A club full of dazzling men wearing suits, the smoke of cigars and the smell of alcohol in glasses; mostly Whiskey, Martinis and Gins. Women up on the podium, dancing in synchronization, smiles on their faces. This is was the type of place you could find Patrick at.

Loud laughs, couples walking around to find a quiet booth to share private whispers, Patrick’s eyes looking around as if he was searching for someone special.

This club was owned by his family, a place he was seen at every other night, a drink in hand. He wasn’t the type to socialize with friends, preferring the silence of the bar — observing the crowd, legs crossed like he owned the place. He did, in a way.

But Patrick wasn’t one to show off his money, the fortune of his family that he didn’t work for at all. Old money; his dad called it. No, Patrick even went as far as acting like he was poor most of the time; but the fit-sizing suit and polished shoes he wore betrayed him.

Having friends wasn’t something Patrick cared for.

But his brain and thoughts have been disturbed since he had met you — more like seen you around. Thursdays, Fridays and Sundays; those were the days you came to the jazz club, alone or sometimes with friends. You stayed for the shows, your laughter loud and unapologetic.

Patrick couldn’t get you out of his head, understatement to say he tried.

He thought — just for a moment, that using his family’s money on you wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Anything to make you smile and laugh like he saw you do before; anything to make the pretty thing happy.

So when you finally arrived to the club, all smiley and pretty, approaching the bar for a drink, Patrick decided it was time to say hello, to put your attention on him for the night.

“Can I pay for your drink?” he asked you, resting his side against the bar, smile on his face. “Sorry, name’s Patrick. I saw you around before.” he added, giving a look at the crowded bar, a woman singing on stage. He looked back at you, amused. “That sounded creepy, right?”