Page 35 of Movers and Fakers

“Is that so? How about I show you around?”

I glance around the relatively small room, unsure of what he’d show me that I can’t see from right here.

“No, thanks. I’m okay.”

The scent of strong alcohol makes my nose wrinkle as he leans in a little.

“Come on, I can give you VIP treatment. I’m one of the fighters.” He winks, and my stomach turns.

“I’m not interested.”

His expression darkens and he takes another step. I know self-defense, but he’s presumably a trained fighter. And I haven’t practiced any of the moves my dad showed me since I came to college.

A hand lands on the guy’s shoulder. Relief courses through me as I see Hayes standing behind the other fighter.

“Is there a reason you’re so close to my girlfriend, Donovan?” Hayes asks, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Aside from you being a raging idiot, that is.”

Donovan’s dark expression fades into one of pure terror. He jerks away from Hayes and puts distance between us. Some of his drink splashes out of his glass and onto the toe of my white tennis shoe. Hayes looks at the stain with contempt.

“I-I didn’t know she was your girl,” Donovan stammers.

“I find that hard to believe, since everyone here knows her,” Hayes replies, his voice colder than I’ve ever heard it.

The intensity of the moment distracts me from the implications of Hayes’s words.

“We were just talking, I swear! I didn’t touch her.”

Hayes’s calculating gaze sweeps over to me. I recognize the unspoken question.

“I told him I wasn’t interested. He wouldn’t leave. But he didn’t touch me.”

“All right, I’ll give you two choices,” Hayes says, his attention back on Donovan. “You can leave now or after I flatten you in the ring.”

“I’m supposed to fight Martinez,” Donovan mumbles.

Hayes smiles without warmth. “Things change. Now choose, before I choose for you.”

Donovan’s jaw clenches. For a moment, I think he might take option number two, but he must think better of it, because he shoves his glass at a passing waiter before stalking away. The drink drips down the front of the male waiter’s uniform.

Hayes heaves a sigh and draws a sleek leather wallet out of his dress pants. It’s then that I notice, unlike Donovan, he’s in black pants with a white button-down. He draws a couple hundred dollar bills out and places it in the waiter’s gloved hand.

“W-what?” the young guy stutters, staring wide-eyed at the large bills.

“For having to deal with idiots,” Hayes says, then tips his head to indicate the server should move on.

“Thank you, sir!” the waiter blurts as though Hayes isn’t close to the same age as him. He rushes off in the opposite direction.

“What kind of shoes are those?” Hayes asks, gesturing to my feet as he trades his wallet for his phone.

“Um, Nike?” I shrug. I don’t pay much attention to the kinds I buy, except for pointe shoes. If I remember correctly, I saw these on sale right before the semester started and bought them because my old ones were starting to fall apart.

“Size?”

My brow furrows. “Eight. Why?"

“I’m getting you new ones, since he ruined those,” Hayes says before pocketing his phone again.

“They’re not ruined. I could probably get the stain out with a little dish soap.”