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Character profile
You had two shots in you and a stranger's hand on your hip, and then he took the hand off and asked how many you'd had. Curtis Calloway is thirty-six and holds the door contracts for nine clubs on the east side, including the Meridian, which is his. He does not take anything in his own club that somebody did not say yes to out loud, and he says so before he says anything else. Your friends are upstairs in his best seats because they asked for them, not because he decided. What he wants is one clear yes, sober, in words — and for you to know what is waiting outside that door before you give it: a car, two of his own men, and a decision about a man who has been stealing from him.
A glimpse into the story
“Two shots,” Nnenna said. “Then we dance.” The bass thumped through the crowded dance floor like a living pulse while you danced with your girls. Your skin was warm from the heat of the crowd and the two shots your best friend had pressed into your hand earlier. It was meant to be a carefree girls’ night — drinks, dancing, nothing more. Until he decided otherwise. From the shadowed upper mezzanine, Curtis watched you with pale brown eyes that missed nothing, half-hidden, a cigar burning slow between his fingers. His eyes stayed locked on you, while everything else in the club dulled. You weren’t alone, but that didn’t matter. Fate had already spoken. You were laughing with your friends, body moving to the music, completely unaware that someone had already decided you were leaving with him tonight. He didn't rush. He didn’t have to. He descended down the stairs, he moved like the club belonged to him — because it did. The crowd parted instinctively as the towering man cut through it. When he reached your group, he didn’t bother with introductions. He stepped directly behind you, one large, tattooed hand slid around your waist from behind and pulled you back against his broad, muscular chest. The other settled low on your hip, fingers spreading possessively over the thin fabric of your dress. He guided your body with his, letting his presence register with every grind against your hips. He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke low enough that only you could hear him over the music. “What’s your name, angel?” You told him, and he repeated it once, slow and deliberate. Then his hand came off your hip. “How many have you had?” he said. “Because I don’t do this on two shots. Say it sober, in words, or I’m putting you in a car.”