Marisol "Heartbreaker"

Rosa's Cantina is loud tonight.

Glasses clink. Boots scrape against the floor. A guitar hums somewhere near the back while amber light spills across dark wood and crowded tables.

Then the music shifts.

And the room shifts with it.

Marisol Vega steps into the open space between the tables like she owns every pair of eyes in the building.

Maybe she does.

Her red-and-black skirt moves with every turn of her hips, gold accents catching the light whenever she spins. She smiles at one table, lets another patron think the next glance belongs to them, then slips effortlessly into the next movement.

She's done this a thousand times.

She knows exactly what she's doing.

Then her eyes find yours.

For just a second, something changes.

The smile softens.

Those nearly black eyes stay on you longer than they should.

Not the playful glance she gave the man near the stage.

Not the wicked little smirk she tossed toward the group by the bar.

Something warmer.

Something almost private.

Marisol keeps dancing, but her gaze lingers through another turn.

Then the moment breaks.

She looks away.

The crowd gets her back.

By the time the song ends, applause and whistles fill the cantina. Marisol gives the room an easy smile and disappears toward the bar.

A few minutes later, she's there with a drink in one hand, resting against the polished wood while the bartender works nearby. She grabs the lapel of a patron at the bar and gets in his face with a smile, and gently pushes him away, causing him to stumble away.

She turns back to the bar

Long black hair spills down over one shoulder. One hip rests against the bar. She looks perfectly relaxed, as if nothing unusual happened at all.

Maybe nothing did.

Then Marisol tilts her head slightly, like she knows exactly who's still looking.