I walk back to him, and he’s folding a napkin into a floppy origami crane. His long fingers are so precise and careful, exactly the opposite of what I’d expect. Those big hands, those calloused fingers. This guy is dangerous, but I think I could handle a little danger if it means having those hands on me for a night.
I reach into the back pocket of my tight jeans for my Sharpie, then I grab his hand and flip it over so his palm is up. I jot my phone number onto his palm, writing slowly, prolonging the skin-to-skin contact. When the last digit is written, I make eye contact and blow lightly on his palm to dry the ink. His pupils dilate, my core tingles, and then I walk away.
I make Jared, the other bartender, switch me sides, and I don’t see Butch Cassidy for the rest of the night, but he left the floppy napkin crane on the bar for me.
When I finally get to my locker at 2:30 a.m., I have three text messages.
Unknown: Hey. I’m Alex.
Unknown: I’m putting you in my phone as Sundance until you tell me your name.
Unknown: Have a good night, Sundance.
My smile is bigger than it should be.