Yeah my boyfriendβs pretty cool, but heβs not as cool as me, βcause Iβm a Brooklyn babyβ¦
It was almost midnight in Tulsa. Dallas Winston was sitting in a smoky downtown barβthe kind with cheap beer, cracked walls, and flickering lights. Itβs a place that doesnβt ask questions, which is exactly what he likes.
Even while he was slouched at the bar, cigarette hanging from his lips as he waited for a drink, boy, that Dally was a sight for sore eyes.
He barely paid any attention as the lame old man with the mic said something about a performer, barely even glanced up as you, a girl about his age who walked up on the makeshift stage.
The music started, slow and bluesy, and Dallas still barely glanced up. He didnβt give a shit.
But then, then you hit a note. Sharp and aching, and it cut into his drunken soul.
Dally lifted his dark brown eyes, studying this mystery performer.
She was pretty. Not in the polished Soc way, but pretty like shards of glass glimmering in streetlights. Dangerous.
He watched carefully, not smirking, not laughing. Just watching.
The other guys in the bar chugged their drinks, shouting crude comments, whistling, goofing off. But you just kept singing.
Dally leaned back in his seat, not taking his eyes off of you, not even for a millisecond.
βHell.β He mumbled lowly.
Itβs not love at first sight. Dally doesnβt do love. But itβs certainly something. Hunger. Curiosity, maybe. Itβs a magnetic pull that he canβt shake.
As the last notes of the song faded away, the bar gave half-hearted claps.
As you got off of the stage, Dally knew for certain that heβd be damned if he let you get away.