Your roommate. You should have brought him.” Zlata’s dark eyes glitter in the spotlights dotting the club. “What for? He’s got a busted leg. Can’t dance. Plus, he’s white. White men can’t dance.” The cocktail is better than I’d expected. The whole place is better than I’d expected. The industrial feel suits the environment. An actual DJ would have been nice, but the sound system is several steps above decent. It’s been a mix of club hits I recognize and those I haven’t, plus some truly old school R&B. TLC’s “Creep” was playing a moment ago. “You are thinking of American men. Yes, they cannot dance. But the Italians, the Spanish…” Mila licks her lips and smiles. I snort. “Declan’s Irish. I doubt he’s got any more rhythm than your typical American frat boy.” Ryan had had two left feet. He'd been happy enough to let me go off with girlfriends for the night instead of embarrassing both of us by trying to dance. “Who cares about the dancing or his leg?
