I knew he was grinning without looking at me.
“He was interested when you were atCòctels. He kept trying to make eye contact with you and draw you away from whatever your sister was saying, but you either didn’t realise or ignored him.”
“I didn’t realise. Why were you watching?”
“A good bartender notices everything. It isn’t all just about mixing spirits.”
“But you’re not just a bartender, are you? You knew who to contact atBohemito get someone removed without anyone questioning you.” I frowned. It hadn’t been that long since I’d spent a summer on Ibiza, but I’d never seen Tommy before.Bohemiwas somewhere we’d been to a lot.
“I’m a lot of things. Won’t your date be missing you?”
“He’s not my date.”
It was as if we’d conjured him up. My name was called and Monty appeared, holding a champagne glass, the weak lights that managed to filter down from Simione’s creating a spotlight.
“Are you okay?” He walked over to me, an arm draping around my shoulder.
I didn’t move away, which I wanted to do. The alcohol from minutes ago seemed to have worn off like magic, and I was acutely aware that I didn’t want to give anything away, to either of the men.
I’d given away enough to men already recently.
“I’m good. I hope you saved me some of the chorizo?” I looked at Monty and gave him a smile that was straight from Livi’s book of being polite.
“We can order another small plate.” He looked at Tommy. “You’re the bartender from that new place in Santa Gertrudis. We had a good time there.”
“Good. Maybe I’ll see you there more often.” Tommy eyes were on me. Not Monty.
“Sure. Let’s go back to our drinks. Lala was getting worried.” His arm dipped, his hand pressing against the small of my back and I let him lead me away.
It was safer. I just didn’t know what from.
Chapter Seven
Tommy
“That’s not the right vodka. You need to use this one for a Long Island.” I picked the less expensive bottle off the middle shelf and brandished it in front of Wes’ face, hoping that the image would stick if my words did not.
“There’s too much, man. Can’t I just bus the tables?”
This was the third time he’d asked in as many days. Wes was a bum, living out on the island for the summer, but without the money to keep him drinking all day and clubbing all night. He had the type of face that women would flock to, hence he’d gotten the job, although it looked like he’d be waiting on and trying to get orders right, rather than poisoning the patrons.
Nobody liked a dead patron.
Wasn’t good for business.
“Give it one more try.”
Wes looked a little nauseous. I sat down at my bar and struggled to keep my patience. The lad had said he had experience in a bar back in England. I figured his experience was in the same capacity as where I was sitting – an observer with a glass in his hand.
“This isn’t going to work.” He put the bottle of vodka down on the shelf with a heavy hand. “I’ll end up fucking up too much.”
I shrugged. “Can’t give you a job then, mate. Why don’t you try one of the beach bars? Get a tan while you’re taking orders from girls in bikinis. There are worse ways to spend your days.”
“Can you put a word in for me?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, Wes. What would I say? You lied about having had experience and were shit when I gave you a trial? You don’t want a word from me.”
He swore under his breath and then sent me a look that told me he’d heard something about who I was and was now shitting himself.
