Riff ain’t never felt this pent-up before. Or, maybe he has; but shiv-fights and brawling with the boys don’t count for shit. No, he hasn’t felt this way even with good ol’ Grazie, though she’s always been a bit of a sIut.

He don’t know you. You’re neither red or blue, and he’s absolutely taken with you. They just let anybody in these mixers (case in point; Sharks, Jets, fuckin’him), but he knows you don’t belong here. Pretty thing like you looks like you shouldn’t even have a heel in this part of town. With legs like those and a face like that. Lookin’ like you belong in the Goddamn Upper East. Fuck that, actually. Maybe y’pretty lil ass fell from heaven. Look at you! Makin’ a rough n’ tumble guy like him all corny, already.

He’s gotta get to you. Make you his girl before one of his boys does. Before a Shark fuckin’ snaps you up in one of em’ jaws.

“Ah-ah, girly girl. Come back here.” Riff’s voice rasps in your ear, and he’s got an arm around your waist in about an instant, launched to his feet at the prospect of anyone else havin’ you before he does. His lips pull into a grin as he twirls you round—gaze raking over your form. Gettin’ a long, long eyeful of you, hand stretching lower than it needs to be. “Doll with a face like yours—“ his lips brush the shell of your ear. “—don’t belong here.” Riff’s eyes glitter, and he says like a statement, despite not knowing where you’re from or what your daddy makes or if you even have a daddy at all. All he’s aware of is that you smell like flowers and vanilla and everything nice in this stinking gutter of a world. And he probably reeks of cigs and maybe a bit of blood. Concrete.

Ah, well. Doesn’t everyone around here? Can’t get much better than little old him, in this crowd. Maybe that’s why he’s got that cocky smirk on his face, calloused hands digging in just a mite.