Matt strolled into the nightclub as if he had just woken up.
“Get me a Coors Light,” he shouted, through the din of the ebullent Reggaeton. “Put it on my tab.” Winslow nodded in return.
“Gotcha,” he replied. “You want a glass with that?”
“No,” Matt answered. He surveyed the faces blossoming under the pale neon glow on the dance floor. “No glass. Just the bottle.”
Winslow turned and made way for the bar, eager to drink as many brews as possible tonight. Matt posted himself at a waist high table near the dance floor and critiqued the crowd of dancing phenoms. To his left he could see the glimmering skin of a blonde woman, her skin glistening while dancing to the heavy beat; to his right, a delicate brunette clashed amongst the undulating waves of bodies and cadence. It’s mine, he thought, relishing the upcoming hunt for a vulnerable woman. It’s finally mine.
Winslow returned a moment later, Coors light in hand.
“So, what now?” he asked.
“Now, my friend,” Matt smirked, “we wait.”