“Who?” Rafi said, before remembering—the paparazzi.
Julian shot him an exasperated look, crystal swinging. “Try to think with your big head, Rafi.”
“You’ll have to be more specific,” Rafi said with a crooked smile.
Julian rolled his eyes and pulled him to his feet. Around them, several club attendees were staring; Julian paid them no attention whatsoever as he put his jacket back on over his bare chest.
“Say, can I get one of those dances?” a nearby man called.
“You can’t afford me,” Julian replied, and moved—flounced, Rafi could definitely call it a flounce—toward the front door of the club.
Outside, they took perhaps twenty photographer-free steps in the direction of the diner and Rafi’s car, before the rain began.
* * * *