Again, her next words are cut by Orhan falling back next to Jeroen, forcing himself into the picture again. Once more, the contest is on. It does, she admits to herself, amuse her to let it continue for a while. Granted, it may well be a double or nothing game, but the night is still young. The night is always young, she believes, until dawn.
Jeroen swings back his beer, draining the bottle. “I think it’s time we danced.”
He doesn’t take her hand, but his fingers circle her wrist. She let’s Jeroen pull her to her feet, away from the table. With his grip tight on her wrist, she reconsiders her earlier assessment of him as ‘sweet’. She didn’t pick up on arrogance, or his power. Probably because she let Diarmuid distract her. Then again, Jeroen could be unaware of his strength. The grip isn’t bone-crunching, but it won’t take no for an easy answer.
She beckons to Orhan, a little wildly, insisting he join them. He starts to shake his head – conceding territory, but her hand is insistent. She wants to be fought over still, before the final decision. Jeroen is about to pull her out of view of the table, but Orhan stands and tumbles after them, grasping her hand, and they make a strange chain through the crowd, a moray eel snaking with electric flashes through the water of the tank, curving around the rock-like tables and the schools of people. Jeroen uses his size to mark the passage, though people quickly fill the space, she and Orhan still ducking and weaving.
A space in the crowd appears, and Jeroen dives towards it. She and Orhan are dragged there, and the three of them glide into the pool of light, forming an arc, with her the fulcrum.
Next: 45. Three
Image found on flickr, by .shyam., used under the Creative Commons License.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.