Page 7 of Smoke and Glitter

I have no plan for what I'll say when I get there. I've been living in Chicago for months now, spending most of my nights at Vibes, and it's been exactly two days since I last saw him. Two days, and I'm crossing the city in the middle of the afternoon because waiting until tonight has become unacceptable.

The whole ride, I tell myself I'm going to figure out what I'll say before I get there. Instead, I spend most of it thinking about Sam's forearms. Tan, tattooed, thick from years of hauling kegs and cases behind that bar.

He has texted me every morning and every evening without fail. Every week, I watch him slide a mezcal across the polished walnut before I've even settled onto the brass footrail. We've spent hours talking after close and entire nights finding reasons not to say goodnight.

We haven't talked once about what we're doing.

By the time the Lyft turns onto Milwaukee, the marquee is already visible ahead, tall gold letters glowing through the gray afternoon.

V I B E S

Burlesque. Cabaret. The Art of Being Seen.

My stomach drops.

Well. Here we are.

The car barely stops before I have the door open. Cold cuts through my coat the second I step onto the sidewalk, and I drag the collar higher as the Lyft pulls away behind me.

The front door to Vibes is cracked open.

I push through and step into a room that barely resembles the place I know at night. The chairs are still upside down on the tables, the stage is empty, and without music or bodies filling the space, every sound carries. I like it this way, though I've never told him that.

My heels click across the wood as I pass the long bar and its row of empty stools, skirt the stage, and head down the narrow hallway. The storeroom door is closed, a thin strip of light underneath it. On the other side, cardboard shifts and a pen scratches against a clipboard while Sam counts quietly under his breath.

Then he stops, and so do I.

I'm standing outside his door in the orange coat I grabbed on the way out, pulse beating much higher than it has any right to. I came here without a plan, and now that I'm six inches from him, I still don't have one.

I lift my hand toward the door, but it opens before I knock.

Sam stands on the other side with a clipboard in one hand, dark curls falling over his forehead. His eyes find mine, drop briefly to my mouth, then come back up.

Neither of us says hello.

He sets the clipboard aside and closes the distance between us. His fingers circle my wrist, and the next thing I know, I'm inside with him.

The storeroom is smaller than I expected. Metal shelving crowds both walls, cases stacked wherever they'll fit, the air carrying cardboard, liquor and the faint citrus smell that seems to cling to everything behind a bar. The door swings shut behind me as Sam walks me back until my shoulders meet the wood.

His hand loosens around my wrist, and for a second neither of us moves. His breath touches my neck.

That's enough.

I catch the front of his shirt in both fists and pull him closer. His mouth grazes beneath my jaw, and his name slips out before I can stop it.

"Sam."

His fingers slide into my hair, settling heavy against my scalp as he tips my face toward his. Even in the dim light, I can see him waiting.

I don't make him wait long. I pull him down and kiss him.

Months of whatever the hell we've been doing go up all at once. His hand tightens in my hair while the other catches my hip and brings me flush against him. A sound breaks low in his throat when I open for him, and I feel it against my mouth before I hear it.

I've spent years knowing exactly what men are looking for when they look at me. I know how to redirect it, encourage it, use it when I need to.

I'm not managing anything now.

My palms flatten against Sam's chest, and beneath one of them his heart is beating hard enough to stumble. For a man who can run a packed room without ever looking rushed, that's almost as satisfying as the kiss.