Oksana jumps straight in. “This is the POS system,” she explains, pointing at a sleek touchscreen display built into the bar. “Pretty straightforward. You’ll enter orders here, assign them to table numbers…”
She keeps on talking, and I nod, but she’s moving too fast for me to absorb everything.
“Drink orders get sent to the bar. I’ll make them, set them up on this ledge, and you grab them. See these table numbers?” She points to small plaques on the ledge. “Match the drinks to the table. Simple.”
“Right,” I mutter. “Match the drinks to the table.”
She taps the screen one more time, then looks up at me to make sure I’m following. “VIP section upstairs has its own system, but you won’t be up there tonight. Main floor only for now.” She produces a small notepad from her apron and hands it to me. “Some girls use these if they don’t trust the system, but honestly, use the tablet. It’s faster.”
I take the notepad, gripping it tightly. All that time practicing pole work and perfecting my cover story, and I never thought to learn the basics of waitressing.
Oksana continues, not pausing for breath. I swear she must have gills.
She covers tipping, security, and how to deal with handsy customers.
I’m trying to keep track of everything she’s saying, but it’s like drinking from a fire hose.
“Am I throwing too much your way?”
“It’s a lot to take in,” I admit with a grimace.
She gives my arm a squeeze. “First night’s always rough, but you’ll get the hang of it. You’ve waitressed before, right?”
My lips press together while I figure out how to break this news gently.
“That would depend on your definition. I’ve thrown dinner parties before, but in terms of doing this professionally…” I swallow. “No, not so much.”
Oksana exhales and pinches the bridge of her nose. “How the hell did you end up with a serving job?”
“You’d have to ask Kirill.”
“That man,” she mumbles. After a moment, she claps her hands together and says, “It’ll be fine. Why don’t you take a quick break? Bathroom’s down the back hallway, second door on the left. Splash some water on your face, breathe. We’ll figure out the rest as we go.”
“Thank you.” I grab my bag and head down the hallway she indicated. The bathroom is dark tile and industrial fixtures, chic despite the stripped-down aesthetic. I lock myself in a stall and take a breath.
I can’t fuck this up. This job is my only path to answers, to getting close enough to the people who know what happened to my mother.
When I step back into the hallway, my head is so full of Oksana’s rapid-fire instructions that I walk straight into someone. Strong hands catch my shoulders, keeping me upright.
“Easy there.”
The voice is deep, authoritative, with the faintest trace of a Russian accent underneath the polished English.
I look up, and the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh. Ruslan Baronov.
He is instantly recognizable from the photographs I’ve studied, but seeing him in person is different. He’s distinguished, with hair dusted silver at the temples and a stare so much like Kirill’s.
“I’m sorry,” I manage to say. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“No harm done.” His hands fall away, but his focus stays fixed on my face. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you new here?”
“Yes, sir. Today’s my first shift. Evelina Panova.”
“Evelina.” He rolls the name around like he’s tasting it. “I’m Ruslan Baronov, but I sense you already know that?”
I swallow hard and nod. “Oksana ensured I was well-informed.”
He nods, satisfied by this. “I detect a Russian accent. Is that right?”
