Dance Till I Die (gxg) ✓

"When The Choir Sings"

Ace

                  "I want your phone number."

                   "You can't just keep showing up showing up wherever I am," Mavis hissed in a low voice, her eyes darting towards the stage, where a stripper named Amber was currently dancing. "People are going to notice! Besides, I decided don't trust you."

                    "You do not seem to understand," Ace said coldly. Perhaps she had overestimated the intelligence of Americans after all. "Your life is in danger. I am the only one who can protect you."

                    Mavis tipped her head back, letting out a frustrated laugh. "You're not Sarah Connor. This isn't The Terminator. And I am not giving you my phone number!"

                    "You are mistaking the part where it was a question."

                    "Why do you even need it, huh?" Mavis snapped. She reached out to poke Ace's shoulder, but Ace honed the lightning in her bones: her grip tightened on Mavis's arm, pulling her until Mavis stumbled. "Hey! You―"

                      Mavis had landed on Ace's lap. The feel of her round ass―for a moment, Ace was rendered speechless.

                      It gave Mavis time to say, "Listen, you talk like a psychopath. How do I know you aren't some serial killer?" 

                     "What is the Terminator?" 

                     Ace noticed the bouncer eyeing them, attention narrowing on the way Ace's hands had slid over Mavis's curvy hips. Immediately, she let go.

                     Mavis blushed.

                     "Okay, Ace, if you're really a real person and not some cyborg sent from the future organization Sky Net, how about you tell me . . . what's your favourite dessert?"

                     "Women."

                     This girl . . . to Ace, she smelled like strawberry. Like coconut. And Ace might as well have been a dying man in a Saharan wasteland, for all the dessert she had been able to eat while in prison.

                      Pink stained Mavis's warm brown skin. Ace was beginning to like that colour.

                     "I have to go," Mavis pressed. "I can't stay too long with one person unless―"

                      Ace slipped five crisp one-hundred dollar bills between her fingers. Money meant nothing to her. 

                      Mavis's mouth opened. Closed. "That's―a lot of money."

                      Yes, maybe Americans were stupid. Ace let the money dangle between them, and she leveled the same glare at Mavis that she had used to make war prisoners tremble.

                      "I can't take that."

                      There was a word for people like this. Mentally unstable. "Yes, you can."

                      "No, I really can't," Mavis said, and she pulled away from Ace. The absence of her warmth on Ace's thighs was like an ember snuffed out. Her cheeks slowly reddened, and she clenched her fists.