Neon Girl

Scene 10 - Eagles in the Elevator

I'm still seeing trails when I leave the deejay booth, and Mickey walks me to the waitress station at the bar.

"Was it as good for you as it was for me?" He pulls off his gloves, and I give him a thumbs-up as I catch my breath.

"Your skills will be legendary."

"Do you want something from the bar?"

"I could go for a Coke."

He snaps a light on one of his gloves and uses it to gesture to a waitress heading toward us. Her tray is piled with fluorescent ice cubes, and she smiles at him as she leans into his ear. Whatever she says has him smiling back. When he orders my drink, she glances over his shoulder, taking in all five foot five inches of me, including the heels. It's just a soda, lady. Don't give me that I know you're not twenty-one look.

She slips behind the bar and Mickey turns his attention back to me, folding his arms across his chest like he's been tasked with an interrogation. "So, you and Clutch go way back, huh?"

It's a reasonable question. I was the only girl following Clutch up the stairs, but I'm wondering what makes him ask. Clutch and I never got friendlier than a hug. "Not too far back. I don't even know his real name."

"Well, he seems to know a lot about you. He told me you're old Vegas."

I'm not old anything.

"He's caught a few of my gigs. He's good about promoting local talent."

"Well, I heard you've got a ton of it. He says you sing like an angel."

"Clutch exaggerates."

"His name is Aaron...for future reference."

The waitress hands me a soda and gives Mickey something in a glowing test tube that probably isn't as harmless. They delve into conversation while she loads her tray with fresh drinks, and I scan the club for Presley and Loki. I'm probably already on Presley's shit list for abandoning her on the dance floor. As I sip from my plastic cup, I feel the eyes of a dark-haired stranger on my back. I turn to acknowledge him.

Batman returns.

Smiling, I offer a two-finger salute. I'm so high from post-performance hormones that his come-hither eyes don't even phase me. Did I piss him off when I left him on the dance floor? Guys get their egos bruised easily. Currently, he's got a blonde chick chatting him up, a cigarette slid between her dragon lady nails, her red lips moving as she speaks close to his ear. He doesn't appear to be listening to her. His target is short and stacked.

Batman says something before abandoning dragon lady at the plexiglass wall, and her lips curl into a pout as he walks toward me. Brilliant. Let's piss off the girlfriend, too.

"You seem to have celebrity status around here." He lifts the collar on his trench like he's trying to hide a hickey. His skin is tan, but it's natural not bottled. His features scream Ben Barnes. It's the eyes. No, the lips.

Damn.

"Sure. One of a million." I swig my drink, trying to look casual, but my nerves are tweaking.

"Shouldn't that be one in a million?"

"That'll come later, after I make my first million."

"And how do you plan to make it?" His eyebrows crank up like he's suggesting something totally out-of-the-question.

"A little singing. A little tinkling on the ivories."

He smiles and bobs his head like he just won a bet with someone. "I had a feeling there was more to you than impeccable dance moves. What's your name?"