A Barrel of Ones

He appeared in the crowd every night. Andrea didn't know his name. She didn't know where he was from. She didn't know his age or what he did for a living. All she knew was that he appeared every night to watch her dance. He arrived just before she got on the stage, and he was gone before she left the changing room.

And he was driving her crazy.

She'd never met anyone that caught her attention before. He didn't look like the type of person who would normally spend every evening at a strip club in New York City. He didn't even look like he could afford the rolled up wad of bills he left at the end of every night with her friend behind the bar.

His hair was normally greasy and fly away. It hung in front of his eyes; shielding them from the harsh glares of the stage lights. His clothes were a little tatty, faded and most of the jeans he wore had rips in the knees.

Truthfully, he wasn't the kind of person she wouldn't normally give the time of day to (financial status aside), and it was starting to bug her.

Which was why she'd recruited her friend into helping her find out who he was. She wanted any information that could be collected; anything to help her shake the infatuation that she had for him. She stepped onto the stage, to a copious amount of applause and wolf-whistling and her eyes immediately tracked him; front and centre like he always was. She fixed a smile to her face and started to dance.

By the time Andrea had left her dressing room, once again, the mysterious stranger had disappeared. Frustrated, she accepted the wad of cash that was always left behind for her (she no longer bothered to count it; she knew how much would be there) and she left the bar and stepped into the cold November air.

She curled her jacket tighter around her body as she made her way to the back of the bar where the staff car park was located and was more than surprised to see a stranger leaning against it. Deciding against her better judgement to turn back inside and alert someone, she carried onto her car; her fingers gripped around the phone in her pocket.

"Uh, hi," she offered, approaching the car at a safe distance. Her lips parted in a slight gasp when the person turned around and blue eyes, bright beneath the brown fringe, caught onto hers. She shook back her blonde curls.

"Hey," he inclined his head, with a soft smile. She bit onto her lip and approached the car. She unlocked it and tossed her bag of clothes into the trunk of the car, all the while the stranger watched her, leaning casually against the passenger door.

"Can I help you?"

"Oh, right." Looking as if he'd just recognised where he was, the stranger stepped forward and pressed a sheet of rough card into her palm. "I like your dancing," he complimented, before turning and walking off down the street. His beaten shoes echoed around her as she glanced down at the paper. Etched onto it in rough handwriting, was the name of a coffee shop and a time for the following day. Andrea stuffed the card into her pocket, frowning.

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Andrea tapped her foot as she sat at the table in the small coffee shop. A mug of steaming coffee sat in front of her; untouched. The only reason she was there was because she was curious. And he was late. He was late and she had to be fucking curious. She glanced down at her watch, then her drink. She sighed heavily before lifting the mug to her lips. They curled with distaste at the horrid drink and she sighed, before setting the mug back down and leaving. Fuck him.

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She was pissed. To say the very least, Andrea was pissed. He had stood her up and now he was sitting, looking as blissfully unaware as he did every night. His shadowed eyes watched her as she sashayed across the stage, but she kept to the left tonight. She didn't once meet his eye and when she was done, she changed faster than she'd ever done in her life. She had a bone to pick with him.

"Hey!"

He turned at the sound of her voice, startled, but a smile soon graced his features. She scowled; a stabbing glare that made his smile twitch from his lips.

"What the fuck is your problem!" she hissed at him.

"Excuse me?" he asked. His voice was a little rough, as if unused. He blinked at her, as she continued to glare. A heel clad foot tapped against the rough, cold ground. Her arms crossed over her chest.

"You stood me up!" Her glare hardened. "You stood me up and the you have the NERVE to turn up at the bar and sit and watch me dance! What the fuck!"

"What?"

"Don't play the idiot card with me," she snapped. "What the hell do you want from me?"

He shrugged, lightly. "Dunno. I like to watch you dance." He offered her another smile. She shot that one down too. It burned beneath her stare.

"That's not a reason. I want a fucking reason because you're here every Goddamn night and I want to know why!" She stomped her foot impatiently.

"I like to watch you dance," he repeated. "Is there something wrong with that?"

"You don't just watch me dance, though! You leave me the kind of tip it looks like you can't afford! And you wait for me at my car to give me notes! And then you STAND ME UP! Why?"

He shrugged and flicked back the hair from his face. Red flooded her cheeks as her temper rose. He was so ignorant and she hated it. She hated how much she actually felt from being stood up by him. Because, dammit, she was the kind of girl that didn't get stood up. She did the standing up.

However, instead of responding, he closed the distance between them. In seconds, his rough hands were grasping her face gently and his lips were covering hers. Her wide eyes slid shut, and she returned the kiss, fingers weaving themselves into the front of his shirt. He pulled back, panting for a second, before he turned to hail a cab.

"If you're coming to my apartment," he declared, seeing her shocked expression, "I think it's best you know my name. It's Fred."

"You're pretty presumptuous, Fred."

He grinned, before leaning in to steal her lips once more.