A guy with sharp features and a thick accent appears next to The Comedian. "Make mine strong. Very strong. Make me forget I am Russian."
Someone down the bar yells, "That's not how vodka works, Petrov!"
The Russian—Petrov, apparently—shrugs. "I know this. Make anyway."
A giant of a man—and I do meangiant; he makes the other massive guys look like regular-sized humans—orders water.
Everyone boos him.
He shrugs, unbothered, and I immediately love him.
That's The Giant. Obviously.
I'm scrambling now, making drinks as fast as I can while Kayla and Hunter help. But I'm the new guy, which means I'm getting all the weird orders.
Someone orders a "Flaming Lamborghini."
I stare at him. "A what now?"
Hunter's moving to intercept. "Don't."
The guy—redhead, intense energy, keeps touching his jacket pocket like he's checking for something—leans forward. "Come on! It'll be fun!"
"I barely know how to make a mojito without committing botanical murder, and you want me to set something on fire?"
"Yes!"
Kayla materializes between us like a bouncer at a club. "Absolutely not. You'll get a vodka cranberry and you'll like it."
The Redhead pouts but accepts the offer
I'm observing the team as I work, because multitasking is my superpower. They're like overgrown puppies. Energetic, loud, and constantly in motion. Someone's always touching someone else—a pat on the back, a shove, a headlock that looks affectionate but also possibly lethal.
The Redhead keeps touching his jacket pocket. Every thirty seconds. Like clockwork.
"Is he okay?" I ask Hunter.
"That's Jinx. Don't ask about the pocket."
"I wasn't going to."
"Good."
There's an older guy (okay, notold-old, but definitely older than the rest) trying to maintain order. He's got this composed, in-control energy that screamsresponsible adult. Which makes him a fucking unicorn in this group.
"Guys, come on," he says. "We're going to get kicked out again."
The Comedian grins. "We've only been kicked out of one bar!"
"That's one too many."
But no one's listening. The chaos continues unabated.
Honestly? I'm having the time of my life. This is entertaining as fuck, and I'm getting paid to watch it.
I'm making something that might be a martini—or might be a hate crime against gin—when movement at the end of the bar catches my eye.
A guy reaching for a napkin.
