The Velvet Gate sat tucked off Liberty Avenue, no sign on the door, just a black awning and a bouncer who didn't check IDs—he checked energy. Darius Cole knew that language well. He slid a folded twenty into the man's palm on reflex, not because he had to, but because it was easier than explaining the weight he carried. The bass leaked through the doorway like heat from a cracked oven, and the city's noise slipped off him as he stepped inside.
Gold pendants glowed along the ceiling, the bar a slick mirror of light and liquor. A DJ tucked behind velvet ropes massaged an old R&B sample into something mean and modern. Conversation rose and fell in waves; laughter hopped tables. A few hustlers huddled near the back, their heads close, the kind of talk that wasn't about quarterly goals.
Kareem was already in their booth—a low corner wedge with a full view of the room. White tee under a gray jacket, fitted cocked to the side like punctuation. He poured Darius a drink before he even sat down.
"You late, D," Kareem said. "Thought you got snatched up."
"Traffic," Darius lied. He'd taken a second in the car to breathe, staring out at Downtown's skyline glowing against the river. Nights like this always felt like coin tosses—win and the world opened; lose and it all clamped down.
He sipped. Good burn. He let the music steady his chest and scanned the floor like he always did—who wore what, who came with who, who was watching who.
Then he saw her.
At the bar. Black dress with a slit that caught light when she moved, like it had its own pulse. Hoops that flashed when she laughed. Her hair falling over one shoulder, stubborn and wild. The bartender leaned in when she spoke, not because he couldn't hear her, but because her voice made men lean closer.
She wasn't alone. Another woman—brown skin, short curls, neon liner sharp as a blade—stood angled toward her. The two of them lived in a little circle of attention. Darius counted three men orbiting already, all brushed off with a smile before they could break through.
"Which problem you staring at?" Kareem asked, smirking.
"That one." Darius nodded at the woman in black.
Kareem followed his eyes, whistled low. "Pretty is a warning label, fam. And that ain't just pretty. That's time and money mixed with headache."
"Ain't nothing I can't afford," Darius said, and he meant more than money. He meant attention. Patience. Control.
Kareem chuckled. "You don't buy every car that look fast."
"You test drive it though."
Darius left the booth before Kareem could finish his next word. The floor flexed beneath his steps. He didn't slide up behind her like the others. He cut around the bar and caught her eyes head-on, giving her time to measure him without feeling ambushed.
"Bartender," he said, eyes never leaving hers. "Add whatever she's drinking to my tab."
Her mouth curved, but not like she was impressed. More like she'd seen the move before and was curious what came after.
"I'm good for my own," she said.
"I didn't say you weren't." He leaned on the bar, leaving space. "Consider it an entry fee."
"Entry to what?"
"Conversation." Darius smiled. "Two minutes. Money back guarantee."
Her friend curled her lips, trying not to laugh. The woman in black dipped her chin as if weighing the audacity.
"Alana," she said finally. "One minute thirty. You already burned thirty on the salesman pitch."
"Darius," he said. "And that wasn't a pitch. That was customer service."
The friend extended her hand across the opening. "Tiana," she said, with a look that promised she missed nothing.
Darius locked the names in his head like numbers. The bartender slid another drink across, clear with a lime sunk at the bottom. Alana didn't touch it yet.
"So, Darius with the tab," she said. "You always buy into conversations or just the ones where you can see yourself in the reflection of the glass?"
He laughed. "Only when the reflection looks worth the talk."
"And what do I look like?" She tilted her head. Testing him.
"A woman who doesn't have to ask what she looks like," he said. "Which makes me wonder what you want to hear instead."
Her eyes flicked, pleased despite herself. Tiana cut in before she could answer. "He rehearsed that."
"Probably," Alana said.
"Definitely," Darius admitted, grinning. "But I only rehearse what works."
She finally took a small sip of the drink he bought. Not a yes, but not a no either. The DJ turned the tempo up, and the light in the room warmed and cooled with the beat.
"What about you?" he asked. "What do you do when you're not auditioning bartenders?"
"I manage accounts," she said. "Work, numbers, emails. Not exciting."
"Some people like numbers," Darius said.
"I like zeroes." Alana's eyes sparkled. "Preferably at the end."
Before he could respond, Kareem appeared at his side, voice low but sharp. "Yo, D, they got the back room open. Need you to peep something."
Darius didn't look at him. "Peep it for me."
Kareem eyed the women, then back at Darius. "We ain't here for a plus-one, remember?"
Alana and Tiana traded a quick glance, reading the static.
"I said peep it," Darius repeated, calm but final.
Kareem's jaw flexed, but he backed off. "Later," he mouthed.
Alana watched, sipping slow. "Your friend always that protective, or just when you're about to make mistakes?"
"He sees clouds and calls them storms," Darius said.
"Sometimes they are," Tiana said.
"Sometimes they're shade," he replied.
That drew a real laugh out of Alana—soft, unplanned. She set her glass neatly back on its water ring. Little habits like that told Darius she liked control, just like him.
"You dance?" he asked.
"Tiana dances," Alana said. "I observe."
"So observe me trying." He stepped back, offering his hand without begging.
She didn't take it. Just held his eyes, shook her head. "Not yet."
"Yet implies later," he said.
"Later implies you make it that far." Her smile was a dare, not an invitation.
Darius let it sit. Pressing would've been cheap. Instead, he slid a napkin across with a pen.
"You don't have to give me your number," he said. "But if you write a time, I'll be there. No questions. I'm good at reservations."
Alana twirled the pen, clicked it twice, and for the first time that night, looked like she might be the one rehearsing.