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He slides a crisp hundred euro note from his wallet and tosses it on the bar top. I’ve never known anyone to be so nonchalant with big amounts of cash. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone to carry so much cash.
I take the money, moving to a register and entering the transaction. When I return with his change, he’s gone. My eyes seek him out hungrily, and without success. He must be deeper in the catacombs, like he was the night I propositioned him, just out of sight of the bar.
I slide his cash onto a tray and put it behind me. I’ll take it to him as soon as things die down. Only it takes almost half an hour before things ease up. I signal one of the other bartenders that I’m leaving my spot and grab his change, weaving through the patrons without making eye contact. He’s sitting on his own—something a little like relief charges me, and I don’t realise until that moment that I had half expected Snow White to be with him. His back is to me so I have a moment to appreciate the breadth of his shoulders, the determination of his neck, the way his hair is thick enough to run my fingers through. My pulse snaps.
‘You forgot this.’ I place his change tray on the table and, faster than lightning, his hand snakes out and his fingers curve around my wrist. My chest bursts and I am frozen still, unable to move, to think, to say or do anything.
‘How are you?’
The question isn’t intense, only the effect of it is, for some reason. But he’s watching me as though the words I will speak mean the salvation of the earth.
‘I’m fine,’ I reassure him, smiling brightly. ‘You?’
He nods crisply. Relieved? Did he think I’d have regrets? After how good that was?
‘How’s work?’
‘Good. I won a case today.’ His eyes glitter with ruthless determination and I shiver, grateful in that moment that I haven’t found myself in opposition to this man. I fear he would be a formidable opponent.
‘Congratulations.’
His smile is just a shift of his features, a brief baring of his teeth. ‘Thanks.’
I swallow, his touch and closeness making me want to go back to his place, to get back in his bed.
‘What did your client do?’
‘Nothing,’ he says, his expression shifting slightly. ‘He’s an innocent man.’
I frown, wondering then if that’s true or not. But he runs his fingertips over my wrist, looking at me with an intensity that pushes all thoughts of crime and punishment from my mind.
‘What are you doing this weekend?’
‘I...’ Pleasure makes the word sound weak; regret quickly follows. ‘I’m working.’
‘Can you get the time off?’
I consider it, torn between acquiescing to this and feeling some inherent danger at the suggestion—to the idea I might rearrange my schedule at his request.
‘I thought you were here to see the world,’ he reminds me, scanning my face thoughtfully.
‘I am.’ Temptation draws me.
‘So? Fancy seeing some of it with me?’
I frown. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve got tickets to the ballet.’
‘The ballet?’ I laugh, I can’t help it. ‘You?’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Um.’ I pull a face. ‘Let’s just say you seem like someone who’d be more au fait with a pool cue than a pirouette.’
He laughs. ‘True. But I think you’d enjoy it.’ He stands up, throwing his Scotch back. ‘Besides, you’re all about new experiences, and the opening night of the Manhattan Ballet Guild’s production of Swan Lake ticks that box.’
‘Are they touring? I haven’t heard anything.’
