The White Ones
an excerpt

"Thanks for the drink," she said. "I needed it."

He set his tumbler down on the bar and smiled. Below his small neat teeth his lower lip was dry; she glanced at the counter, but their glasses were already gone. She peered up into the dark alcove; the bartender had disappeared. The music changed again, something faster and more melodic, a grinding rhythm loud enough to shake the blood in her veins. She turned back to say something and drew in a startled breath.

He was close now, very close -- close enough to see that his eyes really were blue, that they lit to silver in each pulse of the strobes, that he was not sweating and his t-shirt had tugged down past his left collarbone. Her neck had flushed with the crowded bodies and good vodka, but above the thin shirt his skin was matte and pallid. She smelled what must be the wax in his hair, a scent too soft to be cologne, warm between them in the haze of alcohol and sweat.

"Dance with me," he said.