Fast tapping of the cymbal rises rhythmically, ascending into a slow crescendo. The piano player accompanies the sound as the deep bass kicks in. Carefree saxophone sounds weave in and out of the keystrokes.

Chicago swallowed 8-Bit up in smooth, rich, sexy blacks and browns. Tiny candles inside red mosaic glass jars on top of clothed circular tables created a deep flickering orange glow among the shadows. A few women dressed in elegant sparkling cocktail dresses and smoking long black cigarettes smirked at her, sizing her up and laughed while they whispered to each other through dark red lipstick about the war.

She stood out, insulting the scene in front of her. Her dress--the color of soft white, too light and too simple for a night in Chicago; the last remnants of the only fine clothes she could grab in a hurry, it's soft contours tracing the lines of her body only exaggerating the fragility of her slenderness. Her bronze sun kissed cheekbones gave away days the Los Angeles sun. Her thin heels barely penetrated soft maroon carpeted ramp as she descended. She paused; her eyes roamed, looking for the dealer that agreed to meet her here. She wore what she had.

Blinking once, her vision halted to a guy sitting at one of the tables slowly smoking a cigarette and looked at her.

8-Bit stood still, her perception of him was not of sight, but of touch. His stare gave her a slap in the face. She held one arm up awkwardly- moving it up instinctively in motion, however she knew she could not move until he permitted her to. It was if she was pressed up against an invisible wall.

His mouth was A firm line in silent contempt; the jagged planes of his jawline were solid and harsh. The cold, pure luminescence of his eyes showed no trace of pity or warmth. It was the most startling and beautiful face she would ever see, not because of traditional beauty, but because it was the abstraction of strength shown visibly.

He stood looking at her with no sense of caring or decency. She felt anger, one of protest, resistance, and even a hint of pleasure. This was no glance, it was an act of ownership. Her mind raced with the idea of staring back at him, giving that answer he deserved in that brief infinity of a moment. Instead, she stared at his broad chest hidden inside his well tailored suit.

" 8-Bit! Welcome to Chicago!" Her liaison calls out interrupting her thoughts, " How is Don Zeus doing? Congratulations on your move! I must give my gratitude for the last... donation that his men has bestowed to our business."

" He's probably just some thug anyways," she comforted herself bitterly.

8-Bit exited into one of the back offices behind the club, completing their drug exchange. After the liaison locked the office door behind him, she walked passed the bar, this time the man was standing there. Now he was too close.

Once again, he was staring straight at her, his gaze never waived. The stare was offensively intimate because they never spoke a word to each other. She destroyed it by speaking to him.

"Why must you always stare at me?" she asked sharply.

She thought with relief that it was the best means of detachment. She had denied everything they both knew by naming it.

Good.

For a moment, he stood silently looking at her. She felt terror at the thought that he would not answer, that he would let his silence tell her too clearly why no answer was necessary. But he answered. He said calmly:

"Same reason you've been staring at me."

"I don't know what you're even talking about."

"If you didn't, you'd be much more astonished and less angry."

He turned, looking for someone mockingly, He asked: "Shall I call the security or the manager for you?"

She smiled back mockingly.

"No, of course not. It would be too simple. But it would be better if you stopped looking at me when I come here. It might be misunderstood."

"I don't think so."

She turned away. She had to control her voice. She looked over to jazz players who switched to a slow, deep rhythmic sound.

She asked the bartender for a martini.