She does not seem inclined to agree that it's lucky, and her legs are still not moving, while Danny feels a little like his bottle is about to shatter in his hand. Not great -- sliced ligaments and tendons and muscles, blood and glass everywhere, but it would almost definitely get rid of her.
With her shiny hair, and promising smile, and those knees that will not stop brushing against Steve's jeans, a tiny nudge that he feels like a backhoe shoving into his stomach.
"Maybe the next one, then," she says, agreeably, and that should be the end of it, right, her friends should show up or her tab could come -- Danny would even take the bartender over her, right at this second -- but they don't, and she keeps sitting there, and then his head explodes in a sudden fury of heat that dissolves into a red haze through which he can barely see her tapping the edge of Steve's tattoo, just under the edge of his short sleeve hem, with the pad of one finger, a light and teasing touch that makes him want to break her hand right off her wrist.
"That seems like a hell of a piece," she's saying, he thinks, but he can't really tell through the fog clogging up his head, the blaring sirens and flashing lights and the sudden outraged instinct of no, that's wrong, she isn't allowed, no one is allowed to touch Steve like that, that's his.
He doesn't care. That it's a ploy to gain conversation, that it would be considered totally acceptable, if a little pushy, flirtation. That it has probably happened to Steve a thousand times.
He just can't. Watch that surfer boy smile replace the brilliancy of the actual one. Watch Steve's eyes go lazy-lidded and considering. Watch her touch him, like she has any idea who she's reaching out to, who she is so casually laying a finger on, like she sees anything past his blue eyes and easy smile and the shoulders and lean line of flat stomach. Like she's got the first fucking clue.
He puts his beer down, too hard, hard enough that it foams irately, spills over the mouth and down along brown glass to his hand, which he ignores, taking a step closer, around, more to Steve's front than side, aware that he's barging in, totally fine with the faintly flat look she gives him, a little bemused, like she thinks he ought to be playing along. Right, wingman.
Yeah, no. "Oh, so, you seem like some kind of connoisseur, right?"
He's gesturing to the tiny wavelets on her ankle, the Diet Coke of tattoos, compared to Steve's, which, seriously, if she touches them again, he is going to drag her barstool to the other end of the room. He's grinning, but there's something tight about it, as she blinks, trying to decide whether she wants to include him in the conversation.
She who hesitates is lost, and he goes on, pushing his way in, stubbornly, like always. "Are you waiting for someone? Because you seem, you know," he gestures to her outfit, "you look very nice, like you might be meeting someone, and we wouldn't want to interrupt your evening."
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With her shiny hair, and promising smile, and those knees that will not stop brushing against Steve's jeans, a tiny nudge that he feels like a backhoe shoving into his stomach.
"Maybe the next one, then," she says, agreeably, and that should be the end of it, right, her friends should show up or her tab could come -- Danny would even take the bartender over her, right at this second -- but they don't, and she keeps sitting there, and then his head explodes in a sudden fury of heat that dissolves into a red haze through which he can barely see her tapping the edge of Steve's tattoo, just under the edge of his short sleeve hem, with the pad of one finger, a light and teasing touch that makes him want to break her hand right off her wrist.
"That seems like a hell of a piece," she's saying, he thinks, but he can't really tell through the fog clogging up his head, the blaring sirens and flashing lights and the sudden outraged instinct of no, that's wrong, she isn't allowed, no one is allowed to touch Steve like that, that's his.
He doesn't care. That it's a ploy to gain conversation, that it would be considered totally acceptable, if a little pushy, flirtation. That it has probably happened to Steve a thousand times.
He just can't. Watch that surfer boy smile replace the brilliancy of the actual one. Watch Steve's eyes go lazy-lidded and considering. Watch her touch him, like she has any idea who she's reaching out to, who she is so casually laying a finger on, like she sees anything past his blue eyes and easy smile and the shoulders and lean line of flat stomach. Like she's got the first fucking clue.
He puts his beer down, too hard, hard enough that it foams irately, spills over the mouth and down along brown glass to his hand, which he ignores, taking a step closer, around, more to Steve's front than side, aware that he's barging in, totally fine with the faintly flat look she gives him, a little bemused, like she thinks he ought to be playing along. Right, wingman.
Yeah, no. "Oh, so, you seem like some kind of connoisseur, right?"
He's gesturing to the tiny wavelets on her ankle, the Diet Coke of tattoos, compared to Steve's, which, seriously, if she touches them again, he is going to drag her barstool to the other end of the room. He's grinning, but there's something tight about it, as she blinks, trying to decide whether she wants to include him in the conversation.
She who hesitates is lost, and he goes on, pushing his way in, stubbornly, like always. "Are you waiting for someone? Because you seem, you know," he gestures to her outfit, "you look very nice, like you might be meeting someone, and we wouldn't want to interrupt your evening."