“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Clay replied scathingly.
“Sketching.”
“Score one for the home team.”
“You’re very good,” the young man commented, peering down at the drawing Clay was working on of one of the men on the dance floor.
Disgusted by the interference, Clay snapped the sketchpad closed, put it on the bar, and took a long pull on his beer.
“Prick,” the guy muttered as he walked away.
Ignoring the comment, Clay opened the pad again and, after resting his feet on the rungs of the empty stool next to him, went back to what he was doing. He had a concept for his next painting that required dancing bodies in motion, and where better to find them than here at a club where he was a fairly regular patron.
He finished two sketches and was starting on a thi
