runaway

ONE | LITTLE MINX

ONE | LITTLE MINX

Everyone is intoxicated. Whether from drinks poured at the bar, or music echoing from a band on the center stage, or someone in the crowd sensually swaying their hips to the melody, every soul in the 40 Watt is undeniably inebriated.

Amongst the crowd before the stage stands a couple, dancing and interacting with one another as though no one is watching because no one is. His hand rests on the small of her back, a sweet gesture which is really only pulling her closer and closer against his body. She presses against him, practically grinding against his body despite the slow tempo of whichever song is being played. To the unknowing eye, an essence of love cannot be detected, though a sense of familiarity between their interactions may be assumed. Then again, maybe it is simply the result of their consumption of multiple drinks prepared by the young woman bartending to the far right.

Oh, the young woman bartending. She is absolutely exquisite, an exotic mistress, a striking vixen. Her dark chestnut hair falls in an effortless natural wave down her back. Eyeliner forms a trim along her lids to accentuate the soft brown of her eyes with a sensual warmth. Her body is clothed with a tight leather skirt outlining her hips tauntingly and a black top revealing the dip of her cleavage. She moves her hips in perfect time to the tempo, partially for the increase in tips and partially for her own satisfaction.

In the simplest terms, she is breathtaking.

The clock reads just shy of ten o'clock, the sun having long descended, allowing the faint trace of moonlight to enter the venue whenever the front door opens for a new visitor. Even in the dim lighting, everyone who enters immediately takes notice of the young woman bartending, including the most recent man who stumbled across the threshold.

He watches her with such infatuation, already addicted at first glance. Running a hand through his hair, the man approaches the bar, too fixated on her to even notice those whom he brushes aside. They mutter curses in his wake, though he spares no concern. Desire flows through his veins and guides his mindset until he stands directly before her, already drunk before ordering his first drink.

"What can I get for you?" the young woman bartending greets him. He nearly swoons at the melody of her voice, at the splendor of her smile, at simply her.

"What do you recommend?" the man asks, rather impressed with himself for being able to even form the words.

She observes him in a fashion almost prompting him to cower beneath and cheeks inflame at the great scrutiny before concluding, "You seem like a bourbon kind of guy."

The man contemplates asking how she could have possibly guessed correctly at just the mere sight of him, but then again, such is her job, for the night at least. Still, rather amazed, he says, "You're right," though she already knew she was as the young woman has never been wrong. He watches her quickly prepare his drink without further instruction, not that he would be able to offer them when he is still so completely under her enchantment.

"Here you go," she says, placing the glass before him. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

"Your name," the man surprises himself by being able to actually say the words.

Such a simple line is one she has heard several times before, though she must admit, this man delivered it much more smoothly than the others, so much so she is even tempted to actually oblige in telling him. Before she gets the chance, though, someone else answers the man's request.

"Hey, Jett!" a young man, a coworker at the bar, calls for her over the music. Jett redirects her attention from the man to him, his jet-black hair disheveled and soft green eyes meeting hers. He is attractive, sure, though there is an undeniable quirkiness to him. Although, his quirkiness may be the very thing which makes him attractive. That, and the strong British accent differentiating him substantially from all else residing within the city in which he now lives.