A guy with a neck tattoo leans in, his breath smelling like whiskey. “You dance like you’re trying to start a fight,” he says.
“Maybe I am.”
He grins. “That’s hot.”
Lou appears between us. “She’s emotionally unavailable and expensive,” Lou says. “But hey, shoot your shot.”
The guy laughs and backs off.
“You’re impossible,” I tell Lou.
“I’m saving you for something better.”
The rapper’s voice is lower now, the words about loyalty and blood and never needing permission to take up space.
Lou leans close to my ear. “I’m melting and I need a smoke.”
“What?” I yell back.
He grabs my wrist and starts pulling me toward the edge of the alley. “SMOKE BREAK, BITCH!” he shouts.
We squeeze past someone arguing over twenty bucks, past a girl crying and laughing at the same time. The air cools as we approach the end of the alley.
Lou digs through his pocket for a cigarette. “We need to find you a distraction tonight,” he says casually.
“I am not interested.”
“You absolutely are. You need a rebound with tattoos and low emotional intelligence.”
I snort. “That narrows it down to about half the guys here.”
A low engine rumble from the street catches both my attention and Lou’s.
“Well,” he says slowly, eyes tracking toward the street. “Speaking of low emotional intelligence.”
At the mouth of the alley two motorcycles roll to a stop. The first rider pulls off his helmet immediately. Shaved head. Green eyes. He’s broad, but not too bulky. Confident without trying too hard.
He says something to someone near the curb and they laugh like they know him.
He’s hot, objectively.
Lou’s elbow digs into my ribs. “Tell me you don’t want him so I can proceed.”
“I…”
“You’re already undressing him. I can practically hear the zipper in your head. No judgment, he’s ten out of ten.”
“I have eyes.”
“I respect dibs.”
The second rider stays seated with his helmet still on.
Lou nudges me. “Mysterious one is more your type.”
“I don’t have a type.”
“Incorrect. You absolutely have a type.”
