ziggie's saloon.

Calden White

Calden still calls people when he says he'll call. He doesn't text. He doesn't email. On Saturday afternoon, a week and a half after they part in the parking lot of some McDonald's on the outskirts of Fort Collins, his number shows up on Avery's phone.

If she picks up, they have a brief conversation. If not, he leaves a message: I'm going to be in Denver tonight. Want to join me for a drink? I'll be at Ziggies around nine.

Ziggies Saloon, it's called. Purportedly the oldest blues bar in Colorado, though the title of blues bar seems a little vague here. Mostly, it seems to be a phrase that simply means Ziggies doesn't cater to the pop-collared crowd, or the backwards-hat crowd, or the kegstanding crowd, or the empty-framed-eyeglasses crowd, or the fedora-and-cologne crowd, or the glo-light crowd. It's a cramped, dingy, noisy little dive with sticky floors and woodpaneled walls, with more room for sitting and talking than for dancing, with a small stage crammed full of live instrumentation, and with a crowd that trends more toward middle-aged and working-class than the sleeker establishments downtown.

Calden's on the younger end here. He might, with his nice truck, actually be on the fancier end here, too. Then again, maybe not: he's in jeans, he's in boots, he's in another red-checked shirt, and he actually has a Stetson on the table. A battered, well-worn one, its black fading slowly to charcoal, sitting next to a bottle of O'Dell Red Ale. And also a paper plate that appears to contain two microwaveable cheeseburgers -- the sort you can buy from the frozen foods aisle.

Avery Chase

[note: this post is the second post in the scene! which jove lost somehow!]

It's a beautiful day, at least Down South where Calden so rarely goes. They wrote America the Beautiful in this state. On Pike's Peak, actually, looking out over the world from that great height. Spacious skies. Amber waves. Majesty. It is a lovely land, lovelier still as spring finally stops stirring and then coyly hiding behind winter's veil again and just

stretches

her arms across the sky and the earth, erupting in thick, soft, lush green grass and turning the barren aspens a-flutter with new green leaves trembling in the wind. That wind is the only chill left, and when it dies down it gets suddenly warm before another blast of icy cold. People carry jackets and shrug them on and off or choose one or the other and either bear the warmth or bear the wind. Then again, people here wear flipflops and basketball shorts and hoodies during blizzards, so it's hard to tell by their attire if it's pleasant outside or not.

That is what Avery is trying to do when she looks down from her window at the people on the street. Her phone rings, or vibrates, and she puts it to her ear. She's still in her hotel room for now. Her father and brother are settling in. She wants the house to feel like their home. She wants them to feel safe there, to feel territorial, to expand themselves into the space before she enters. She knows she can dominate a room. It was like that even before she changed. Only now...

now it's different.

Her phone vibrates, the new one she got last Saturday in a fit of delight. It's sleek and gleaming and though it has the same number, it has no record of Calden's call from a week and a half ago. She doesn't even look at the screen before she puts it to her ear. "This is Avery Chase," she tells the caller, right off, and

then her lips curve into a slow smile. Her cunt gives a sudden pulse at the sound of his voice and his name. She wasn't expecting that, and she's amused at herself to realize that she really should have. She wants to stretch like a cat, and puts her hand on the windowsill, elongating her spine and swaying backward, back flat as a table and chest opened. He says he's going to be in Denver tonight. He mentions a place she's never been, but she'll find it.

"Of course, Mr. White," she tells him, concerning having a drink. "I'll see you then."

Oh, after they hang up she feels like purring. She feels like feeling herself up, she feels like wiggling and laughing and so she does a little of all these things. She starts looking up what people wear at a place like Ziggie's. She doesn't want to stand out. At least not ostentatiously.

At nine o'clock, there is no one coming through that door who hasn't been here before. At 9:05 she still hasn't arrived. However, at 9:07, the door opens and a blonde who just barely reaches six feet tall in her taupe heels walks in. The night has gotten very cool, as it does in a desert where the sun's setting drops the temperature like a stone into water. All the same, she's wearing a thin dress that falls to a few inches above her knees. The fabric looks like silk, champagne-colored but not shiny, not sparkling. It's loose, yet -- as they say -- a woman who looks like that could look good in a potato sack.

Her lips are red, her eye makeup dark, her skin and hair luminous. She does stand out. It's the rage, and it's the glory in her veins, and it's the nobility of her carriage when she pauses at the door, her chin shifting to one side when her senses draw her instantly to a familiar scent and sight, and then walks slowly but purposefully across the room. Avery is carrying a demurely-sized beige clutch with a gold clasp emblazoned with the initials of Mr. Kors.

Calden White

Calden has not seen that side of Avery. He's seen the hunter and he's seen the sexual carnivore she is, but he hasn't seen the part of her that looks out over a land still mostly unspoiled and feels the urge to protect. He hasn't seen the part of her that wants to keep her kin close and safe; that wants to -- this is important, and all too often not the case -- let them feel safe. Feel content, and feel ownership of their own home, their own space.

Perhaps he intuited a little of it, though, down in the winecellar where she spoke of her brother with affection and playful delight. And perhaps he intuited a little of it when he stepped out onto that broad deck a week and a half ago, under the stars, into the wind, and saw her looking over the land like that. Braced by the cold. Strengthened by it. The Silver Fangs are, in the end, children of the north. Wolves of the winter.

And perhaps he intuits a little of that slow-burning flame that flickers to life inside her, too, when she picks up the phone and doesn't know who it is and it's him. Certainly, the tone his invitation takes is different than what it might have been in voicemail. There's warmth there when he hears her voice. There's humor, because he's inviting her to a dive bar. And there's flirtation, a certain intimacy to his tone, as though he were turning his back to the world and its distractions, stealing her off into some dark corner to murmur in her ear.

When he hangs up, he's smiling. But it's still early afternoon then, and the sun is bright and the road ahead is long and there are a dozen steers bound for slaughter in the cattletrailer hitched to his newly repaired truck. So he puts his hat on, he pulls it down low against the sun, and

hours and hours later he's at Ziggie's, he's having a beer, he's waiting patiently and lazily for Avery to show. On the cramped little stage, the band's starting their set. There's four of them, all dressed in black: three men who don't speak, rarely smile, and a frontwoman with a versatile, rich contralto who works the crowd effortlessly. They open with a lively, jazzy number to get toes tapping, heads nodding. Calden's watching them when there's a stirring in the crowd -- or maybe he just imagines it -- and he turns to look at the door

just as Avery Chase comes a-slinking across the room in a dress that isn't... exactly... what most people would wear to a dive bar like Ziggie's.

Not that Calden is complaining. Not that he's anything close to complaining. Look at that slow smile that curls across his mouth like smoke. Look at the gleam in his eyes, wolfish, as he gets a good look at what she's wearing. As he remembers what she looks like when she's not wearing anything at all. He rises to his feet as she comes close, gentleman that he is, coming around the table to take her by the hand. He should kiss her cheek. He should kiss her hand, classy lady that she is.

He kisses her mouth. He steps into her and he's letting her hand go, wrapping his arms firmly around her waist as his mouth finds hers. The kiss is a warm, deep, confident thing; a melting, wanting thing, beneath all the rest.

Avery Chase

Of course: Calden has only seen her in various furred forms, has only seen her in dedicated sports clothing, has only seen her naked. He has not seen her in silk, in heels, in red lips and gold. It suits her. Even more than the hunter, the athlete, the hedonist, it suits her to be a ruler. To be made of gold.

She's the type of woman that used to be immortalized in portraite. Or sculpture. Carved from marble, cast in bronze. Anything to make her last forever, just like that. Just like this.

Calden is a gentleman. He's not going to let her cross the room and sit down without rising for a lady, probably pulling her chair out as well. She smiles when he does get up, coming around his small table with its paper plate and microwaved cheeseburgers that smell absolutely toxic. She deigns to allow him her hand, and

then he's kissing her, hands on her waist and then arms around her middle, pulling her closer. A few people look over: hard not to, woman like that showing up at all, showing up to see a guy like that in a place like this and then kissing like lovers who have been separated by war for months on end. Because that's how it is. He kisses her firmly, like he has some right to do so, and Avery just loops her arms slowly around his shoulders, loose and lazy, and kisses him back. He can feel every last inch of her through the silk.

When it slowly,

slowly

ends, Avery is smirking at him, taking her arms back to herself and rolling her eyes. "Buy me a drink first, god," she scoffs, and pulls out her own chair at the little table to swing herself into it.

Calden White

He forgot something the other night when he was ticking off all the things he loved about her: mouth, tits, cunt. He forgot to mention that he loves how she takes her time. How her hands slide slowly over his shoulders. How she kisses him slowly, like she had all the time in the world to savor him. How she

sucked him off

so slowly, too, and put her mouth back on him when he thought he couldn't bear it anymore.

But of course, none of that is fit conversation for a public venue. Even a divey, alcohol-drenched, bluesy venue like this where the band on stage is singing songs of love unrequited and lust unabated and all the other common themes of a blues and jazz and r&b. He could feel every last inch of her through the silk, and when she's drawing back she's smirking, and he. is. aroused all over again, drawing a breath in through a grin that's gone lopsided.

"Maybe I just wanted to kiss you before we were both too drunk to remember the details," he retorts. And, yes: she pulls her own chair out. But he recovers admirably, pushing her back in to the table.

And then he sits across from her, and he can't keep his eyes off her. He's looking at her like he's one of those motes of light drawn inescapably to her skin, her eyes. He reaches across that small table to take her hand, because it's rather out of the question to reach across that small table to take her instead, pick her up and set her on his lap, something like that -- out of the question; you can't do something like that to a woman like her, who looks like she was born to kings, born to emperors, born to rule.

"So what'll it be? I'm having a beer," he nods at the bottle, "but I'm considering graduating to something a little harder."

Avery Chase

"Hm," she says to that first maybe I'm comment, her doubt clear in her tone. "I must handle my scotch better than you do. I remember plenty of details."

She is sitting, cross her legs, while Calden tucks her to the table. He sits, too, staring at her, and she smirks. Her clutch is sitting on the table, even though the table is sticky, and then he's reaching for her hand. Avery laughs at that but doesn't tug her arm back away from him.

"Maybe a Manhattan," she says, thoughtful. "Or we could just stick to beer. This feels like a beer place, Calden," she informs him, watching him. A second or two pass. She tips her head to the side. "It also depends on how long you want to stay here. I certainly don't want you to feel as though you need to put on some kind of honorable show of wining and --" she flicks her eyes at the cooling microwaved burgers, then back at him. "-- dining me. Just because."

Calden White

There's an echo of laughter in his eyes, but he's serious about this much: "You know how much of me is gentleman and how much is brute, I think. It's not something we need to make a show of."

And her hand is still in his. And his eyes flicks down because he realizes his thumb has been stroking across her knuckles almost without his permission. He looks at the fine, goldenskinned hand of hers, and then that grin quirks again. He looks much the way he did a week and a half ago. Russet in his hair, green in his eyes. Broad-shouldered and sturdy. Suntanned, windburned. Strong.

And scruffy. Still unshaven. Such an oversight.

"I wouldn't mind staying a while," he adds. "I'm enjoying the music. I'm enjoying the company." His fingers squeeze hers, and then he leans back, smiling at her across the table and his toxic-smelling frozenburger. "Should I order us another round, then?"

Avery Chase

A gentleman and a brute. The word -- the second one -- reminds her of things she said, things she called him, before during and after. Her lips part a little, and she exhales a sigh that, on another inhale, spreads the corners of her mouth to a smile. He's been stroking her hand and she hasn't mentioned it. She has felt her nipples hardening and hasn't mentioned that either, and chose her lingerie carefully. She's wearing silk after all. You can see every bump in the aereolae if you're not mindful of your undergarments.

The fact that he hasn't shaven hasn't caught her attention yet. If she had, she would have noticed. He just looks the same, though. She wonders a bit if he's challenging her to stay, or if she's wanting to challenge herself to stay instead of dragging him off somewhere.

The thought passes. She smiles. "Get me a Sunshine," she tells him. "Slice of orange if they have it."

Calden White

Here's the thing.

The chemistry between them is worldbending. It could melt glass. But beneath that -- and perhaps a little more treacherous than that -- they actually like each other. He likes her, at least; enjoys being in her company. Enjoys her wit, the charming little turns of conversation she comes up, the things she says. And the things she says. He can see her considering: stay? go? -- he wonders if there's a third option even glimmering there, if she's thought about laying herself on the table and pulling his face between her legs, damn the onlookers.

Surely not.

That thought passes too. She smiles, and he finds himself smiling back; they smile at each other like lovers, or like co-conspirators, and she orders something called a Sunshine. Which fits, he supposes.

"I don't even know what that is," he confesses as he stands -- holding her hand a moment longer before releasing. "Let's see if the bartender does."

And he walks away from her, her tall rugged cowboy-lover. His burger cools on the little table while he goes and leans up on the bar and raising a hand to flag down the bartender, leaning a little over the bar to order a sunshine for her. And another beer for himself, same label, same brand. A little later he comes back, and look: they did know what a sunshine was. This is Denver, after all, not some podunk little town in the middle of nowhere. Calden sets her lovely, hazy-orange cocktail down. They didn't have orange, but they did have lemon, so there's a lemon slice perched on the lip. And a second bottle of beer slides down on the table beside his first.

He sits down. His legs are long, and they tangle with hers -- perhaps deliberately -- under the table. He shifts until his shins bracket hers, and then he leans back on two legs, watching the band for a moment. They're on a different song now, a little bit slower, more of a groove. Calden's eyes can't stay away for long; soon enough they're drawn back, and he just... looks at her for a while, studying her from across the table with this faint smile flirting at the corners of his mouth.

"That's a nice dress," he says. "Did you just happen to be wearing it, or should I feel honored?"

Avery Chase

"It's a --" let's see if the bartender does. Avery smirks. "Well, then."

She leans back and watches the band play while Calden, like the gentleman he at least occasionally can be, is getting their drinks. She doesn't watch him approach the bar or the bartender, who at first starts to get a bottle of New Belgium, but that can't be it, this is a fancy Silver Fang lady after all, so the bartender glances past Calden and takes one look at Avery,

Calden's date, one supposes,

and figures that oh. They want the pretty bright citrusy martini-glass cocktail. Of course. She wouldn't be drinking a beer. Though, when Calden asks for a slice of orange on it, the bartender does wonder. Still: that is what the cowboy comes back with: another Red Ale, and a martini glass with that summery cocktail in it. Avery looks at it and looks at him and smirk-smiles, lips pursed, as though she's very very amused, but she doesn't correct him. She thanks him.

The rough denim covering his legs brushes against her bare ones. She lifts her glass, elegant as expected, so much so that it's hardly worth mentioning the graceful placement of her fingers or the careful sips that do not leave lip-prints on the rim, and watches the band. He sees her in profile, which is how he saw her the first time he fucked her, watching her face from centimeters away instead of looking at it in the reflection across the room.

Though the interior of the bar isn't too warm, and is in fact rather cool, and gets cooler every time the door swings open, Avery does not shiver. Her bare arms, her bare legs; she does not feel cold. She felt warm when he held her against himself and kissed her. She always feels warm, like the gold she is so easily compared to glowing hot in the sun.

"Neither," Avery murmurs, offhand, musing, her eyes still on the band. She takes another sip and glances over at him. "It does look terribly fine on me, though, doesn't it?" she says, and allows her mild smile to stretch to a grin. She drinks, dropping her eyes to the liquid. "This is delicious," she adds.

Calden White

Oh, he does wonder when he smiles that purse-lipped smile of hers, like she's trying to hold back laughter. But she thanks him, and she's so polite about it, and so he settles all lazy and long with his legs brushing hers, his eyes drifting to the band

and back. They discuss her dress. He doesn't think for a moment she's fishing for a compliment. There's something far too confident about the way she says it: doesn't it. He smirks right back on her.

"It'd look better off you," he says, and

she says the drink is delicious. His eyebrow hops up. "All right," he laughs, "I'm starting to suspect that isn't the drink you ordered."

Avery Chase

It would look better off. Oh, it's such a line. Avery smirks, rolling her eyes, trying not to laugh again. It will only encourage him. She looks at the band, still sipping her drink, and he's saying he thinks that maybe that's not what she ordered. Not really. She's grinning at the band, instead of looking at him, and one of the men on stage thinks this lady is going to leap on stage and bite his throat out and he's sort of into it and sort of freaked out by it and sort of freaked out that he's sort of into it, but

thank god she looks away and no one seems to care much that his fingers slipped on that chord a bit.

Avery looks over at Calden, smiling. She looks happy. "Sunshine is a wheat beer by New Belgium. I've discovered that this place --" she means Denver, or Colorado in general, perhaps, "-- is quite the spot for craft beer connoisseurs. But this is delicious. And it matches my dress better than a brown bottle," she adds archly.

Calden White

It is, in fact, a line. But it makes her want to laugh, which means it sort of accomplished its purpose, which means Calden looks happy too when she looks over at him and informs him of which sunshine she actually meant.

"Shit," he says, "well, I know what Sunshine beer is, I just figured you were ordering ... nevermind." He laughs again. "Here, let me try that." And if she lets him, he takes a small sip, then slides it back across the table. "This is pretty good."

His legs slide back under the table. He puts his palms on the tabletop and pushes himself up: clearly, he's off to get another one. "I'll be back," he says, "with a New Belgium Sunshine."

Avery Chase

At first, Avery tugs the martini glass out of his way, scowling at him. No, mine, her expression says, pouty and petty, but she relents a half-second later and lets him try it. It's tasty. Sweet. Not at all like the red ale.

He palms the table to push himself up and she laughs. The martini glass is set on the tabletop. "No, no," Avery laughs, reaching for his wrist, tugging him back. "Don't be foolish. Sit."

She's looking up at him, all bright and gleaming with gold earrings dangling from her lobes and red perfection on her lips. "Sit," she says again, laughing less. "Pull your chair over and sit next to me, and put your arm around my shoulders."

Calden White

There it is again, that funny little flop in his chest. It's her hand on his wrist or the way she coaxes him back into his seat, the way she cajoles him over to sit beside her. Or the color of her lipstick, or the gleam of her eyes, or maybe it's just that he knows she's feral, he knows she's fierce and wild and savage behind those smoothly crossed legs and that smoothly urbane facade.

His hand turns over under hers, and his fingers wrap around her forearm for a second. He smiles at her, quirky and wordless, and then he straightens up and swings his chair up, thunks it down beside her. The bartender, who'd been readying up a bottle of New Belgium Sunshine and a smirk, puts both back where they belong.

Calden drops back into his seat, next to Avery now, his arm falling heavy and warm across her shoulders. His side is warm, too, and as solid as the broad side of one of those well-muscled steers he sold into slaughter today. There's blood on both their hands, death and predation in both their lives. Maybe that's why he doesn't shy from the carnivore she is.

They both watch the band. Calden picks up that now-cold burger of his and eats it like he's hungry, like it tastes good because he's hungry. And he is. And it does. Avery drinks her cocktail; Calden sips his beer. After a while Calden's fingers tap a rhythm against the back of Avery's chair; his foot taps along. He turns to look at her, that exquisite profile that sculptors would be honored to carve into stone. He's seen her so much more animated than any stone could be though, her brow wrinkling with pleasure so intense it veers into anguish; her lips open to gasp, whimper, cry out

before he covered her mouth with his hand

and watched her dissolve into an orgasm so intense it seared his memory. She's right: he remembers plenty about that night, too. Calden picks up a napkin, wipes his mouth and his fingers, then balls it up in his fist and tosses it onto the table.

"Do you want to dance?" he asks her. A beat. "Or do you wanna get out of here?"

Avery Chase

There's no way she can tell when his heart does those quick turns, those spasms of brief but total adoration. She can't see it except in some flicker of light in his eyes or the way his chest moves when he breathes, but perhaps she just thinks of it as lust. Perhaps she just can't tell that it's anything at all. Still: Avery smiles when he touches her arm, and he can feel her pulse skip slightly. Still: the smile becomes a grin when he grabs the back of his chair and twirls it around to let him sit beside her instead of across from her.

They settle in together, against each other, to watch the band. Avery welcomes his arm over her shoulders, over the back of her chair, and leans into his side. Calden eats. Avery sips her drink and avoids the microwaved food. Her hip rests against his hip. Her thigh is aligned to his thigh. With her leg crossed, her foot slides against his shin slightly through his jeans whenever she wiggles her foot to the music.

When the music on stage picks up, the bass heavy and the guitars grinding, her shoulders move. She is rocking slightly in her chair, but she feels his eyes on her cheek. She doesn't look at him. She tips her head, though, when he leans in to ask he what he does; they have to talk a little louder, a little closer, with the music at this level.

He asks her to dance. Or fuck.

Avery looks at him. There are people on the floor. There have been people on the floor for a while now, since the first song and a half, since the openers playing before 9 warmed the crowd up. This isn't a hipster bar where you stand and thump your head or sway, it's not punk where you just mosh and throw yourself around. People dance in pairs. There are some people in cowboy-esque boots, some more realistically used than others. There are women in comfortable flats and jeans and men in jeans and t-shirts and there's a couple of women in sundresses and cowboy-esque boots of their own.

Someone is shredding a piano on that stage now. They play standing. Like they can't help it. It jangles. The drums are trashy.

Avery stands up and circles her chair, clutch in hand. Her other hand trails along his arm, and the backs of his shoulders, and ruffles his hair. She trails it down his other arm, takes his hand, and leads him out on the dancefloor.

Calden White

Calden isn't sure, for those first few seconds, where she's going with this. Where she's going, period: the dance floor or the door. Her hand trailing over his body brings the hairs on his arms upright, though. Sends a pleasant shiver down his spine. His head turns under her ruffling fingers, following her over his shoulder. Her hand takes his and he rises, starting to reach for his hat, but

no, she's taking him out on the dancefloor. And maybe he should feel disappointed, or at least a bit teased and led-on, but: he doesn't. They thread between other couples, out to a little clearing in the middle, a little off center, closer to the band now, close enough that the live horns hit them right in the chest, the double bass vibrates in the pit of their stomach, the guitars wail through the floor beneath them. Calden is smiling as he turns her through a loose little twirl, and perhaps it's no surprise that he is, in fact, decent at this. At least decent, possibly even good. He tugs her back into him at the end of that turn, stepping into her much the way he had when he met her at the table, meeting her body with his, solid.

His arm circles her waist. Holds her there firmly. It's possible to dance the blues innocently. It's possible to dance the blues merely flirtatiously. But not like this. With their bodies pressed together like this, legs intersecting, hips grinding, their center of balance shared: then there's only one way to dance the blues, and it's dirty, dirty and playful, cutting a tight-turning path across the dance floor. He's backing up and she's advancing and they're keeping the beat, they're keeping their eyes locked, and --

he almost bumps into another couple, throws back his head, laughs, picks Avery right up and spins her around -- her dress flares dangerously -- sets her down, grooves with her in the other direction. He's grinning: he bumps his brow to hers and kisses her, quick and sweet, there in the midst of the other dancers.

Avery Chase

After a long winter that seemed like it would never end, the populace is glad to be out. They're glad to have bare arms and sweat on their flesh again. People dance energetically, throwing themselves wholeheartedly into the spring that should have come a month ago. And spring is, as every bird and bee knows, just a very special time of year.

Avery must have danced when she was younger, or frequented clubs. She dances well, and she doesn't sway in place, and yet she's polite: she lets Calden lead, and she follows his movements well, intuitively. But then: she's already learned how to read his body. He knows better than to twirl her so hard that the wind gets knocked out of her when he pulls her against him. She is smiling, grinning even, as her hands go to his shoulders, clutch pressed against one of his red-check-clad biceps, finding the steps across the floor with him. She doesn't shy from their bodies being pressed fully together, hips and chests and stomachs. Their legs brush together. They don't step on each other's toes.

And Calden doesn't swing her out again. They are one of those couples on the floor that are truly locked in a mating dance, the pressure of his hand on her lower back arching her spine a little, his thigh steadying her body, her silk skirt rucking up her leg a little. She watches him, and she leans back, farther and farther, til she's nearly upside down and he's holding her up like that, bowed back. His hand runs up her back when she unfolds again, straightening out again, one hand on his chest now. She advances. He backs up, and her fingernails curl under, digging into the fabric of his shirt.

He spins her, sets her down, and she shakes her head at him. The song crests and he's kissing her, quick like that, just as the notes start to descend into something else. The band feels that energy in the crowd, not just Avery and Calden's but the other dancers', too. They play something slower. Something darker. The vocalist draws her voice up from her very loins, then draws it back down, stirring everyone else's.

Avery exhales, pressing closer to him. There are no twirls now, not for anyone keeping the rhythm. He can still lead, if he likes. He can try. Avery sways into him, and instead of looking at him again, she leans her head forward, her hair against his jawline, her arm over his arm, her hand on his shoulderblade. Every time the guitarist pulls that chord and makes it vibrate a little longer, a little lower, she feels a shiver between her thighs. She turns her head and presses a kiss to Calden's throat.

Under the wail of the vocalist at her peak, beneath the guitar and the bass and the steady, trashy thudding of the drums, Avery whispers in his ear:

"I'm at the Ritz-Carlton. You should pay the tab, get your hat, and drive that truck of yours over there."

She leans back, and steps back, keeping his eyes.

"Room 1421," Avery tells him, and moves to leave.

Calden White

Yes, it's a mating dance. There's no question about it, and anyone who sees them, who's even anywhere close to them, can feel it. Look at the way her hand grasps at his shirt, and his arm beneath his shirt. Look at the way his hand passes up her back, the way he holds her close, back arched, so tight against his leading side that her skirt is rucking up every time they move together.

There was still something playful in it, though, while the band played something hot and fast, something to tease people out onto the cramped little dance floor. But now the hour's growing later and the crowd is getting looser and the band follows the atmosphere the way any good live band should. Now it's something slower, and darker, and now no one's dancing innocently at all.

Calden and Avery: they're pressed together like they can't get near enough. They swaying together, moving together, grinding together, and his knee is between hers; his balance is low. He's clasping her against him by the waist, and his free hand is forgotten, loose at his side. He's not leading. Neither is she. She's swaying into him and he's turning toward her, their heads curving toward each other, his face shadowed, intense. She can, quite frankly, feel his arousal. She can smell it.

He shivers when she kisses him. And when she tells him where she is. And what to do. He kisses the side of her neck burningly, moving into her hard enough to interrupt their rhythm for an instant, push her backward a half-step. But then she's leaning back, and stepping back, and his eyes are smoke and fire.

Room 1421, she tells him. When she turns to go, people think maybe he's offended her. Maybe that was just a little too much there on the dance floor, maybe he should go home, he's drunk. Or maybe they don't think that at all, because of the way they locked eyes, because of the way his eyes follow her all the way out.

He collects his hat. And his jacket. He pays the tab at the bar, so distracted that he doesn't hear the barman telling him to have a nice night. As he's heading out he shrugs into that shearling jacket of his and pulls his hat on, tugs it down against the wind.

It's only a few miles over to the Ritz. It takes him a while to get there, though, because he has to cut through LoDo and those streets are packed on a Saturday night. Then he has to find parking, and in the end he just pays to park in the garage, leaves his ticket stub on the dash, rides the elevator up to the fourteenth floor with his hands clasped before him. Fellow passengers get on from the lobby. They look at him strangely; he doesn't look like someone who'd stay at the Ritz-Carlton. He doesn't look like someone who'd be wandering around downtown Denver on a Saturday night. Maybe he's a stripper. Maybe he's a gigolo.

On the fourteenth floor, he gets off, reads the signs, finds 1421. His knuckles rap on the door. He steps back to wait for her, and if she bothers to look through the peephole she'll see him briefly in profile, looking down the hall at some other inebriated couple giggling their way to their room. Then he's turning to look at her, right at her as the door swings open.