The Girls at the Kingfisher Club by Genevieve Valentine

cardinal rule ( her cardinal rule) for some boy who could dance. She’d shaken her head no, every time, and he’d smiled and dropped it until some other night.
    Now he was looking at her with a Cheshire grin.
    She returned it.
    â€œJane Doe Six. I was the last Doe in line.”
    He frowned for a split second before he smiled. “Be right back,” he said, talking to Jake, looking at her.
    When he was gone Jake turned to her, arms folded. “I didn’t realize you knew each other.”
    â€œWe don’t,” she said.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    There were no taxis.
    By the quality of light it was close to sunrise, and Jo wondered how fast she could walk eighty blocks in her heels. (If she didn’t take a wrong turn; the city looked so different in daylight.) She could feel the chilly steps through her soles.
    â€œLet me give you a ride home,” said Tom, who had come up beside her like they were friends, like they were just picking up where they’d left off the night before.
    â€œI’ll be fine. Thanks for the bail,” she added, not quite looking at him. “I owe you.”
    â€œYou could start with your name.”
    She looked over. “What would you do if you had it?”
    He seemed a little uneasy, his eyes moving over her face like he was looking for something. Jo realized that (of course) the years had changed her, too. She was older and heavier, with lines creasing her forehead from years of concern. Her hair was laced with a pinch of gray, and she answered questions with questions.
    He was facing a sour old woman he’d never expected to see again.
    This was like meeting someone you’d seen once in a movie when you were a kid—as unreal, as impossible to find what you were looking for.
    She must have looked sad, or disappointed, because he frowned and glanced away.
    Finally he said, “Jake tells me eleven girls follow you around at night now. Where do you find all those strays?”
    â€œIt’s amazing how quickly you collect people when they stick around,” she said, glancing down the street at the sound of a motor. She couldn’t stand here any longer. She had to find a cab or a bus, beg or borrow. She had to get home.
    He shifted his weight. “Yeah, well, some absences aren’t your own fault. It’s easy for a guy to land in jail, just for being in the wrong place when the cops show up.”
    This morning, she couldn’t argue.
    â€œIt’s good to see you,” she said. “Glad you’re doing all right. Now I’ve got a cab to catch.”
    â€œI’ll drive you,” he said again, quietly, earnest. “Cabs don’t hang around at this hour waiting to take broke drunks home. You’ll walk twenty blocks just looking.”
    It was already lighter. Any minute the sun would be up. Jo had only a few minutes before her father was awake and looking for her.
    Tom waited, holding very still. He smelled like whiskey and soap now; gone was the cedar from when he unloaded barrels and boxes into the cellars of the Kingfisher.
    â€œSwell,” she said.
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    When the police station dropped out of sight behind the jagged teeth of low buildings that lined Houston, and they were flying north over the cobbles, he settled back into the driver’s seat with a smile.
    It was almost how he had been, and for a moment she was dangerously close to being that girl again, her face pressed to his lapel.
    She fought it. It was a bad habit; it was a problem when you had too much nightlife and no daytime occupation. No one hung on this long to some crush they had when they were young and stupid. She was just tired, that was all.
    â€œNo luck on your name, right?” he asked, glancing at her when they stopped at an intersection.
    She looked at him sidelong, and he laughed.
    â€œCan’t fault me for trying. Not like it’s a strange question to ask.”
    â€œOr a new