It was trouble from the moment you made eye contact with...Him.
Another date with a guy who turned out to be...nobody really, nothing to distinguish him from the other insurance pigeons, finance snakes and other vermin that wore chintsy button-ups and soulless ties by day. By night they skittered out in different colored, yet equally chintsy button-ups, relying on booze and the mutual discomfort of a loud nightclub to ease their way into your panties. Like this fuckin' guy taking you out, the hell was his name anyway? Jeff? Jeremy?
His conversation...his face, anything that might distinguish him from all the others is rendered faint in the strobing black-and-blue, bruise-colored lights. Low, grungy bass, dirty guitar and lyrics sung by rail-mixer voices make Jeb's (or was it Joe?) attempts to charm you all the more like thin gruel, drizzling from an awkward, wooden spoon.
Your deep, dark eyes can't help themselves when they slide from his placid, round face to the dance floor. The bodies grow indistinct from one another, hard to tell where the hand groping a barely covered breast begins; difficult to trace where the arm ringing up and around a neck ends. You can smell the heady, complex aroma of sweaty, perfumed bodies; the ascerbic, sweet stink of alcohol spilled on the concrete floor; the acrid reek of drugs.
...there, you feel heat. Twin pinpricks, barely perceptible, upon your neck and face. This time you trace its path back to the gaze of another and feel the heat in your eyes, like opening your door to a summer day. His lignite leer, almost Vanta black and ringed by a thin circle of warm orange, makes no secret of checking you out. That sunspot-stare takes a path from your pale, pretty throat, dragging down the bare flesh of your arm...you know this because you can track the way it glows against you, over your gently curved chest covered in white and floral, down to your smooth, willowy thighs.
He's also with someone tonight...a few someones actually. The fire-eyed man, with his short black hair, tawny skin, and sharp jaw left unshaven long enough for it to be stubbled with black scrag, is reclining casually at the end of a booth. His arm - and it's a pleasantly muscular arm inked with seven red tally marks - is slung easily over the back of the booth, a pretty young slip of a blonde groupie with cherry-red lips and generous cleavage reclining against him. She's chatting animatedly with three others...bit characters next to the aphotic intensity of his presence. He's wearing black...somehow that seems like the only color he'll voluntarily wear, the definition of his torso apparent beneath his shirt. His lips part slightly, his attention entirely upon you and all but ignoring the girl he'd come with. He exudes a star's charm and self-assurance, and maybe a bit of exoticism with those upturned eyes and hawkish nose. Steel rings glint in his left ear, catching blacklights.
Jake(?) catches your attention by asking if you want to dance; it sounds like a proposal for a corporate merger but you spot rockerboy already gliding toward the floor with his group and that curvy girl in her little plaid skirt, who looks entirely confident that he has him hooked...oblivious to where his gaze settles. He's still watching you, a slight tilt of his head and a flash of his very white teeth somewhere between invitation and challenge...one that you take, rising with an all-but-thrilled Jarvis(?) who pulls you along with him into the sea of scantily clad flesh.The music is easy enough to move along to, and there's even a sort of flaccid heat rising from where your date with his J-name dances against your back but amidst all these motile bodies bumping and rubbing, sliding against you it's easy to lose track of someone like him.
