I huffed a tired laugh before setting the note on the bar top. “VIP order. Two Lustinis, one Envy on the Rocks, and a bottle of absinthe.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “They’re… very committed to making it a night.”
Rush raised a brow as his tail snaked out and wrapped around the shaker. “You want me to garnish it with a bad decision or just a sprig of mint?”
I shrugged. “Dealer’s choice. They’re already halfway to sloppy confessions. One of them asked ifIcame with the bottle.”
He shook his head while starting to pour. “Classy.”
“I didn’t know what to say, so I laughed. I think that made it worse.”
“You’ve got the kind of face that makes drunk people think they’re charming,” Rush said, setting the martini glass aside. “They’re not.”
He may have scoffed at the notion, but the way things worked around here, I was part of the package. A perk of the experience. And I didn’t get much say in the matter.
Maslow took the adage “the customer is always right” to the extreme. If a VIP wanted attention, they got it. If they wanted to touch, they could. If they crossed a line, the line moved.
Darby had been teaching me how to work around it. To guide hands where I didn’t mind them being and to smile while my skin crawled, but some things and people slipped past my defenses. Like autograph girl.
Rush poured something green and glowing into a coupe, then set it down beside him. “You good, though?” he asked, quieter now. Not a bartender’s question, a friend’s.
I exhaled, shoulders easing down. “Just need to catch my breath. Everyone’s grabby tonight.”
Rush pushed one of the finished drinks toward me. “Take ten. Pretend you’re waiting on me.” Then he grabbed a clean glass, held it under the water sprayer, and filled it without a word. He slid the drink across the bar, and into my reach.
I blinked at him. “You’re not going to tell me to smile and get back out there?”
“I’m not your manager,” he said simply. “Drink the water. I’ll handle the potions.”
The lump in my throat surprised me. I nodded and took the glass as he started on the next drink. His henna-inked fingers—those intricate lines and swirls that faded a little at the edges—tipped bottles into the steel shaker withpracticed grace. He didn’t measure; he didn’t need to. And he was always so calm. I envied that.
Thankful for the excuse to waste a bit of time, I grasped the sweaty water glass and spun away from the bar. The cold edge of the counter bit into my bare back as I reclined against it, breathing in the muggy air.
Across the room, Darby soaked up the spotlight. He dropped to his knees in a corset top with his chest bared and legs spread, dipping low to the driving beat of an Ariana Grande song. I wanted to be there, not so far removed, but my grip strength had yet to recover since Maslow’s extraction, and any drops in my routine were likely to turn into falls.
Sipping my drink, I cast my gaze across the crowd, letting my eyes unfocus and render the horde a faceless blur. I’d barely begun to pan across the sea of anonymity when an approaching figure came clear. Tall and broad-shouldered, with his hair swept back from features that were somehow stern and soft, Beck cut through the crowd.
His tie hung loose against a dark shirt, the knot tugged down just enough to suggest either exhaustion or deliberate ease—or maybe both. A fine dusting of gray threaded through the stubble shadowing his jaw, catching the light in a way that made him look more seasoned than weathered. His golden eyes were fixed forward, unwavering, and trained on me.
My heart rattled inside my ribs, and I almost leaped off the stool, so drawn to him I could have been dragged. But I hooked my heels on the wooden rung beneath me, determined not to betray my desperation.
Not this time; I knew better.
I kept my poise as he approached, bringing a blonde-haired woman alongside him. A jealous chill slithered downmy spine at the sight of them so close. The woman was tall, especially in her high heels, and undeniably pretty. Her makeup was simple but classy: crisp black eyeliner and full red lips that pursed as she zeroed in on me.
“Bonjour,” she greeted, squeezing Beck aside while surging into the lead and thrusting out her hand. “Zephyr, is it?”
The foreign greeting tickled something in my brain, and my guard lowered. I wanted to ask her to say it again. Instead, I replied, “Yes ma’am.”
Sliding off the stool, I accepted her shake, and her smile spread.
“He has manners.” She jabbed her elbow into Beck’s ribs as he came alongside her, then addressed me again. “I’m Colette. It’s nice to put a face to the name I’ve heard so much recently.”
When Beck’s gaze met mine, I was immediately enveloped in the honey warmth of his eyes. My heart kicked again, followed by a growl in my gut.
At least my body understood what this was. Lust was not to be confused with longing or love. Lucas Beckett was a meal to me and a customer to Maslow, and I was a whore to him. A bill he’d returned to pay.
But he’d returned with a woman. Did he want to settle with me or share me?
My eyes flicked between them, conveying the question Beck answered.
