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CHAPTER ONE
ALEXIS
Shit. I’m late.
I’m so freaking late, George is going to mount my head on the wall like a prize stag.
I push through the heavy, iron-strapped mahogany doors of The Blackwood, and the sweltering, liquor-soaked humidity of the French Quarter instantly gives way to the sanctuary of air-conditioned indulgence.
The Blackwood doesn’t just serve drinks, it traffics in secrets and sins disguised as five-hundred-dollar scotch. Amber light bleeds softly across dark mahogany, velvet-plush leather booths, and low, intimate back tables buried deep in rich, velvety shadows.
It’s the kind of place where old New Orleans money comes to flirt, and the city’s dangerous underbelly comes to play.
I take a fast, steadying breath, pulling the cold air deep into my lungs as I smooth down the front of my black dress.
"Hayes."
The voice cuts right through the smoky hum of live jazz floating from the hidden speakers. George steps into my path from behind the host stand, his arms folded tight over a crisp vest, his brow lined with deep, angry grooves.
"I know," I say quickly, keeping my voice smooth, calm, and utterly unbothered even as my heart hammers against my ribs.
I can’t lose this job. I swear. I can’t.
"I’m sorry, George. It won’t happen again."
"You said that exact same thing last week, Alexis," he snaps, leaning in just enough so the table of oil executives nearby doesn't catch the strain in his tone.
"This is the third time this month. I’ve got floor staff drowning in double sections, and I can’t keep re-engineering the schedule every time you run behind. I have a business to run."
The excuses sit right at the back of my throat, burning to get out. I could tell him about my grandmother, Milly. I could tell him how her hands were shaking so violently this afternoon that her heart medication went scattering across the bathroom tiles, or how I had to spend thirty agonizing minutes kneeling on the floor, holding her frail shoulders, coaxing her out of a terrifying spell of confusion.
I could tell him my grandmother is the only person in this world who belongs to me, and watching her mind slowly fray at the edges is killing me piece by piece.
But I don't. Sympathy doesn't pay for her specialized prescriptions, and sob stories don't protect my job.
"No excuses," I say, looking him dead in the eye, giving him nothing to tear apart. "It was on me. I’m ready for the floor right now."
George holds my gaze for a long second, searching for a trace of attitude and finding only cold, professional perfection. He lets out a sharp huff and flicks his wrist toward the back corridor.
"Five minutes," he grunts. "Change, grab your tray, and take Table Four. They’re waiting."
"On it."
I step past him, slipping into the narrow service hallway. I hang up my jacket, fasten my apron tight around my waist, and check my reflection in the small breakroom mirror—dark brown hair swept back in a sleek, immaculate knot, eyes sharp, expression utterly unflappable.
Whatever chaos is waiting out on that floor, I can handle it. I’ve survived far worse than angry customers.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in the thick of it.
The floor is a sea of movement in near darkness. I weave between wide oak tables, balancing a tray loaded with smoked ribeyes and crystal tumblers, sliding past the narrow service nook behind the bar.
It’s a tight squeeze—three of us waitresses maneuver around the ice bins and draft taps at once, elbows brushing, silver trays clinking in midair—but we make it work with the effortless rhythm of a seasoned crew.
I drop off a round of aged bourbon at Table Nine, charm a table of visiting tourists into ordering dessert, and rush back toward the bar to pick up my next order.
"Hey, Alexis." Sarah, one of the primary floor servers, nudges my shoulder as I wait for the bartender to pour two glasses of cabernet.
“Hmm?”
