Page 7 of Cognac Secrets
“Yo, Clark!” someone called, and he looked up and over and threw them some chin.
“See you later this week, shorty?” he asked me.
I said, “You never know! Where you spinning?” I called as he made his way to his friends who were heading out the door, some of his dreads falling into his face.
He tossed his head back and called, “Oh you know, girl! Follow wherever the bass is in!”
I laughed and waved at the tall, lanky DJ as he made his way out and caught Bennie staring at me.
“Friend of yours?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not really. He just knows me from the dance floor. He plays my songs for me sometimes when I ask.”
“Who is he?” he asked.
“I know him as DJ Bass-In – but I guess his name is Clark. I literally just learned it now from his friend calling it out.”
“Oh, so really not that familiar?”
I gave a halting laugh. “No, why?”
He shrugged. “Just curious.”
I eyed him and felt a quiver of something I couldn’t define…was he curious because he was interested?God, I hoped not. I was a hot mess and no one wanted to stick around for it. At the same time, I felt my insides perk up because he really was a great dancerandholy shit, was he easy on the eyes.
Like, I didn’t normally go for bearded guys but for this guy it justworked. He kept it neat for the most part. I mean, it was starting to get a little overgrown, but not badly – just in need of a trim. He had these deep, soulful brown eyes that were just a shade darker than his hair and beard, and he kept his hair cut neat and businesslike, which was at odds with his rough biker exterior in the way that he dressed.
I wondered, vaguely, what he did for a living and in a bid to change the subject off me, I asked, to put it back on him.
“So, if you don’t mind me asking,” I said. “What do you do for a living?”
We moved up in line and he cocked his head, looking me over and asked, “Why?”
I shrugged. “Seemed as safe a topic as any,” I said blandly.
The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile and he looked down, jamming his hands into his jeans pockets before pulling out a money clip from one side as we were next up. It was stuffed pretty fat with money and they weren’t small bills. I tried looking anywhere but at him and it, and listened as he said, “Actually, it’s pretty boring. I’m an accountant.”
“Like, anactualaccountant?” I asked. “Or a spicy one?”
He laughed a little at that and said, “I’m flattered you could think I have anOnly Fansor that I’m some kind of escort or something – but no, I’m legitimately a sit-behind-a-computer-with-a-bunch-of-spreadsheets-open boring-ass accountant.”
I laughed lightly and said, “I would say ‘that sounds fun’ but…”
“Yeah, no. It’s boring and tedious as hell, but it more than pays the bills and it’s fucking useful,” he said.
“I bet,” I said as we moved up to the counter.
“What’ll you have?” he asked.
“Oh, I’ll just have a café au lait,” I said.
“Two of those and two orders of the beignets,” he said. “I promised you breakfast,” he told me, when I tried to argue about having a whole order of the sweet, French style, square pillows of fried dough drowned in powdered sugar all to myself. That it was too much. “Besides. I fucking love these things,” he said, handing me the two coffees and taking up the two trays of beignets, one in each hand. “Whatever you don’t want, I’ll eat.”
“Okay.” I laughed at him – not sure how he could present as so lean under the white tee that hugged his chest and shoulders when he put down so much sugar and carbs. I mean, he must practicallylivein the gym at the weight racks. Either that or he engaged in a motherfucking shit ton of cardio.
I know I found most of my exercise walking everywhere and on the dance floor.
When we sat down at a small table by the front window, it was just in time for one of the workers at the café to wipe it down for us, divesting it of the crumbs, and absolute massacre of spilled powdered sugar of the occupants before us.
