One week later…
“Damn, Erin, you’re crushing that mint like it personally offended you,” Mark, the new guy, says as he passes me the whiskey sour he just finished making.
I laugh, shaking my head as I finish a mojito. “It’s all about the wrist,” I say. “Really gotta smash the hell out of it. The greater the smash, the better the taste of the mint. Simple.”
He winks. “Got it. But seriously, what did that poor mint ever do to you?”
I shrug. “Nothing, really. It’s all about asserting dominance. First thing you need to know about bartending—never let the garnishes boss you around.”
He laughs. “Pretty sure you’re the only one trying to intimidate your garnish.”
“Hey, whatever works.”
I’ve been working here for three weeks now, and I find myself a little more at ease with each passing day. The prick from last Saturday hasn’t come back, and I haven’t heard a peep from Misha.
Hopefully, I’m finally free of that nightmare.
For the first time since I quit Misha’s, I walked through the city on my way to work without glancing over my shoulder every ten seconds. Each step felt like shedding a hundred invisible chains. Even the club itself feels like a fortress where nothing can get to me. Between Samuel, James, and the rest of the bouncers, I couldn’t feel any safer.
The bass thrums as patrons fill the space, the air thick with excitement and the sound of customers having a good time.
I’ve got a perfect pace going—I’m making drinks, swiping cards, and shooting the shit without even thinking about it. I pass out drinks and shots, give recommendations when asked, all while enjoying watching the throngs of customers drink, talk, and dance.
Mark works well beside me. He’s in his mid-twenties, with shaggy blonde hair, a lopsided grin, and an easy confidence that fits right in.
“So, how am I doing? Be honest. Do I still have a job tomorrow?”
“You’re doing great, Mark,” I say with a genuine smile. “At this rate, you’ll be running the bar in no time.”
“Running it? Nah. I’ll leave the hard work to you.” He leans in, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “You’re kind of a badass, you know.”
I chuckle. “Don’t let that get around.”
“Too late,” he laughs. “But seriously, it’s cool working with you. You make it look easy.”
The compliment catches me off guard. “Thanks, Mark. Same to you.”
He flashes a grin and gets back to work. Despite the smooth flow of the evening, something’s missing. A spark. An edge.
With Mark, it’s easy. Comfortable.
It’s different from the night I worked with Samuel, though, with his quiet intensity and the way his body moved so close to mine behind the bar. With him it’s like standing at the edge of a cliff, the wind tugging me forward, daring me to fall. And I’m not sure I want to stop myself.
Samuel checks in, his dark eyes scanning the bar, making sure everything’s running smoothly.
“Yo, Erin.” He strolls up to the bar in one of his sharp, tailored suits that makes it clear he’s the man in charge.
“Yo, boss.” I give him a wink as I pour a couple of beers.
He says nothing, watching me carefully as I pour. When I’m done, he nods approvingly.
“All good, chief?” I ask.
“Yeah, all good. Just make sure to keep the heads low on those pours.” He turns and leaves before I can reply.
Each time he stops by, I feel a thrill, low in my belly. He doesn’t say much, just a few words here and there, but his gaze always lingers too long, causing my heart to beat a little faster every time.
I know I need to be professional, but as I mix another cocktail and slide it across the bar, I realize it’s too late for that.
The hours fly by. Before I know it, the lights come up in the club, casting a harsh glow over the sticky floors and empty glasses littering the tables and bar. The thumping bass is finally quiet, replaced by the low hum of tired chatter from the last of the staff cleaning up. My shoulders ache and my feet throb, but there’s a calm satisfaction in the exhaustion. Another successful night down.
James strolls over with his usual easy grin, clipboard in hand. “How’d it go tonight?” He looks between Mark and me. “For both of you?”
Mark stretches his arms over his head, yawning. “Smooth. Almost too smooth. In fact, it was actually pretty easy. Think I might bring a book to read next shift.” He flashes a grin, making it clear he’s only messing around.
I chuckle, wiping down the bar. “You’re cocky now but wait until we have a really rough night. You’ll be crying for mommy.”
James laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t listen to her, kid. You’re doing fine.”
“Thanks,” Mark says. “But if I do end up crying on the job, I’ll make sure to do it in the walk-in fridge where no one can see me. Don’t want to mess with the vibe.”
That gets a laugh out of James and me. Mark really is a nice guy. No sleazy comments, no weird vibes. Just an easygoing presence that makes the long shifts bearable.
“Shots,” James announces. He reaches over the bar for a bottle of Maker’s Mark. “We did good tonight—lots of happy customers, and I only had to break up two fights.”
“Shots it is,” I say.
I line up glasses for the staff, pour the bourbon, and together we throw them back. I make sure to never drink until after the shift is over, so the burn hits extra nice.
“Well, I’m out,” Mark says, wiping his mouth and tossing his rag into the laundry bin. “See you guys tomorrow.”
“Same her,” James says. “See you guys tomorrow.”
“See you guys,” I reply, waving as Mark heads toward the back door and James to the storeroom. The rest of the staff files out one-by-one, and before I know it, I’m all alone. The sound of the door clicking shut makes the space feel even emptier.
As I finish the last few tasks I feel it, that familiar, electric charge. I look up, and there he is.
Samuel walks toward the bar, his stride confident, his dark eyes locked on me. My stomach does its usual flutter-and-clench routine, and I have to remind myself to keep breathing.
“How’d the night go?”
I nod, swallowing hard. “It went great.”
He leans a hip against the bar. “How did Mark do? Did he work out well or do I need to send him out on his ass?”
“He did really good,” I say with a small chuckle. “He might be a little too nice for this place, but he fits in and it works.”
He nods. “That’s what I was hoping for. I figured we had enough hard asses working here.”
“Kind of a good-cop-bad-cop thing, right?”
Another nod. “Now you’re getting it. Mark is the son of an old friend of mine from a past life. He needs a little extra money, so I figured I’d help him out.”
“A past life?”
“Time before here.”
I chuckle and ask, “What, were you a professional hitman or something?”
He laughs. “Close. Finance guy.”
“For real? A Wall Street bro? No way. You’re kidding, right?”
“Not kidding at all.” He reaches over the bar and pours himself a glass of water. “But that’s a story for another night.” He drinks deeply, and I’m transfixed by the way his Adam’s Apple bobs up and down. There’s something hypnotic about it.
“Anyway, just wanted to make sure Mark wasn’t cramping your style.”
“Nah, he was good. But I liked working with you better.” The words just tumble out of my mouth, and I regret them right away.
His eyes flash and he cocks his head to the side. “Yeah? Why’s that?”
I shrug, suddenly shy. “We just… had a rhythm, that’s all. It worked well.”
A silence settles between us, heavy and charged. His eyes hold mine, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades. My heart pounds in my ears, and I wonder if something is about to happen between us, but he just smiles.
“Well, with a full staff, I won’t need to be behind the bar, other than for fun every now and then.” He sets the glass down. “I’m going to finish some paperwork in my office. Have a good night.”
“You too.”
He turns and heads toward the back hall. Of course, my eyes fall to his ass. I’ve never been the type to be all that impressed by suits, but something about the way the fabric hugs his rear…
He pauses and my cheeks turn red. Did he know I was looking somehow?
“You need a walk to the station?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder. “Or I can give you a ride.”
I bet you can.
I scold myself for the thought.
“Nah, I’m good. It’s just a few blocks to the subway. Thanks, though.”
He turns, another thought occurring to him. “Where do you live, anyway?”
“Central West. Bit of a walk from Union Station.”
“You serious?”
“It’s not so bad. It can be a little, uh, colorful, but it’s fine.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Alright. Stay safe out there. You know where the keys are. And don’t forget there’s pepper spray attached if you need it.”
I nod, and he heads into his office.
I grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder and turning toward the door. Each step away from him feels like a missed opportunity, a chance slipping through my fingers.
Samuel Holt, you’re going to be the death of me.
I step out of the club, the night air sharp and cool against my skin. I turn and lock the heavy steel door, slipping the keys into my purse.
The city is quiet at this hour, the hum of traffic reduced to a low murmur in the distance. I tighten my jacket around me and start the three-block walk to the train station, my boots echoing softly against the pavement.
My mind drifts, settling on Samuel. His dark eyes, his steady presence, that voice—low and smooth, like a soft caress. He’s the first decent man I’ve met in a long time, one who doesn’t make me feel like prey when he looks at me. Well, maybe a little, but in a good way, in a way I like.
The wind picks up, a chill slipping under my jacket. The street seems darker tonight, the shadows stretching longer than usual. I glance over my shoulder, the empty sidewalk behind me doing little to ease the feeling of vulnerability creeping along my spine.
I shake it off and walk a little faster, my eyes focused on the glow of the train station up ahead. Almost there.
“Hello, Erin.”
The sound of my name causes me to freeze mid-step. My breath catches in my throat. I stare straight ahead, knowing exactly who it is. That voice has been burned into my brain.
I slowly turn around, and the man Samuel threw out of the bar last week is standing under the flickering glow of a streetlamp, his mouth twisted into a sneer that makes my skin crawl.
“Hey there,” he says, taking a step toward me. “I want to talk to you.”
My fingers twitch as I reach into my bag, feeling for the keys, for the pepper spray attached to them. My hand scrambles through various objects, ChapStick, loose change—where the hell are they?
“Leave me the hell alone.”
He keeps coming closer, his eyes never leaving mine. “Out here all by yourself? That’s not very smart.”
“What do you want?”
He chuckles, a creepy, sinister sound. “Just being friendly, that’s all. You know, same thing I was trying to do at the bar before your asshole boss threw me out. But he’s not here now, is he?”
I take a step back, my heart hammering against my ribs. The train station is so close. I just have to get there, to where other people are. My fingers continue to search for the pepper spray, my mind racing.
“Stay away from me,” I warn.
“Or what?”
My fingers frantically fumble through my bag, panic tightening my chest as I dig for the keys, the pepper spray—anything. Finally, I feel the familiar shape of the keys in my hand and pull them out, flipping the pepper spray open. But my hands are trembling so badly they drop out of my weak grip, tumbling onto a nearby vent in the sidewalk. They land with a clank, then slip between the slats and vanish.
Fuck!
The man steps closer, his shadow stretching long and dark on the pavement. A disgusting, predatory grin spreads across his face. Every bit of me is shouting to turn and run, to get away as quickly as possible.
“Oh, that’s too bad. You’ve lost your keys. Let me give you a ride,” he says, his voice low and sinister. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. A pretty little girl like you… it’s not safe. My car’s nearby.”
I force my feet to stay planted. “No thanks. I’ll take the subway.”
As long as I can get there, I’ll be safe.
He grins. “That wasn’t really a suggestion.”
Before I can react, he rushes toward me, closing the distance between us. His hand shoots out and clamps around my wrist, his grip brutal. Pain flares up my arm, and I gasp, pulling in a sharp breath. I twist, trying to yank my arm free, but his fingers are like iron bands.
“Let go of me, you asshole!”
He just chuckles, his eyes glinting. “Feisty. Misha warned me about that.”
Shit! Shit-shit-shit!
At the mention of Misha’s name, dread pools in my stomach. I lash out with my free hand, my palm connecting with his cheek in a sharp slap. The sound cracks through the night air, but he barely flinches. Instead, his smile fades into something much darker.
He yanks my arm hard, pulling me close enough that his breath ghosts over my face. “You’re gonna walk to the car like a good girl,” he says. “Misha wants a word.”
Terror spikes through me, sharp and cold. My vision blurs, but I grit my teeth, refusing to crumble. “Why does Misha have such a bug up his ass about me?”
His eyes narrow. “Simple. Misha doesn’t let his women defy him.”
“I’m not one of his goddamn women!”
“You became just that the minute you started working for him. And now, you need to be reminded of what happens when you forget your place.”
I know what he means. I’ve heard the stories. If he gets me into that car, I might never come back.
My pulse explodes. Instinct takes over. I kick at his shin and claw at his hand, but his grip tightens. Pain shoots up my wrist, sharp enough to make me cry out.
“Enough of this,” he growls. He slams his fist into my stomach.
The pain is incredible and I double over, gasping, my vision swimming with black spots. I feel him trying to lift me off my feet.
No!
With everything I have in me, I whip my head back, the base of my skull smashing into his nose. He grunts in pain, his grip loosening just enough to yank my arm free. My wrist is throbbing, but I manage to stumble away.
I don’t think. I just run.
My legs feel like lead, but I force myself forward, to the club, the only chance I have.
“Samuel!” I scream.
The club door looms ahead. I slam my fists against it, the metal cold and unforgiving beneath my palms. “Please! Open up!”
My heart hammers and the world tilts, my ears straining for any sound, any sign that Samuel is coming to help me.
Footsteps pound the pavement behind me.
I keep banging, keep praying.
“Please,” I whisper. “Samuel, please.”
