so funny?" He gave me a wary look.
"Nice outfit." Kingsley appeared at my side, observing Samson's outfit.
They glared at each other in silence. I was about to ask if they were playing the blinking contest when Kingsley spoke.
"Let me guess, your interview for a yacht salesman didn't go so well, so you're here drowning your sorrows?"
I didn't understand how Kingsley could criticize anyone's appearance. In the short time Samson and Kingsley had been in the same room together, I could almost feel the negativity oozing from their bodies. I needed to figure out a way to keep them from ripping each other's throats out. Maybe alcohol would do the trick.
"You two don't even know one another, so quit with the glaring and let's grab some drinks," I demanded.
Kingsley turned her gaze to me. "I know his type. They're all the same. Pretty, rich boys who think they can snap their fingers and get whatever they want." She turned to Samson and flicked him off before stomping away to the bar. I was almost positive we wouldn't be seeing her for the rest of the night. Maybe I wouldn't have to control two hot-tempered personalities after all.
"I'm sorry about her," I gave Samson a tight lipped smile. "She flicks me off all of the time, too." I shrugged my shoulders and beamed up at Samson, hoping to ease the tension. "This will be fun," I declared, trying to convince us both.
"We'll see." His unconvinced tone came across loud and clear.
As we made our way to the bar, Samson stopped to take his phone from his pocket. "I need to take this, but I'll meet you over there." He held up his index finger and gave a restrained smile. I wonder who that could be.
I reached the bar to find Kingsley hanging on the arm of a new guy covered in piercings and tattoos. She must go for a certain type. She was laughing wildly, ignoring the glares thrown her way from the other patrons.
"Hi!" I chimed, bumping Kingsley's shoulder to get her attention. She gave me a wide-eyed stare and then motioned her head toward Tattoo Guy. Picking up on her less than subtle hints, I rolled my eyes and turned away.
I wasn't sure what Samson liked to drink, but I ordered two beers, hoping he would be okay with that. I walked back toward the stage, staying at the back of the crowd, so that Samson could easily find me whenever he returned.
Just as the band began, I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see Samson. Something was bugging him.
"Is everything okay?" I asked nonchalantly.
"Yes." He looked down at my hands, and smiled. "Everything is good, now." Taking the beer from my left hand, he lifted it in the air to cheers. "To new friends." His eyes went dark as we tapped our bottles together.
Friends. Each time Samson said that word, it deflated me. The crooked smile returned on his face as he took a drink. Every time the dimple on his right cheek appeared, my stomach dipped, like I had just jumped out of an airplane. The ironic thing about it was that I had no idea how either situation would work out. The fall could either end in joy or destruction.
The crowd began cheering as the lead singer belted out the first note. It felt incredible being in New York at a club I'd always wanted to go to, though I would never have pictured being here with Samson. Twenty-four hours ago I would have objected to it, but after allowing myself to be vulnerable with him at the cafe and him not freaking out from my outburst, I realized that he was a good guy.
When his arm brushed against mine, I looked up at Samson, who was already staring down at me. My heart was racing like I'd just downed twenty Red Bulls. In the darkness of the room, his eyes still shined a brilliant blue. There was something so honest about his eyes, I had promised myself earlier that there wouldn't be a second kiss, but now I wanted nothing more than to reach up on the very tips of my toes and kiss him.
Roadkill Ghost Choir started playing the first note of their song, "Drifter," and I broke my gaze with Samson to look at the stage. I felt like I was on cloud nine. Music had always been important to me. One of my favorite parts of choreographing a routine was