He studies me for a beat longer than is comfortable. Then, finally, he speaks. “Vodka,” he says in a deep voice, with a Russian accent that sounds like gravel and smoke. “Whatever you have that doesn’t taste like paint thinner.” There’s the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, like he’s making a joke and daring me to respond.
I lift my chin. “So, not the house brand.”
One of his companions huffs a quiet laugh, and the younger man’s almost -smile twitches a little wider. “Surprise me,krasotka,” he says.
I don’t know the word, but the way he says it makes my skin sizzle, like a current’s running along my nerve endings. I turn away before he can see the flush rising up my neck.
Behind the bar, I pour the good stuff. Not top -shelf, because nobody around here has that kind of money, so we don’t stock it.
Instead of sliding them down the bar like I would do to any of the regulars, I carry the drinks back. With the three pairs of eyeswatching me closely, my hands shake a little, and I have to be careful not to spill.
I set the glasses down one by one. When I get to Gray-eyes, our fingers brush on the rim of the glass.
It’s nothing. Skin on skin for half a second. Heat shoots up my arm anyway.
“Thank you, Rosie,” he says.
My name on his lips makes me freeze. “I didn’t—” I stop, blink. “How do you know my name?”
His gaze flicks to my chest. I follow it and see my name tag.Rosiein fading black marker, pinned crookedly to my tank top.
Right. Obviously.
I feel stupid for asking and even stupider for the way my pulse is racing and my face flush.
“I wasn’t sure it is your real name,” he says, and this time the smile reaches his eyes. For just a fraction of a second, they’re warm and filled with humor. But then that coldness seeps back in. “You should not leave give it out so freely. Someone might use it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say dryly.
He holds my gaze for another second, as if he’s deciding something. Then he nods toward the other end of the bar and the room in general. “You are busy,” he says. “We won’t keep you.”
“Let me know if you need anything,” I reply, defaulting to auto-pilot politeness, and move away before my shaking legs give out.
The rest of the hour passes in a blur.
I cash out the guys in flannel, and then cut off the drunk couple from more shots. Clean, stack, wipe, repeat. I’m aware of the Bratva men at the end of the bar the whole time. They’re like a constant black shadow, hovering in the corner of my eye.
They nurse their drinks, converse in low-voiced Russian, and watch the room. Or rather, two of them watch the room. The younger one watches me.
They’re still there when the last of the regulars finally stumble out the front door into the night. Louise flips the sign on the door to “closed” and joins me at the bar. “Long one,” she says.
I blow a stray hair out of my face. “Yeah.”
“You should get some sleep. You look beat.” She shoots the men at the end of the bar an uneasy look.
“I’ll stay until they leave,” I say under my breath, and the smile she sends me is both tired and grateful.
I glance at the clock. It’s later than I thought. Which means the busses now run on off-peak service, and my choices are to wait in the cold for forty minutes or walk home alone in the dark.
Great.
Finally, the Bratva men finish their drinks. The two whisky-drinkers nod at Louise and me as they head toward the door, where they wait.
The guy with the gray eyes remains seated, fingers wrapped around his empty glass.
As I reach for it, he speaks again.
“It is late. How are you getting home?” he asks.
