Many human bars divided the tips, so I wasn’t sure of the protocol. Simone gestured under the bar, where I found two black boxes. One had a decorativeSby the slot, so I put my money in the one beside it that had no name or letter.
When I stood up, I nearly howled with laughter.
Claude set a serving tray on the bar and dazzled me with his shimmering torso. “One screwdriver and a pint.”
I leaned across the bar and admired his gold shorts. “Where do you keepyourtips?”
Placing his hands on the bar, he gave me a curt look. “The red box with my initials.”
When I glanced underneath the bar, I spotted five boxes on a different shelf—each a different color and labeled with monograms.
“Can I get an Angel’s Kiss?” A bald man with crisp blue eyes gave me an impatient look.
“What the hell’s that?” I murmured to Claude.
Simone appeared and filled a glass with a red liquid before swirling her finger inside. After serving the man, she pointed to a row of colorful bottles on a lower shelf behind us. Each had a label with an unusual name. “Most people order the standard drinks, but if you get something you haven’t heard of, find the bottle behind you and fill a glass. Then give it to me. I’ll give it back to you, and we split the tip since I did half the work.”
“Are you kidding me?”
She shrugged and walked away. “That’s why we have a high turnaround with your kind.”
“That’s bullshit,” I muttered.
Claude frowned, and the cloth tied around his eyes did nothing to conceal his disapproval. “Do you really care?”
“We need to pretend we don’t know each other.”
Claude took the drinks with a reluctant sigh and swaggered across the room to a sectional. Two men wanted to slip money into his shorts, but Claude collected his tips and walked off. He had the same light tattoo as me, only his was on his lower back. Probably so customers could admire his body without the distraction.
At least he wasn’t one of the dancers.
* * *
Eight hours into my shift,I wanted to rip off my corset and dive into a swimming pool. Did the air vents even work? I hadn’t noticed. When the club got busier, I was constantly on the move. As it turned out, most people ordered Sensor-spiked drinks. The majority of the bottles behind me were vodka. Nothing special, someone had just added color to brighten them up. Selling spiked bottles was illegal, so that meant handing over every single glass to either Simone or Rena. It cut my tips in half—not that I should have cared since this wasn’t my real job, but it was the principle of the thing.
Clearly there was a hierarchy among workers, which placed bartenders at the top of the food chain and Flynn’s crew at the bottom. I hadn’t met the manager yet—apparently she kept busy on the upper floors. And I was still trying to get used to handlers leading customers around by a leash as if they were pets. That turned out to be pretty popular—at one point there was a scramble when new people came in and couldn’t find a handler. Some of the handlers ended up walking three submissives at once.
Another girl came in to take Rena’s place on the second shift. Simone worked both shifts, and I remembered her remark to Flynn about money. She was probably trying to recoup whatever he’d pilfered from her.
I spotted Shepherd skulking about, striking up conversations with customers and reading emotional imprints.
When we finally hit a lull, Simone held one of those little electric fans in front of her face. “Did Flynn show you the staff room? That’s where we take our breaks.”
“Yep.”
“It’s clean, so you can eat in there. Just don’t leave behind a mess. Keep your street clothes in a locker and change before you leave.”
“How do I know which lockers are available?”
“The ones that don’t have a padlock. If you don’t want someone stealing your valuables, bring a lock. I keep a close eye on the tips, but we’ve had a few things go missing from people who didn’t secure their lockers.” She returned the fan to a lower shelf. “Do me a favor and watch the tip boxes. I’m taking a break.” Simone slinked around me and then gripped my arm. “And if I ever catch you stealing my money, I’ll cut you into a million pieces.”
After she sauntered off, I headed to the far end of the bar and worked my way around.
“Give me a Tickler.”
“You’ll have to wait,” I informed the man with the Viking beard. “How about a pint to tide you over?”
“I asked for a fucking Tickler. Are you new around here? Because I’m not, and this isn’t how you treat customers.”
