As he saunters out, my phone buzzes. A text from Luka:
We’re not done talking about this “houseguest,” brat. What are you not telling me?
Suka blyat. This day is going to be a cocktease from hell.
35
Wren
“Wren, you clocking out soon?” Mia chirps, her perky voice grating on my last fucking nerve. It’9.30 AM, and she’s still wiping down the counter next to me, all blonde bouncy curls and megawatt smile. How the hell is she so chipper at this ungodly hour?
I grunt, sliding a whiskey neat across the polished bar. “Yeah, just wrapping up.” The suit on the receiving end looks like he’s one bad day from jumping off a skyscraper.
Been there, buddy.
I give him a curt nod as he chugs his drink like a drowning man. Guy might be rich, but he’s got problems, too. Makes me feel less like a fuck-up in comparison. We’re all just treading water in this hellhole of a world.
Mia’s eyebrows wiggle suggestively as she leans in closer. “That silver fox has been eye-fucking you all night. The one who dropped the fifty earlier?”
I snort, pocketing the cash. “Yeah, well, his eyes can fuck off. I’m not interested in being some wrinkled prick’s midlife crisis.”
She laughs, tossing her rag over her shoulder. “Girl, you’re crazy. Half the staff would cut a bitch for a sugar daddy like him.”
“I’m not most girls,” I mutter, more to myself than her perky ass. Fuck that noise. I’ve had enough of men thinking they can buy me, own me, like I’m some designer fucking handbag.
The memory of D floods my senses—his rough hands, that predatory gaze. I shove it down, burying it under layers of anger and indifference. He was the last goddamn straw.
“Earth to Wren?” Mia’s waving her hand in front of my face. “You good?”
I blink, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Peachy. Just ready to get the hell out of here.”
“Okie dokie,” Mia chirps, giving me a wink before she sashays over to a group of men who just walked in. They’re decked out in tailored Armani suits, their Rolex watches gleaming under the soft lighting. Typical Skyline crowd—big money, bigger egos. I wipe down the polished mahogany bar, pocketing the crisp hundred-dollar bill tossed my way. Not bad for a Tuesday night.
The Skyline Lounge is a far cry from Jojo’s neon-lit shithole. All sleek lines and muted elegance perched on the 40th floor of the Ritz-Carlton. The Chicago skyline glitters beyond floor-to-ceiling windows, a view I’m still not used to after two weeks.
No more G-strings and clear heels for this girl. Now it’s crisp white shirts and tailored black slacks. My hair’s pulled back in a severe bun, and I’ve traded body glitter for understated makeup. I look like a fucking flight attendant, but hey, at least no one’s trying to stuff bills in my pants anymore.
Well, almost no one. There’s always that one dickhead who thinks he’s being original.
I count out the night’s tips, whistling low. Five hundred and change. Not bad for slinging overpriced cocktails to trust fund brats and mid-life crisis victims.
“Wren?” Ben’s voice cuts through my brooding. He’s the night manager; decent guy if a little too soft for this business. “You heading out?”
I nod, stuffing the last of my tips into my bag. “Yeah, got a train to catch.”
He glances at his watch, frowning. “It’s late. You want me to call you a cab?”
“I’m good,” I assure him, touched despite myself. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
He hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Alright. Be safe out there.”
As he turns to walk away, he pauses, looking back over his shoulder. “The customers like you, you know. You’ve got a knack.”
Yeah, I bet they do.
An ex-stripper who can mix a mean Old Fashioned and doesn’t sue for sexual harassment when some CEO gets handsy? I’m a fucking unicorn.
I give him a mock salute as I finish cleaning up, my mind already on the long trek home. The Red Line will be a shitshow this time of night, but it beats shelling out for an Uber.
