he’s doing, moving around behind the bar like it’s second nature. I take another look, drawn in by the dark eyeliner accenting bright hazel eyes that almost glow in the dim lighting.
I eye him up and down, taking in his colorful look. An eclectic mix of hot pink nails, a tattoo of a moth on the back of one hand, a loose purple shirt with the sleeves cut off and fishnet over the shoulders, and too many piercings to count. My eyes snag on the silver lip ring glinting on the right side of his lower lip.
He’s hot, and if the heated look he’s giving me is any indication, he’s also more than willing.
I consider it, slamming the shots back, and decide to hit the dance floor while I scope things out. I sway my hips to the beat, reach my arms above my head and close my eyes as I tryto let the music take me. Hands land on my hips, but I don’t acknowledge them, waiting to see what the mystery person will do. I know they’re not the bartender’s hands; they’re much too small to belong to him. Soon enough the hands leave, and I’m swaying on my own again. I feel eyes on me, prickling the hair on the back of my neck, so I tip my head back down and open my eyes to peek over my shoulder.
The bartender is watching me.
I tilt my head to the side as I spin toward him, trailing one hand down my body as I dance. His throat bobs as he pauses shaking a cocktail, arms raised and muscles tense while his gaze blazes heat down my body. I trace my eyes over his biceps, appreciating their definition, but ultimately deciding I don’t want to wait.
Another night, perhaps, he’d be what I want, but tonight I don’t want it quick and dirty in a back room. I want hours of oblivion, ideally in someone else’s bed so I can sneak away when I’m satisfied.
No one else here is doing it for me, though. I wrinkle my nose as I make the decision to walk another couple blocks to the more popular, more expensive club. It’s a swanky place that tends to draw more tourists than this one, so I probably have a decent shot of finding what I want there, even if the drinks are pricey. Before I leave, I saunter back to the bar, and the bartender scrambles over to serve me. It’s kind of cute, and my lips twitch up before I can stop them.
“More shots?” he says.
“Nah, closing my tab,” I reply, dropping a few bills on the bar.
His face falls and I almost feel bad, until I remember that I don’t owe him anything and he’s hot enough to bag any hookup in this place. I turn away, my gaze roving over the crowd one last time.
“You’re all set,” he says.
I don’t reply, and I don’t look back, not wanting to see his sad puppy dog eyes as I leave.
3
LOGIC HAS NO PLACE HERE
Ro
I’ve been wiping the same stretch of bar for far too long. She’s mesmerizing though, the way her body moves with the music, flowing with the beat. Pulsing hexagon light strips on the ceiling scatter rainbows across her silver hair, while the flashing floor tiles cast a mystical glow from beneath. Whispers of color and shadow whirl over her pale skin in time to the beat, like they’re dancing with her. The demon in my chest rumbles, envious desire bubbling up in my chest.
There are a few other people dancing, but not many. A gay couple grinding in the corner, and a group of women having a fun, alcohol-free night. Surprisingly, they tip better for their mocktails than most folks who order specialized cocktails do.
My eyes drift back to the sole silhouette dancing alone. Her hands are dainty, reaching high above her head, and I blink, zeroing in on the dark lines of delicate tattoos curving over her fingers. I was too focused on her face to catch them before. I wonder what other details I haven’t discovered yet.
