[h2]Chris Lange: A Denver Nightclub[/h2]
A sentence Chris had heard more than a couple times was spoken at her as a man sat down next to her. He was easygoing, teasing her about her age, her red hair, her stature, but in a nonconfrontational way. The man skipped the 'are we friends?' phase and went immediately to poking fun. At first Chris was worried he was calling over someone to kick her out, but he was just trying to get his drink refilled.  As a waitress approached so did a tall black man, who greeted the man- the newcomer called him Lance- in a very similar way to how Chris had been greeted. He [i]also[/i] commented on her age, which would've drawn a rude comment if not for the second sentence. Was she a mark? That sounded like something a pickpocket would call a target, or an assassin a victim or. . . 

[b]"What's a mark?"[/b] She asked, watching the two men carefully. Her voice was just loud enough to be heard, sounding strained and a little scared.

Where before Chris had automatically sacrificed person space without thinking, now she scooted away from Lance, eyeing him carefully. Her purse was still on her shoulder, zipped shut, and was it just her imagination or had the newcomer eyed it? A million eyes were suddenly on Chris, and she resisted the urge to pull her hood over her head. Her hand reached up, her thumb and index rubbing the material of her jacket between her fingers as she watched the two men. An exit plan started to form, a way to escape without getting chased, how she would twist their minds until they were useless.