4 Just a friend

"The guy just wants one dance, Dalia. Just one dance."

"I said no, Scott!”

Scott was getting on my last nerve. He’d been up my ass all night trying to get me to agree to a dance with Mr. Mysterious in Black.

"Why are you so insistent on this?" I asked on a lifted brow. It was so out of character for Scott.

"Because he's being insistent. As much as I'm annoying you, he's annoying me," Scott said through a heavy breath.

My hands settled on my hips. "Okay, so he's a nuisance. Throw his ass out, Scott!

Problem solved."  

His beefy chest jerking, Scott laughed heartily at my nonsensical suggestion, his white teeth brightened by the psychedelic club lights. "I can't, Dalia. He's the—" he stopped short, frowned, and placed his hands on my shoulders. "Just one dance. I'll pay you."

Pay me? Dude's that desperate? I laughed out involuntarily and Scott gave me a quizzical stare.

 "Okay. One dance." I wagged my index finger in his face to emphasize one dance. Scott gave a bit-lip grin, his eyes gleaming. "One dance is all it'll take."

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I sent a silent invocation for the DJ to play a really short song, because I sure as hell wasn’t looking forward to dancing with this man. Begrudgingly, I entered the booth of Mr. Mysterious in Black to find him tapping away furiously on his cell phone. He didn’t seem to notice my entrance. Seem, being the keyword.

"You requested a dance?"

He was absorbed in whatever he was doing on his phone. Sending an email? Texting a lover? Who cared?

Then he spoke without lifting his head, his attention directed fully at his phone screen. "Sit."

His commanding tone stood firm against the flowing music of the club, and I just stood, aghast. "Look, Sir, I don—"

"Sit, Dalia." He shot me a brief, quelling stare, shook his head, and resumed typing.

I could only stand and stare, stunned at the way my name rolled comfortably off his tongue. He uttered it with such ease, the way a person who knew every dirty little thing about me would. In a way only a person who said my name frequently would say it.

With familiarity and intimacy. How did he even know my name?  I'm going to kill Scott.

Lost in thought, lost in the strangeness of the man, I sat down on the red, leather banquette next to him, being sure to keep my distance. There was something about him that made me apprehensive. Though I wouldn't dare let him see that.

I surreptitiously checked him out, and found my distant assessments had been on point: he was hot. His dark hair dashed messily across his forehead, giving him that model-type essence. About two days of stubble shadowed his face. Oh, what stubble on a man's face does to me.

 His jaw was acutely squared and angular, and his lips, oh his lips, were too pink to grace a man’s mouth. I estimated him to be no older than thirty.  I leaned in for a closer look, wishing the booth lights were a tad more revealing. I wanted to see the color of his eyes. I wanted to be able to admire him further...

Mr. Mysterious in Black suddenly glanced up at me and I swallowed noisily, feeling like a child who'd just been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. A ghost of a smile whispered across his disconcertingly sexy lips, and with his eyes locked on mine, he slipped his phone inside his jacket pocket.  Why did I feel so warm all of a sudden?

I averted my eyes and fixed them on the bottle of Grey Goose Vodka sitting on the table, minding its own business.

"The song will end soon," I weakly said, "I agreed only to one dance."

"I don't want a dance, Dalia. I just want to talk."

I found the courage to raise my eyes to his face. "It's Strawberry for you, not Dalia. And I'm not interested in talking."

He leaned towards me, both his palms pressed flat on his thighs, and fixed his hard, implacable gaze on mine. "It's Dalia for me. It will always be Dalia for me," he claimed, staring unblinkingly at me, searing me with his gaze.

Refusing to be intimidated by him, I stubbornly tried holding his gaze. I really tried. But my will was overridden by his. Aiming for indifference, I waved my hand in a dismissive gesture. "Whatever, weirdo."

He blinked, looking vaguely amused,  then snorted. "Strawberry," he mocked, shaking his head at the word.

"I'm still not interested in talking. So I think we’re done here."

Shooting to my feet, I made to leave but was halted by his heated grip on my wrist.

"Please. Sit and talk with me."

His urging hadn’t arrested my movement, my body stopped of its own volition at his touch. A touch that jolted through me like a live wire, and felt so...familiar. I glanced down at his hand gripping my wrist, then back at him. Confused.

"Please," he repeated. His voice pleaded but his expression was impassive. How did he manage that?

"Okay," I acquiesced. Because to be honest, I didn't really want to leave—couldn't leave after feeling his touch. It clutched me not only on my wrist, but other places as well...deep down within me… awakening vestiges of eradicated emotions. Who was he?

"And what do you wanna talk about?" I asked, aiming for casual.

"You.”

"Me? What about me?"

"For one, I despise seeing you on that stage. It...It pains me," he confessed. Why?

"Oh, really? Then why the hell are you here, Mr. Prudery? Is it not to watch halfnaked women wrap themselves around a pole?"

His faced scrunched in disgust. "No. I don't do strip clubs. I'm here because of you."

What? What did that even mean? "You're not making any sense. Do you know me from somewhere?"

He ran a hand through his mass of dark hair, clearly deliberating over his response. Hell, that one move had me squirming.  Evading my question, he said, "Scott tells me this is your last night." "Yes," I confirmed.

"And what’s your intentions for employment after this?"

"That's for me to worry about."

What was I going to do for employment, though? My bills? My responsibilities? Heavens, I didn’t want to think about any of that right now. In the hope of temporarily decimating my worries, I reached for the bottle of Grey Goose Vodka to fill my glass. But Strange Guy placed his hand over mine to stop me. And there was that electrifying feeling again. Now I really needed that drink.

"No. No alcohol."

"Look, mister, you don't know me, you don't own me, you can't tell me what to do," I sassed.

"Telling you what to do is not my aim. I've seen the calamities you cause when you drink." He smirked, making jest of my mishap the night before.

Sulking like a teenager, I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms. Such was most certainly out of character for me. Oh, this man...

He looked amused again. "What do you enjoy doing with your free time?"

His gaze was so penetrating, I couldn't help thinking he was trying to tell me something with his eyes. What did he want me to see?

"Fashion design, reading fiction sap, and listening to Pink."

Turning sideways, he took on a relaxed position by bending one leg up on the banquette seat, resting his elbow on the top edge of the banquette and placing his chin in his palm. "Interesting," he considered. "Do you have a portfolio of your designs?"

"Um, no. I've given up the thought of making it a career. Landing a solid job in the field has proved impossible in this crammed city. Now it’s just a pastime, or design on demand."

"So what have you thought about doing career-wise? Well, other than this." He waved his hand toward the stage, then raised his eyebrow at me in the most unique way. It’s so far up and perfectly arched. That's...hot. Smoking hot!

Trying to focus on the conversation, I cleared my throat. "There's nothing else I'd love to do second to designing. But I have to take whatever comes along. Designing is all I know. I acquired my Bachelor’s in fashion design two years ago and had thought about going for my Master’s, but after not being able get anywhere in the field..." I shrugged. Hard work doesn’t always pay off.

He didn't censor me as I'd expect him to. Instead, he offered, "I know a designer. He owes me a great deal of favors. He has a grand fashion house here. I'll talk with him and get you an interview. In the meantime, you can put together a compilation of your designs and create that portfolio."

Why would he do that? He didn't even know me. "Okay Mister, whoever you are, I believe in saving myself—and others’—time. And pain. People tend to lie to themselves even when they know the truth. I don't. You want something from me. What is it? Tell me and I'll let you know whether I can grant it or not. The kindness and gratuity isn’t necessary. Trust me, it'll save us both a lot of time if we're straightforward with each other."

He did that damned thing with his eyebrow again.

Trying not to squirm, I quickly continued, "You either want a fuck buddy, a relationship, a submissive, or someone to tether you up and spank you red to feed some sick proclivity of yours."

Unamused, he just stared back at me with guarded eyes. My instinct told me he was schooling his irritation.

His serious stare intimidated me to my very core, and I was finding it hard to breathe. I wasn’t someone who feared easily, possessing an intrepid, unyielding personality that, at times, could be considered foolhardy, if I was being honest with myself.  

But this man...

He closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, then exhaled. "Just one thing," he voiced in a quiet tone.  "Only to be your friend."

That answer was unexpected and...disappointing?

"Is that too much for you to give, Dalia? Is my answer time-saving enough?" he asked, tilting his head to the side.

Feeling awful, my eyes dropped to my drink on the table. Maybe he was really just trying to be kind. Maybe. "No. That's fine. We can be friends."

Could I really just be friends with such a deliciously tempting man?  

"Good. So will you allow me to get you the interview?" 

"Yes."

"Good," he repeated, appeased. "I'm glad you've come to your senses and decided to leave this God-awful place. I feared I'd have to drag you out of here myself." He murmured the latter more to himself than to me.

I would've questioned that addition, but I'd already come to the conclusion the man was like a giant Rubik’s Cube. If we would eventually be friends, as he requested, then I'd stealthily try to decipher him myself because I didn't trust he would be truthful if I asked.

"It was a means to an end."

"An explanation is not needed, Dalia. Judging is Jesus' job, not mine. You've worked for less than a week and already you're quitting. That says plenty."

He uncurled his leg from the banquette and leaned forward to take a sip of his drink, then directed his gaze out to the dance floor. I took the opportunity to devour him with my eyes, good-looking son of a bitch that he was.

He dropped his head in his hands and began rubbing his temples with his thumbs. Something was wrong. Did he remember I was still beside him?

He spoke before I could ask. "I heard you had an accident and your car was totaled. Do you have a ride home?"

Scott is such a blabber! I'm going slit his freakin' tongue. "Yeah. My friend, Joan, always takes me home."

He nodded, and a minute later he turned his head to face me. His impassivity was superseded by some other expression I couldn't quite discern. Care? Concern? Compassion? "Are you okay otherwise?'' I nodded.

"In every way, you are okay?" I nodded again.

"Are you sure?"

Jeez. What's it to him? I figured it was time to leave. Being around this man was much too muddling. And the fact I desired him prompted me to question my sanity. I

nodded yet again in reply then stood up. "I should get going."

His mouth opened as if to object but then he evidently resigned himself. "Yeah.

Okay."

Taking out his wallet, he withdrew seven crisp one hundred dollar bills and handed them to me.

"No. This is too much," I protested. I wasn't going to charge him.

"No. It's not. You've been good company. Besides, seven is my favorite number at the moment."

Huh? "I haven't even given you a dance. We've been—"

"Just take the goddamn money and don't argue with me," he snapped.

Shell-shocked at his tone, I glowered at him, unable to speak.