A Designer Dress From Heaven and Your Dirty Wedding Ring

iii. no proof except my silver tongue

"You know, it's just dawned on me that you've never actually been to the club."

You look up from the vase you're polishing, tilting your head at Kyle, who sits across the table from you. He had been working on some kind of financial report when he joined you, but now he's leaned back in the plush chair, arms folded across his chest as he stares at you. You blink back at him, trying not to let your eyes dip down to where he's left the top two buttons of his crisp, deep purple shirt undone.

"I'm...literally in the club right now?"

Kyle rolls his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Not what I meant," he scoffs. "You've never been here while we're open."

"You've just noticed that?" you ask, raising a brow at him. He gives a half-shrug, glancing back down at the pile of papers in front of him.

"You've been here for nearly three months..." he says, quickly glancing back up at you. It's your turn to shrug, using that as your answer before you return to polishing the vase.

"There's no cover charge for employees if that's what you're worried about." His voice is quiet, but you easily catch his words in the club's silence.

You stop mid-polish, setting the vase aside to clasp your hands together on the table. You meet Kyle's eyes with a steady gaze.

"You think I can't afford to get into your club?" You keep your voice light, but the accusation is there, and Kyle picks up on it instantly—you'd be surprised if he didn't.

"I've seen that hunk of junk you call a car," he laughs, all tease and no malice. You scoff, grabbing the closest serviette and tossing it at him. He catches it easily—one-handed and without flinching—neatly folding it and setting it aside. He turns back to you, still waiting for an answer.

"I'm not big on clubs," you sigh, sliding your hands off the table to settle them in your lap.

"If I remember correctly, you came here to sing in a club?"

Your fingers loosen, allowing your thumb to pick at the edges of your nails.

"That's work, not recreation."

"Semantics."

Your thumb catches on your pinky nail, digging in and tearing painfully into the bed of your finger. You roll your eyes, ignoring the sharp sting on your finger and Kyle's quiet chuckles.

"There a reason you want me here so bad?" you ask, pulling your jacket sleeves down over your hands and folding them atop the table. You press your pinkie into the denim, letting the coarse fabric soak up the few droplets of blood.

"You missed out on the New Years party—"

"Not a fan of fireworks."

"—And you've been here long enough. Most people would jump at the opportunity to get in for free."

You have a feeling this is something Kyle's stubbornly set on, and you're going to have a hard time talking your way out.

"Isn't there some kind of fancy dress code?" you try, looking down at your simple outfit; it's the same t-shirt and jean jacket combination you've worn almost every day—you hadn't thought to pack your whole wardrobe when you started this little adventure. "If you've seen my hunk of junk car, you should know I don't really have anything that nice."

Not anymore.

Kyle scoffs, an easy and surprisingly sympathetic smile on his face. "Don't worry about it. You can hang out at the bar with Alex, and if anyone gives you shit about it, just let me know."