“You’ll do as I say, woman. Or you’re done.”
I’m sitting across from Misha Grinkov in his stale, smoke-choked office, doing everything I can not to gag on the scent of his cheap cologne and cigars.
He leans back in his oversized chair, looking like a bloated toad on a throne, the leather creaking under his bulk. His predatory eyes scan me in the way he looks at all the girls here, and I hate it.
“You hear me?” he asks.
I know he’s serious. I know him too well to think otherwise.
The silk shirt he’s wearing strains over the girth of his gut, a gold chain tangles in his chest hair, and his permanent sneer spreads across his face. He’s a total sleaze, through and through, and though he looks like a cartoon villain, it would be deadly to underestimate him.
“I’m not going to do it,” I say, a hard edge to my voice.
He laughs, his belly shaking. For a second, I think the buttons of his shirt might pop off and spill all that bloat out.
“What, you think you’re too good for it?” he asks, placing his big hairy hands on the edge of the desk. “That’s part of the job. All the girls here know that now and then they have to go the extra mile. And trust me—it’ll be worth your while. Those customers are big spenders. You give them a nice little show, hell, they’ll send you out of here with a months’ pay stuffed into your little pink panties.”
I want to puke. Of all the things I hate about Misha, the way he treats women and talks to them has to be number one.
I shake my head. “Not a chance. You hired me to tend bar and that’s what I’m going to do. Nothing beyond that.”
He scoffs. “Come on, it’s just a little private dance. Go back there, shake that gorgeous ass of yours, and then you’re done. Ten minutes of work, fifteen tops.”
I want to say what’s really on my mind, accusing him of all of the horrible things I’ve learned since starting at Club Scarlet. I know for a goddamn fact this is all part of an elaborate grooming process. First, he starts by pushing girls into giving private dances. Then, fully nude shows. After that, it’s whatever else the customers want.
And that’s when he has you.
“Take care of my patrons. They pay good money for time in the back room. You’ve got the looks and the body—use that to your advantage and make them happy.”
I lock my jaw so tight it’s a miracle my teeth don’t crack. My hands curl into fists beneath the table, nails biting into my palms.
“No.”
His eyes narrow, the vein in his temple throbbing like it’s about to explode. “No? You think you can say no to me, little girl? After everything I’ve done for you?” He scoffs as he points at me. “I took a chance on you, Erin. Gave you the best nights of the week. I wanted to see you thrive, I knew you had it in you. And this is how you repay me?”
I want to laugh in his face, but my rage is too hot. Everything he’s done for me? Please. He’s done nothing but shove me closer to the edge of a line I refuse to cross.
“I’m not for sale, Misha. And that’s all there is to it.”
His sneer twists into an ugliness I’ve not seen before. “You think you’re better than the other girls? You’re nothing, Erin. Without me, you won’t last a day. Go on, see who else hires a woman like you.”
He’s wrong. Or maybe he’s right. Either way, I’d rather crawl through glass than give him what he wants.
Misha narrows his eyes. “Go back behind the bar then. I’ll tell my customers you’re not in the mood.” He points his fat finger at me. “But you have one week to change your mind. The next time I ask, you’d better be in a more compliant frame of mind.”
I open my mouth to speak, to tell Misha to fuck off. But I remember the rumors, the stories I’ve heard about people who have said no to Misha, how sometimes they’re never heard from again. So instead, I say nothing. I simply stare straight ahead at a spot on the wall just to the left of his ear.
He flicks his chin up, silently dismissing me. “Top my whiskey off on the way out.” He extends his arm, holding out the glass, shaking it a bit.
“Sure.” I get up, snatch the glass out of his hand, and walk over to his personal bar. I scan the bottles, finding the Jack Daniels and placing my hand on the neck.
“Jack Daniels?” he asks, his tone dismissive. “That’s for the guests who don’t know better. Give me the good stuff.”
“The good stuff?”
He nods slowly. “That’s right. Bottom shelf.”
I find what he’s talking about. Without thinking, I bend over to grab the bottle, my butt sticking into the air.
“There you go, that’s the good stuff.”
I shudder with disgust, realizing what I just fell for. It takes all the restraint I have to not call him a disgusting pervert. I bite my tongue, stand up, and pour his drink. If I’m going to get on his bad side, I want to do it when I’m far away from him.
“That good, boss?” I hand the drink over.
Misha takes it, greedily slurping the whiskey then setting the glass on his desk. “Is Amber working?” he asks, ignoring my question.
“Sure is.”
“Good. Tell her to come to my office. I need her to pick up the slack. No doubt my customers are getting very impatient.”
“Will do.”
I hurry from the office and rush down the back hall, my heart racing. I have to leave. I can’t stay here. I can no longer work at a place where my boss is trying to pimp me out. I may need a job, but I cannot, will not, trade my dignity for a paycheck.
When I reach the main floor of the club, neon lights and EDM sparks are pulsing along to the beat of the music, a few girls dancing on the stage.
“Hey, Erin!” Amber calls out. She’s barely out of high school and currently works as my bar back. “What’d the boss want?”
I don’t respond. I walk straight past the bar, blasting through the front doors and stepping out into the cool, fall air. The sky’s slate-gray, the pavement shiny with rain.
I quit.
A voice slices through my thoughts, yanking me back to reality.
“Hey, you want something to drink while you wait?”
The bartender is in his mid-thirties with a neatly trimmed beard and sharp eyes that notice everything. His nametag reads Ben.
“Just water, please,” I reply, forcing a small smile. “I’ve got an interview with the boss.”
Ben nods knowingly and grabs a glass. As he fills it, I let my eyes drift around the empty club. The gleaming bar top shines under the low lights, the shelves lined with premium liquor that would make Misha weep with envy. The sleek leather booths and art deco scream luxury.
This place is a different universe from the grimy nightmare I left behind.
Please let this work out.
The thought claws at my chest. I need this. I need a clean slate.
A glass clinks on the counter in front of me, and I smile. “Thanks, Ben.”
“Good luck,” he says.
I take a sip. As the cool water slides down my throat, the knot in my chest loosens just a bit.
Down at the other end of the bar, I notice a kid—barely out of his teens, by the looks of it—trying to make what appears to be a Manhattan. He’s going about it all wrong. The proportions are off, and he’s putting way too much ice into the mixer.
I can’t help myself; my fingers itch to fix it. I glance at Ben, arching an eyebrow. “Hey, you mind if I help him out before he accidentally poisons someone?”
Ben chuckles. “Go for it. Kid’s new, could use the help.”
Grinning, I slip off the bar stool and walk around to the other side of the bar. The kid looks at me in surprise. His eyes are wide, his hands trembling around the mixing glass. “Uh, hi,” he stammers. “I’m, uh, trying to make a Manhattan.”
“I can see that. Let me show you how it’s done.” I grab a chilled glass. “Okay, the first rule of a good Manhattan is balance. You’re making a classic cocktail, so respect the ingredients. You need two ounces of good rye whiskey, a dash of bitters, and a sweet vermouth that doesn’t taste like it’s been sitting in the sun.”
He nods, watching closely. I measure out the whiskey and vermouth, then add a dash of bitters. “Second rule is, stir, don’t shake. You’re blending, not making a snow globe.”
I slide the spoon into the glass and stir, smooth and steady, until the liquid chills to the perfect temperature. “You want it cold but not diluted. A Manhattan should have bite, not waterlogged regret.”
I strain the mixture into a chilled coupe glass and pluck a cherry from the jar, dropping it in with a flourish. “And there you have it. Perfection.”
The kid’s jaw drops. “Wow. That was… badass.”
I wink. “You’ll get there.”
Ben steps up, curiosity in his eyes. He picks up the glass, swirls it, then takes a sip. His eyebrows shoot up. He’s clearly impressed.
“Well, ho-ley shit,” he says. “You sure you need an interview? I think we just found our new bartender.”
I shrug. “Thanks, but from what I’ve heard about the boss, I don’t think he’d take too kindly to someone jumping the line like that.”
Ben laughs, a warm, easy sound. “You’re not wrong. He’s a stickler for respect.”
I sigh and shake my head. “Samuel Holt, right?”
Just then, the front doors open, and a tall man with a strong build and rugged face steps in, his long dark hair tied into a ponytail. He’s dressed in loose-fitting jeans, a red-checkered flannel, and combat boots. He enters, stopping next to the door and crossing his arms over his broad chest.
“Is that him?” I ask.
Ben shakes his head. “Nope. That’s James Dalton, the head bouncer.”
“Dalton, huh? Fitting. You know, Patrick Swayze’s character in Roadhouse was named Dalton.”
Ben chuckles. “Yep. And it is fitting. He’s pretty Zen most of the time but more than capable of kicking some serious ass. Trust me, I’ve seen it.”
The newbie’s face scrunches in confusion. “Who’s Patrick Swayze?”
Ben and I exchange a look, then laugh. “Kid, I’m thinking you’re too young to be behind a bar. Watch the movie, then we’ll talk.” He raises a finger. “And I don’t mean the new one with Connor freaking McGregor, either. I’m talking about the original. The good one.”
We all laugh, the tension in my chest loosening just a bit more. For the first time in a long time, I feel like things might actually be okay. Just as I slip back around to the other side of the bar and lower myself onto the stool, the front doors swing open again. The faint evening light spills in, silhouetting a figure who could only be Samuel Holt.
He strolls in with the kind of presence that demands attention. He’s tall—well over six feet—with broad shoulders that look like they belong on a linebacker. His tailored suit hugs every inch of his solid, powerful frame. Dark hair, flecked with silver at the temples, gives him an air of rugged sophistication, as does the well-maintained beard. His eyes are a piercing dark brown, and sharp enough to strip a person down to their soul.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry as sandpaper.
This is my potential boss? He looks like he could pin me with a glance and shatter me with a touch. A thrill skates through me, hot and dangerous, pooling low in my belly. My skin tingles, my heart races, and for a split second, I forget how to breathe.
His eyes sweep the room, landing on me like a physical weight. Heat crawls up my neck, and my legs press together instinctively.
Things just got a hell of a lot more interesting.
