“You bet, darlin’,” she said sweetly. “Take a seat and enjoy yourself. One of the girls will be around to serve you shortly.” There was a little too much emphasis on the wordserve.
“I’m sure they will,” I mumbled.
After she walked away, Jack turned to me wide-eyed. “I’m out.”
“It’s a bit nontraditional, I agree. But there are, in fact, free food and drinks, as promised. And a lot of men in this room have deep pockets.”
Jack moved backward toward the exit. I was forced to follow him.
“Look around you, man. There’s not a single brother in this room,” he said with his lips hardly moving.
As he spoke I was surprised to find he was right. Aside from the entertainment—which varied in all ethnicities and combinations of skin and hair color—the room consisted of mostly white, middle- to upper-class males. I frowned. I hadn’t noticed. But there were often things I didn’t notice that Jack did, that he later pointed out to me. Another unspoken bias in American culture.
“I’m pretty sure there’s a skinhead in that corner. No, don’t look.” Jack whispered and his gaze never moved off my face. “I’m getting out before I’m taken out tied to the back of some truck.”
I would have chastised him for his judgmental comment but I had to agree. Though it wasn’t completely rational or tangible, my gut twisted. Normally, I’m not one to listen to my body’s more base impulses, but many studies have shown that right before a disaster or attack a person sometimesfelta warning. My mind flashed a headline:
“UT Professor Caught at Local Prostitution Ring.”
“You’re right. I’ll leave with you.”
Jack was already out the door when something had me stopping. It was as though someone had called my name from across the room. An awareness I couldn’t explain. I scanned the area again, noticing even more questionable attendees, until my gaze landed on the stage.
It was her. The dancer from the other night, whose green eyes haunted my dreams.
Her arms were clasped above her head on a pole that stretched from stage to ceiling. Her back pressed against it as she moved up and down, up and down. Her enthusiasm was nowhere near what it had been the first time I saw her. She moved as though she were going through the motions, none of her previous passion burning through. She wore her hair down again and onyx waves trailed down around her. She was hardly covered in what could have been a purple bikini.
As I watched her, her gaze flicked up to mine. She straightened. She scanned the room quickly and then came back to me. Her eyes widened and her head tilted to the side like she was trying to tell me something. I looked behind me. There was nothing but wall. That look was meant for me.
“Let’s go, man.” Jack’s agitation grew.
She flipped around the pole quickly, did a few moves—but her focus was soon back on me. She was definitely trying to get my attention. Why me?
“Yeah, uh, actually...” It was irrational. It was pure instinct and I hated to even consider it but the choice was made before I could think clearly. “I’m going to stay. I need to uh—I need funding and that woman did say we were at the right place. Maybe I’ll find an investor.”
Jack shook his head. “You’re on your own for this.”
“I understand.” I scratched at my short beard and set my beer down on a nearby high top table. “Do you, uh, want me to make sure you can get a car okay?”
Jack sniffed and lifted his chin. I thought he would scoff at my question, insulting as it may be to a man’s ego. If we were closer to the university I wouldn’t have been worried but a few sketchy looking bikers kept glaring his way. Maybe we were both overprotective after growing up in foster homes together, but having each other’s backs was second nature at this point. He shifted on his feet and quickly scanned the room. Something he saw in that short time decided his answer.
“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”
After Jack was in a rideshare and on his way home, I went back to the party. The woman was no longer on stage. I searched the room and told myself I would just keep an eye out for her for a few more minutes before heading home. Jack warned that he’d call the police if I wasn’t home by midnight.
I found a mostly empty table on the periphery of the chaos and waited in the shadows. Across from me, a heavyset man bobbed his head to the music.
“Nice party,” he said as his gaze clung to the retreating figure of a server.
I grunted something noncommittal.
I felt his gaze move to me as I continued to watch for that woman who’d been occupying my thoughts since I first saw her—despite my best efforts. He stuck out a hand. “I’m Ted Buffount, of Buffount Cattle.”
I reached out mine and shook his in return. His grip was callused and strong as though he spent years working with them, but his expansive middle and designer clothes spoke of successful retirement.
“Clifford Rutledge. I’m an adjunct professor at the University of Tennessee.”
“Go Vols.”
