Smooth Criminals: Harley x Joker Origin Story

Chapter 2: Dance With Me

The problem with nightclubs is that you have to endure a hundred pervy guys for every cute one.

I reserved Saturdays for dancing my face off, like Pam suggested. I made a few friends — ones I wouldn't have to pretend to care about during the rest of the week — but I became good at slipping away if any creeps became too persistent.

Though I tried to avoid it, I compared everyone to Jay. I wished I'd never let him get away from me. The flames cooking the sky that night had nothing on the spark between us.

Then, one spring Saturday as I walked into the Tap Room, his presence engulfed me like a layer of skin. I smelled him.

I caught sight of him at a booth, wearing a black leather jacket and looking even more handsome than I remembered. I turned away. Should I wave? Go up to him? What would I say? We'd met months ago. He probably wouldn't remember me, and then I'd look like an idiot for thinking otherwise.

But I felt his eyes follow me to the bar and then back to the dance floor. If he recognized me, he didn't come over. Two hours went by. And then I saw him chatting up the tattooed brunette sitting next to him. Who were those people he was with? They looked older.

In my effort not to look at Jay, I made eye contact with a military buzzcut at the pool table. He waved me over. He and his friends were a foot taller than me, with overtrained arms and necks like tree trunks. They were probably part of some sports team — or gym rats pretending to be.

I decided to go for it, if only to stop freaking out over my non-conversation with Jay.

Buzzcut looked way too excited as I approached. He glanced to his friends as if to say, "Are you seeing this, guys?"

"Hey, mister," I said over the booming music.

Jay was watching. I felt his gaze as though he was right behind me, breathing on my skin.

"That shirt looks good on you," said Buzzcut. "You know, it would look even better off you."

I wanted to say, "It would look even better rammed down your windpipe."

Instead — because Jay was watching — I laughed. If I'd heard that fake trill coming from another girl, it would have made me want to punch her in the throat.

"I'm Kurt," said Buzzcut, leaning on his pool cue.

"Harley."

I'd been giving the nickname to strangers. In class, I was Harleen, and I wore pencil skirts and a bun and carried a laptop. On weekends, I was Harley, and I wore hair extensions and contact lenses and jean shorts that showed too much ass.

"What are you drinking, Harley?"

"I'm good for now, thanks," I said, swirling my G&T.

"We're headed to the bar," said Kurt's friend. "We'll grab you another."

"No, thanks." I didn't fancy drinking something these frat boys brought me.

"Get her a martini," said Kurt.

He leaned over the pool table to line up his shot. I slammed my hand over two balls, stopping him.

"I said I don't want one."

Kurt faltered. He glanced up at me, cleared his throat, and said over his shoulder, "Just a beer."

I scanned his perfectly ironed shirt and plucked eyebrows. Mama's boy. Probably still lived with her.