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The Bloody Dance

by Tito M. Williams 3 months ago in fiction

Rhythms of Passion

The Bloody Dance

“Dance with me,” he yelled.

Move your hips to the beat of the music.

Who cares who is looking, as long as your beads hypnotise me with their jingles.

Let’s exist in our own world. A fantasy. A bubble.

Goddess, I saw you walk in, and I have to say I am so enchanted by your beauty.

Your curves make me drool, and I will kill for a taste of your honey.

I could look into your eyes all day, they’re like glistening marbles.

Women like you barely come my way, I must have done something right this time.

Let down your hair with me, your beautiful eyes look so tired.

C’mon! Take my hand!

Let’s waltz around to this beautiful music.

Do you like jazz? Dance floors like this were made to honour beautiful feet like yours.

Don’t walk away darling! Give me a chance.

Can I write you a song?

I’ll do it right here.

C’mon! One quick dance!

Ha! He’s incessant. He’s annoying. He’s relentlessly cheesy. He’s dramatic. He clearly doesn’t understand silent social cues.

I was on my way out of the bar before his grand theatre performance but he’s handsome, one dance wouldn’t hurt, and so I obliged his request.

“2 minutes!” I cautioned, as I walked towards him with a discontented but curious look on my face

“You have 2 minutes to impress me!”

He took a bow and stretched out his hand.

His hands swallowed mine effortlessly. His hands felt smooth like butter. He pulled me towards him swiftly and I found myself in his arms.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Back and funk. Back and Jazz.

His perfume smelled like sweet vanilla. I had been feeling quite lonely, and so his hands on my hips felt like a serving of apple crumble and cream on a rainy day.

Hot apple crumble and cream. The meal I shared with my old lover. He lacked spontaneity. He hated adventures. We would have never worked out.

He was a man who ran from flattery and romance like a plague.

But here I was in the arms of a handsome charming stranger with very sweet words, on a red dance floor. I was entranced by the music and impressed by the quick-witted gentleman.

A quick escape from my rainy days.


What could go wrong? The flattery was exactly what I needed after a long day of critiques at work.

“I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I didn’t talk to you!” he whispered in my ears, as he placed his hands on my back and secured my left hand on his shoulders.

He secured my left hand on his shoulders

“What do you do?” he continued, I was so engrossed in the music.

I hadn’t prepared for a conversation. I hadn’t prepared to talk. And so my words were blunt and abrupt.

I glared at him before blurting out, “I’m a banker!”

“You are? That’s very interesting! Beauty and brains!” he giggled, I noticed his dimples and chuckled silently.

I wasn’t impressed with the slightly misogynistic statement but I continued the conversation.

“Are those two things mutually exclusive?”

I could see he was caught unaware by the question, he looked at me briefly and replied, the tempo of the music increased and so I retreated my left leg, it’s one of my favourite moves. It’s a risky one, but he was in tune with my rhythm.

I retreated my left leg in a risky move

“Not necessarily,” he continued, “it’s just that there are barely any women working in my bank, so it’s nice to meet one!”

Ah! He works in a bank. Just like my old lover. Why do I always attract the same type of men, I murmured, the words that escaped my mouth after that doesn’t reflect my introverted nature.

“Oh really?” I would have thought you were the reincarnation of Shakespeare with your charming poetic advances.”

I didn’t think his poems were nice, a bit too cheesy for my taste but I wanted to point them out.

“Somehow I think you’re flirting with me,” he said, as he pulled me closer, looking briefly into my eyes before adjusting his hands to my bend, my legs were stretched out forward, I could tell he is well versed with the dance.

He adjusted his hands to my bend

I noticed he had a habit of moving his eyes quickly, as if he couldn’t handle the intensity of my gaze.

“Maybe I am, maybe not,” I retorted.

That wouldn’t be my choice of words on a good day but I was caught in the moment. I wasn’t sure how to reply to his assumptions.

He’s handsome, with a square chiselled face. Medium height, wide shoulders with piercing brown eyes. He was dressed to impress and seemed intelligent to an extent. He’s a perfect dance partner and he’s my type.

The music intensified and I attempted to twirl, but he pulled me forward, towards him. I was halfway through the movie, and I stumbled.

He responded to my slip by extending out his left leg to keep me in balance.

He extended his left leg to keep his balance

“Would you like a drink from the bar?”

“Perhaps you’re running out of moves,” he teased, his eyes fixed on my bosom.

His eyes are focused on my bosom.

5 minutes have now passed and I had to get going to my doctor’s appointment at 7, and so I politely declined and thanked him for the dance.

“Thank you! But I need to head home now.” I could tell he wasn't satisfied with the answer.

“So soon? I’d like to see you again, how do you plan to get home?” he mumbled, as he pulled out his contact card and handed it to me.

He’s a brave old-school man, whatever happened to just exchanging numbers on a phone, I thought.

Now I’d have to call him.

I glanced at the card quickly.

Reece is a nice name, I thought.

Before I could answer his question, he offered to get his driver to take me home, as he’d be staying a bit longer to discuss some finances with the owner of the bar.

I’m not impressed by the new information, I’m well to do and make good money from my job, but at least he’s a gentleman, I whispered to myself.

The appointment was only 15 minutes away from the bar but a drive seemed convenient, I was also running late and realised I’d need a change of clothes, and so I agreed.

He beckoned at a short man dressed in a tennis outfit in front of him. The man seemed to have been standing there the whole time, but I hadn’t noticed.

I told him the closest station to my apartment, it is a mere 2 minutes walk from where I live.

“See you soon?” He asked, with a slight worried look on his face, as I jumped into the back of the car.

“We can have dinner at The Ritz, say next week?”

I had had a good time and wouldn’t mind seeing him again and so I replied gently,

“Of course!”

He waved at me, and went back into the bar, leaving me with an odd feeling of curiosity and excitement.

I guess I’m back on the dating scene, I thought, as I settled into the back seat with my purse clutched under my arms.

The drive was silent, just like I prefer it. Cab drivers who don’t speak usually get a high rating from me. 10 minutes into the drive, the driver asked to stop quickly at a petrol station. He jumped out, filled up the car and ventured inside the small shop to make payment.

And then I noticed a black book stuck between the driver’s door.

I picked it up, fearing it’ll eventually drop on the floor. But a cheque fell out. It was addressed to a man called Langford, from Reece, the man I had danced with at the bar.

Reference -Transport

Amount- $20,000

The reference sounded peculiar, it didn’t quite suit his finance profession, and so I looked into the book for more information.

To my incredulity, it contained the same words he had said to me before I agreed to dance. Written in the form of a poem.

It also contained an unfamiliar address with a title:

Atlanta bound traffic

Target- 20 women.

I flipped through the rest of the pages as my hands shivered and realised instantly.

Reece is an organ trafficker.

The charming stranger is an organ trafficker.

I panicked and instinctively tried to jump out of the car. But I was too late, the doors were locked. The driver had seen me read the book and locked it from a distance with his car keys. He jumped quickly into the car, speeding away as I screamed in terror.

I checked my purse, my phone is missing.

“They can’t hear you,” he shrieked as he pulled out a gun, making it visible to me through the front mirrors.

They can’t hear you.

Tito M. Williams
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Tito M. Williams
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