Prey (part 2 of 2)

Part 1 is here. (if you’re feeling chronological).

She enters the hallway, a step ahead of her friends. It is not just a physical thing, that step, it’s a world. A world of meaning. She’s the one, the ‘leader’ although officially they’re all equal, all ‘girlfriends’. But still, she’s the one. She’s the one who gets that little bit of extra respect from the ‘doormen’. They chat to her friends and ask (and get) their numbers. But not her. They talk, sure, but….She’s out of reach. Even for the really cute one with the black hair, blue eyes…mmm, blue/black: a deadly combination. And he’s pretty smart, too. Not just for a doorman, either. But those two have an understanding, and they’ll keep to it.

She has the kind of face that is just so, just right with arching brows and feline cheeks, the hinting smile ever-present. Eyes though not the perfect oval, are just right for her face and though blue, the right kind of blue: dark and deep. And with the figure-hugging black that is as much a part of her as the amused, cocky, intelligent stare she has cultivated since birth, they are potent weapons. For the right man. For the wrong, they spell despair, disaster, disappointment and a loss of face so great they’ll never recover. Because that’s part of the game, the play, the scenario that unfolds each time

And her figure. It’s good, baby, real good. Working out is more than just a chore to help her look good, as if she needed any help, it’s a pleasure. The high she gets from those endorphins matched by the looks she gets as she walks down the street. Confident, controlled, her body is toned and that gives it that uncanny feeling of completeness, of being whole and able to move as someone should, with natural poise. And the looks she gets confirm that everyone else can see this, even if they can’t quite put their finger on what it is she has.

Still, not everyone likes her. As she goes to put her coat in she can tell the woman working there, scrawny, cheap and tarty, is silently cursing her; probably saying the same right back. But that one’s words are false and she doesn’t mind: envy is the province of the weak-willed. And that’s one thing she’s not. So she smiles and with a “Thanks!”, all sweetness, turns to enter the Saturday Night Fray.

Walking into the club proper is a sublime moment, one that she thinks she’ll never tire of. She gets to see everything anew, fresh, but so much like every other night. The contrasts can be quite startling, exciting even as she surveys her world, her playground.

She sniffs. Tonight is not good, the air is replete with the unscented odour of lust (as always, she thinks) but also…desperation. Hmmm. There’s an uneven number of one sex and that’s never good. There should always be close to even so that there’s always the promise, even if unfulfilled, of something; something for everyone. Although, of course, that never happens. A further inspection reveals what looks like a stag party. All that testosterone. She can handle that, better than frustrated bitchy women. Men are such simple creatures.

And as for those who would know her favours. Well…, for them…. There are rules; subtle, infinitesimal, unwritten but hard and fast, that they follow. Almost hard-wired into their dna, but not quite: they need activation. If they did not life would be so much easier, but then…but then…ah! She sighs. There is so much fun in taking someone, teaching them, winding them up and then leaving them…to fend for themselves. And the bruises will heal and the bite scars will be a trophy: one few will have the privilege of carrying.

Stepping into her domain, she walks with her friends over to the bar and they talk as they queue to be served. She’s next in line when some dumb fuck decides he’s had enough and tries to push past, or so she thinks.
“Ssrry”, he mumbles in that no apology intended way people do and she turns to grace him with a glare but he continues “Are you ok?”. “Yes,” she says, teeth gritted wishing he’d just burst into flame on the spot. “Let me get you a drink” is his next line. “Great!” she thinks, resisting the temptation to roll her eyes and kick him in the balls simultaneously, and says “Red Bull and Vodka please,” wondering how much of his half-brained babble she’ll have to bear for that drink before he gets the message and goes back to his loser friends. Assuming he has any, that is.

A few minutes later and drink in hand, she settles down to pay her penance as he has obviously decided that she’s got potential, as the song goes.

It’s a surprisingly good conversation, full of nuance and intelligent thought: he doesn’t treat her like Jessica Simpson and she doesn’t act like it. But it’s only temporary and has to draw to a close. She can sense he knows this and is feeling uncomfortable: does he go in for the kill? “Please don’t.” she thinks, “You’ll ruin a perfect moment” and, for once, this one seems to know this and he makes a simple goodbye and is gone. Which leaves her a little deflated, in a way: he’s taken the control with him and left her with none. And while it would have spoilt the moment, his knock back would have been a fillip, not that she needs one but….

Still, she’s free and both she and the night are young, so she goes to join her friends who have taken their usual table. The one next to the toilets and that looks right over the dance floor from on high.

From her perch she notices it’s quite empty, even this late and she wonders if it’s going to be one of those nights, and if there’s time to get to one of the others that she sometimes frequents. When it’s like this, the others will easily fall in tow and there’s always Halo and Aiden

Liam! One of her almosts, one of her fallbacks for when things aren’t going to plan. Hot, rugged, and a charmer, it’s as though they’ve implicitly divided the town between them, Fridays she’s there and he’s here, Saturdays the other way round. And the rest of the week? That doesn’t matter; those are days for other things, other people.

But that’s for another time, maybe, and for now she’s content to scan and see if there are any who might be worth snaring, sharing something with. Maybe. Cause she’s not that kind of woman. Well, once or twice, but on the whole, no.

There might be a couple; you can only tell so much from looks and she’s always prepared, willing, to be surprised: what girl isn’t?

One is dancing with; well, anyone who comes near him. She’s not sure if that’s a good thing: “You need to show some discernment, dear,” she thinks and chalks him down a mark or two. Good dancer or not.

The other is sitting down with two others. They’re in suits, he’s not. But he still holds himself well, straight, tall, confident. They’re engaged in conversation and laughing a lot. “So they’re talking sex then,” she thinks. “It’s always on their minds in some way or another, isn’t it?”
One Vk Redbull down and on to the second and third. She’s feeling a little bit looser, a little more carefree. It’s nice to get into the party mood.

The music’s good, so the girls go to dance. As always, their attention is only on themselves and the music: this about having a good time and that’s how they do it; anything else is incidental. They all know that, even when they’re not interested because they’re going steady they know they can play and it’s only that. Even when they’re single they know that the possibility is always there; but second to the play. Fun comes first. And doesn’t fun come in many forms.

They don’t dance too close to number 1. He’s noticed them but doesn’t seem to be angling towards them, she notices. “Not too keen!”, she thinks. “Maybe he could go back up a mark?”

But then it’s time to concentrate on the music.

After a while number 2 decides talk is cheap and he’s coming over. With a couple of other people, not the ones he was talking with. They’re not as smart and she thinks he could choose his friends more carefully.

And they’re dancing close by. Interested, obviously. So it’s a quick glance in his direction and then back again; let’s see how he reacts. Does he like the thrill of the chase or is he an impatient, selfish lover?

It seems he’s patient. Good.

But after a change of pace and three more songs, she thinks maybe it’s not patience. And now there’s number 1 in close proximity. And he’s not shy. Not judging by the way his crotch is rubbing against hers, gyrating in rhythm. Yeah. He’s got rhythm.

She catches number 1’s eye and gives him a look that says “Alpha Male, baby, Alpha Male.”

Her friends and her segregated, she and number 2 engage in their unspoken ritual and now he’s only got eyes for her. So easy! So, so easy! And then there’ll be a little interaction before he calls her in day or so and she has to decide if she’ll see him. She has all the power now, and that’s only right.

Turning her head slightly she sees the youngest of the four slumped over a table and considers going over to see if she’s ok, but catching her cousin’s eye is reassured and stays away; no point in getting in the way.

Two minutes later it’s a different story: “Anna’s ill, we have to go!” is what she’s told. She shrugs, “Ok” and follows this up with “When?”.
“A couple of minutes. Jacqui’s getting our coats now.”
She looks at number 1 to see if he’s getting any of this. “Now would be the time to move,” she thinks and, true to his standing, he leans over and….
She reassures him that her friend is ok, “Just had a bit much to drink,” knowing that his concern is really only for himself and having left him her number moves to get ready to collect her coat and leave.

He’s got her number, and as that’s all he was going to get anyway, they’re both satisfied.

Epilogue.
Sunday morning and she’s on her way into town to buy a present for her brother. And in the coffee shop is number 2. And this time he’s not so shy. And he is charming.

So now she’s short her number twice.

And things are looking up.