Page 16 of R Is For Revenge: Part One
I nod, murmuring, “Got it,” though I’m not sure my stomach agrees.
The first few tables are easy—wine pairings, quiet smiles, dishes cleared without a sound. My nerves start to settle into something like rhythm.
Until we reach the corner booth.
Grant King.
He’s just as handsome as the night before. That easy grin, the voice like velvet, the way he makes everyone at his table lean in like he’s the sun they’re orbiting.
He leans back now, his dark suit crisp, tie undone just enough to look intentional. His eyes catch mine the second we approach, and that grin slides into place like it never left.
“Well, if it isn’t the rookie,” he drawls, his tone smooth as the scotch in his hand. “Didn’t think I’d get lucky enough to see you again so soon.”
I tighten my grip on the tray. “Evening, Mr. King.”
“Grant,” he corrects easily, flashing that practiced smile. “We’re past the formalities, aren’t we? Jules, right?”
“Yes.” My voice stays even, professional. The man makes me nervous—I’ve heard the rumors about his behavior. If I remember correctly, he’s not currently playing because he’s been suspended over allegations of the sexual kind. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that he’s in the ninety-percent Cassidy talked about.
He tips his glass toward me, his gaze lingering a second too long. “Pretty name. Pretty girl. You’re starting to make me a fan of this place for reasons that have nothing to do with their scotch.”
Before I can come up with a polite deflection, Cassidy slides a bottle of wine onto the table with a calm efficiency that cuts the tension in half. “Mr. King, can I get you anything else? Another round of sides? The Wagyu?”
Grant chuckles, finally dragging his gaze from me back to her. “Relax, Cass. Just being friendly.”
I step back, using the moment to retreat behind Cassidy as she wraps up the table. I can still feel his eyes on me, though, like a weight pressing between my shoulder blades even as we move to the next group of members.
The rest of the shift hums along in a blur, and a familiar prickling awareness never quite fades. Even when Grant’s attention shifts to his entourage, I can feel something—orsomeone—else watching.
It isn’t the members. They’re too absorbed in their drinks and their deals and their devious intentions. Like, I see a certain someone who is in the news a lot because of his political aspirations. He’s definitely not dining here with his wife.
Every time I pass the service station, my eyes flick upward, drawn to the long pane of tinted glass overlooking the entire lounge. It’s dark and impenetrable, but it feels alive somehow. Like there’s someone on the other side, seeing every move I make, cataloging it. Judging me.
I force myself to keep moving, to smile and be of service. To not talk too much. To not flirt or give any indication that I’m nothing more than here to deliver drinks and food. But every time I look up, my pulse stumbles just a little harder. Is it him? Beck?
My cheeks heat just thinking of him and I slowly exhale. Try to get my bearings. I don’t even know his last name. All I know is that he owns the building, this club, and all of it used to belong to my father.
Oh, and he’s fucking hot and intense and it feels as if his eyes can see into my very soul.
Okay, I think.Get your shit together. I blow out a long, hot breath and get back to work. There are hours still to go and I can’t fuck up. I need the job and the money because Billy has no one else but me. A knot forms in my throat at the thought. He’s all I have left. All I live for really. But right now I haveother things to think about. I push all thoughts of Billy and the mysteriously hot Beck from my mind and get to work. Luckily, the rest of the night flies by.
Hours later the lounge empties in waves, the last members drifting out with their coats and cigars, their conversations already shifting toward whatever deal or party they’re heading to next. Apparently there’s an after-hours club twenty minutes away that most of them frequent. The music from the main floor fades, replaced by the soft hum of the cleaning crew downstairs.
Cassidy and I and the rest of the serving staff sweep through the last of the tables, helping the bus boys clear glasses and dishes so the cleaning staff don’t have to deal with it. My legs are screaming, my feet numb inside shoes that were definitely not made for eight hours of running mad.
Finally, we head down to the service office to cash out for the night. Brent is there, leaning against the counter with his usual easy grin.
“Not bad for your first full VIP shift,” he says, handing me a piece of paper that contains our printout for the night, of sales, tips and the amount we can expect to be e-transferred to our bank accounts the next day. The total is… more than I expected. Even split with Cassidy as my trainer, it’s the kind of number that makes the ache in my feet fade to nothing.
Then he reaches for an envelope and hands it to me.
I open it and blink. Five crisp Benjamins.
“Wow,” I murmur, with a frown when I notice the note tucked in with the envelope. A smaller slip of paper folded once.
In bold, masculine handwriting.Thanks for looking after me.Dinner sometime? Don’t make me chase you. – Grant.
Beneath his signature is his phone number.
