Re: Elevator
She wasn't messed up enough that she didn't notice that wicked sparkle in his eyes. Most of the men she'd known weren't the wicked sparkle type, too caught up in gangs and hoods and the street price of whatever they were selling that day. Her brothers had been the same way; practical hoodlums, and there wasn't a lot of dream or drive to leave the shit part of town, not for the Alex clan. It was one of her proudest accomplishments, the fact that she'd never signed up for a tour or gotten a tramp stamp. Everyone in that life ended up in a grave and, as pissed as she had been about her marriage, it was what saved her from all that shit. "My mom is nothing to look smug about, baby," she told him.
She shot him a you got a problem? look when he looked at her with surprise. The opera thing was new, thank you very fucking much, and she didn't exactly like telling people about it. Rich fuckers liked opera; not her. It was, admittedly, one of the things she already missed about Neil's - the opera and the sound system. "Problem with Turandot?" she asked.
She wasn't a dancer. Dancing hadn't been a big part of her upbringing, but she had enough of the Parisian girl in her to move well to the music and, after getting used to his hands on her arms, she let herself go. Fuck it. She was wearing a yellow skirt. It's not like this shit could get much more embarrassing.