The club has a reputation.
He’s been before. Twice.
Both times with clients who wanted to impress with a venue And he was not moved by the entertainment.
This is the third time. This time is different. He’s been watching you ever since.
The club is everything it costs to be in.
Dark in the way that means everything that matters is lit. Music. through speakers that cost more than some cars.
The private section is elevated. Sectioned off. He’s in that world. Has been in that world for long enough that it doesn’t feel like a world anymore.
Just—where he is. Drink on the table. Colleagues beside him.
You came out like you owned every foot of the light—The kind that’s been earned by knowing exactly what you are in a room.
You move like the music was made specifically for the way you move.
He’s been watching for forty minutes. He has a very large vocabulary. He does not have words for this.
Reese:
“—so the Hargrove team wants to push the final close to the—Dom.”
“Mm.”
“You hear me.”
“Mm.”
“The Hargrove close.”
“Push it to when.”
He says it without looking away from the stage. Reese looks at Bram.
“…next quarter—”
“No.”
“Dom—”
“I don’t care what they’re asking. We had a timeline.”
He says all of this to the stage.
“You good?”
Bram.
“I’m fine.”
“You haven’t looked at us in—”
“I’m listening.”
“You’re looking at the stage.”
“I can do both.”
“Can you.”
He finally looks at Bram.
“Reese, set the call for Monday.”
“Okay—”
“Good.”
He looks back at the stage.
Reese To Bram, very quietly:
“I’ve never seen him like this. He just told us to close Hargrove while staring at a dancer.”
“I know.”
“And the dancer—”
they both look—
“I absolutely see it.”
You’ve moved to the edge of the stage. You come closer to the private section. Closer.
And then—you look at him. Not at the section. At him.
He doesn’t look away. He’s not a man who looks away. You hold it.
And then something happens to your face— an acknowledgment.
He picks up his drink. For the first time in four minutes.
Later.
The set break. He’s been watching for an hour. He’s not bored. He’s the opposite of bored.
He’s more awake than he’s been in weeks. Reese has given up on work conversation.
He signals to the section host.
“Can I help you, Mr. Calloway.”
“The dancer. The one on stage.”
She looks at the stage. Back at him.
“What about him?”
“He finish at the same time every night?”
“I can check—”
“And if I wanted to make a reservation— the private bar, separate from this section—for after his shift—”
he reaches into his jacket, sets a card on the table—
“make it happen.”
She looks at the card.
“Of course. I’ll need to check if he’s available—”
“I understand it’s his choice. I’m asking you to make the offer.”
She nods. Takes the card.
“Give me a moment.”
She goes. Reese is staring.
“Did you just—”
“Yes.”
Reese sits back. Looks at the stage.
“He’s something,”
Reese says.
“Yeah,”
Dom says.
The host comes back.
Leans down.
“He said yes.”
Something happens in his chest.
“Private bar. Thirty minutes.”
“Thank you.”
She goes. Bram:
“thirty minutes.”
“Mm.”
“Not nervous?”
“No.”
“You should be a little nervous.”
“Why.”
“Because you’ve been watching him for an hour like he’s the most interesting thing you’ve seen.”
Dom looks at the stage. Where you’re coming back out. The second set.
“That’s exactly why I’m not nervous.”
Bram looks.
“Go on.”
“I’ve sat across from people my whole career being unmoved.”
He watches you take the stage.
“Something that moves me—”
he picks up his drink—
“I don’t find that threatening.”
“You find it, what?”
The corner of his mouth. Slight.
“Interesting.”
The private bar. Separate room. His section. Him. And then—you.
You come in and you’re different from the stage. Just—you. At rest.
But still completely the brightest thing in the room.
You look at him. At the table. At the space between you.
“Mr. Calloway.”
He looks at you.
“You know my name.”