Two weeks later…
“Three whiskey sours, down the line!”
I love this place.
The pulsing bass, the hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses all blends into a chaotic symphony that makes me feel alive. The crowd never stops, a constant flow of bodies pressed together under flashing lights, but the pace is a thrill, a rush I didn’t know I needed.
From the moment I step behind the bar at eight, I don’t stop moving, and I love it.
It doesn’t hurt that the tips are damn good. By the end of my shift, my pocket is stuffed with more cash than I ever made at Misha’s. The other big difference? My new boss isn’t trying to shove me into the back room for extra profit.
It’s my second Friday here, and the kid who couldn’t make a Manhattan to save his life quit last night without notice. Ben’s out of town for the weekend, so we’re shorthanded. Lucky for me, Samuel is behind the bar helping out. Or maybe that’s unlucky, considering the way my body reacts to him. I don’t need the distraction.
“Pardon me, Erin.” He slides past me, his crotch grinding against my ass as he moves to the other side of the bar in the tight space.
It’s a totally unintended movement, but damn if the thought of him pressing against me doesn’t get me thinking things I shouldn’t.
Samuel’s a wall of dark heat and raw strength, moving behind the bar with a grace that shouldn’t belong to a man his size. Tonight he’s ditched the suit and is wearing a simple black T-shirt and dark jeans, a pair of black boots on his feet.
His shirt hugs his broad chest and thick biceps. His sleeves are rolled up almost to his shoulders, his tanned arms dusted with dark hair. When he shakes a cocktail, the muscles in his forearms flex and tighten, and I have to bite my lip to keep from staring.
I’m starting to wish I’d brought an extra pair of panties.
As he leans down to grab a bottle of whiskey from the lower shelf, his dark hair, streaked with silver, falls across his forehead. The sharp lines of his jaw, the slight shadow of stubble… it all makes my mouth go dry.
We’re constantly moving, sliding past each other in the cramped space behind the bar. Each time his arm brushes mine or his hand skims my waist, a jolt of heat races through me.
“You alright, there?” he asks. He pulls the metal pour tip off an empty bottle, then tosses the bottle into the trash.
“Uh, just trying to plan out my next few moves,” I say, the excuse totally lame. “You know, to stay a few steps ahead of the customers.”
“You mean those customers?” he asks. He nods to the very long line of folks waiting for one of us to get to them.
My cheeks grow hot. “Yep, those are the ones.”
He laughs, stepping over to the rail and pouring a few shots for the girls across the bar—girls who are obviously very interested in Samuel.
“First move? Make the drinks. Then make the next ones. Repeat until close.”
He pushes the shots toward the girls, who eagerly toss them back. Their eyes stay on him as they pay, flicking glances in his direction as they melt into the crowd. Samuel doesn’t seem to even notice.
“Yeah. Thanks,” I mumble. I feel like an idiot as I turn to the next customer in line. “What can I get you?”
“Gin and soda. Extra lime.”
I nod and turn, reaching for a bottle of gin. Sam reaches at the same time and our fingers collide. I pull in a breath, the contact sending sparks racing up my arm.
“Excuse me,” he says.
I force a laugh, trying to sound casual. “No problem, boss.”
His eyes flick to mine, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. The way he looks at me, his gaze hooded and dark, makes me wonder if he’s been imagining the same things I have. Things that have nothing to do with drinks or customers.
I pivot to grab a shaker and his chest brushes my back. I freeze, my pulse pounding in my ears. He doesn’t move right away, his breath warm against the back of my neck. My skin prickles, a wave of heat pooling low in my belly.
“You good?” he asks, his voice a rough whisper.
No, I’m not good. I’m one accidental touch away from needing to change my clothes.
“Yeah, fine,” I manage to say. I step forward, putting space between us before I do something stupid, like turn around and kiss him.
The night is long and the space behind the bar is small. Each time we pass each other, the tension coils tighter, until I’m practically vibrating with it. My cheeks are flushed, my breathing shallow, and it has nothing to do with the heat of the club.
“Focus, Erin,” he says as he moves past me, his delicious scent lingering in his wake.
I try, but I can’t help but continue to glance at Samuel out of the corner of my eye, watching the way his shirt stretches across his back as he reaches for a bottle on the top shelf. My fingers itch to slide under the fabric, to feel the body beneath. The thought sends a rush of heat straight between my legs, my pussy clenching.
“Yo! I’m heading to the back to get another crate of Titos!” Miguel, the barback, breaks me out of my reverie.
I shake my head, focusing on the task at hand. I fall back into the groove, the actions of the job feeling like an extension of me, the bottles and shakers in my hands moving without thought. Soon, Samuel and I fall into a rhythm. He passes me a fresh glass before I even ask, and I slide a garnish tray toward him without a word when I see him reach for lemons. It’s seamless, like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
The silent cadence builds, the two of us weaving around each other in the cramped space like a well-rehearsed dance. And God help me, I can’t stop thinking about how easily this rhythm could transfer to other places.
Like his bed. Or mine.
The image hits hard—his body pressing against mine, moving with the same effortless precision, his hands finding all the right places. My cheeks flush, and I shake the thought away.
Focus, Erin. He’s your boss. You can’t afford to lose this job over a stupid fantasy.
The desire is relentless and I can’t shake it. Not when he’s standing so close I can feel the heat radiating off him. Not when his scent—clean, woodsy, masculine—wraps around me every time we pass.
I force myself to focus on the next customer in front of me when a man further down the bar lifts a finger, catching my eye. My stomach drops. He’s familiar, too familiar. I recognize him from Misha’s club. He’s one of the regulars who always lingered too long, drank too much, and stared too hard.
My first instinct is to let Samuel handle it, but he’s busy with another customer. The man’s eyes are locked on me, a smirk playing on his lips. There’s no avoiding it.
After pouring a quick beer for the customer immediately in front of me, I paste on my best fake smile and step in front of him. “What can I get you?”
He leans against the bar, his eyes dragging over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Erin. I didn’t expect to see you here. When did you start?”
The place is too busy, too insane for small talk.
“Couple weeks ago,” I reply, pretending I don’t recognize him. “What can I get you to drink?”
He ignores the question, his smirk widening. “Sure wish you were still at Misha’s. Wish I would’ve been able to see you get naked.”
The words hit like a slap, but I don’t flinch. My smile is fixed as my voice hardens. “Because I’m nice, I’m going to give you two choices: either you tell me what you want to drink, or I’ll reach across this bar and smack the shit out of you. Got it?”
His eyes darken, and he leans closer, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol. “Forget the drink. I’d rather just fuck you.”
The air between us shifts, heavy and suffocating. My heart pounds, my fists clenching under the bar as I fight the urge to lash out. Every nerve in my body screams for me to step back, to put distance between us. But I don’t.
I stare him down instead, my voice calm and cutting as I reply, “Not gonna happen.”
Before another word is said, Samuel is at my side, his presence a wall of solid, unyielding heat. His eyes are cold, dark, and lethal.
There’s no way he could have heard what the guy said over the pounding bass and the roar of the music, but I’m guessing he was reading my body language. I’m grateful to have him beside me.
“You’re done here,” he says. “Get out. You’re no longer welcome.”
The man sneers, his expression twisting into something ugly and defiant. “It’s a public place, buddy. I can stand wherever the hell I want.”
Samuel doesn’t flinch. He simply tilts his head toward the sign behind the bar that reads: We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service, his jaw tightening. “See that? It means I get to decide who stays and who goes. And my decision is that you’re going. Now.”
The man’s eyes narrow, his bravado faltering for a split second. “I want to talk to the owner.”
Samuel’s smile is icy and humorless. “You’re talking to him.”
The guy’s eyes widen a fraction, but before he can say anything, James and another bouncer, a mountain of a man named Reggie, appear at the guy’s back. They don’t say a word, their expressions cold and expectant, their bodies tense and ready.
The man lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. No need to get worked up. Just having a little fun with an old friend.”
“We’re not friends. We don’t even know each other.”
He smiles as if he knows something I don’t. But I refuse to let him see any flicker of fear. I cringe as he takes a step back.
“Misha won’t be happy to know you’re working here.”
Shit.
My stomach drops, ice replacing the heat in my veins. I don’t let it show, though, my expression neutral. The man turns and weaves through the crowd, disappearing into the night, his words lingering like an icy draft.
My hands start shaking. I can feel Samuel’s eyes on me. I don’t want to look at him, but I do it anyway.
“You okay?” he asks.
I shove my shaking hands quickly into my pockets. His eyes follow my movements, and I’m sure he saw me trembling.
I nod, forcing a smile I don’t feel. “Yeah. He’s just a dick with a bad sense of humor.”
Samuel’s eyes stay locked on mine. “Who’s Misha?”
I force myself to breathe, my pulse hammering in my ears. I can’t lie—not to him. “My old boss from my last job.”
Samuel’s eyes narrow as he scans my face. “Are you in danger?”
I shake my head, plastering on a smile I hope looks convincing. “No. The guy was just being an asshole, that’s all. No worries.”
The vein in his forehead twitches as he works his jaw. He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the way his eyes darken, how his fingers curl into fists at his sides. But the bar is slammed, and there’s no time to press the issue. A group of customers is waving for attention, demanding our focus.
“We’ll talk about this later,” he says sternly as he turns toward the customers and gets back to it.
I nod, my stomach in knots. I don’t want to talk about it later. I don’t want to talk about it at all.
As soon as Samuel’s back is turned, I let out a shaky breath and glance toward the door. The man is gone, disappeared into the night, but the damage is done. He’ll tell Misha where I’m working, and the idea makes my skin crawl.
I can only hope Misha’s too busy with his other girls, too occupied with running his filthy empire to care about the one who slipped away. It’s been two weeks. You’d think he’d have found someone else to obsess over by now.
But that’s the thing about Misha—he doesn’t let things go. And from the look in that customer’s eyes and the way he said Misha’s name, it’s clear I’m not off his radar just yet.
I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. I’ve gotten this far on my own; I’m not about to let ghosts from my past ruin what I’ve built here.
Focus on the job, Erin.
One night at a time.
