Page 9 of R Is For Revenge: Part One
I can handle this, I tell myself. It’s just another job. Just another night. I’ll pretend this place is nothing more than the diner I worked at last month. I won’t think about the fact that at one time I played here. Upstairs in that space occupied by the most intimidating man I’d ever met.
My mouth goes dry at the thought and I glance up, then look away just as quick. I need to focus. I need to excel. But as Cassidy guides me past the main floor, toward a set of stairs that leads up to the private balcony tables, I feel it again—that prickle along the back of my neck, like someone’s watching.
I glance up again, my eyes drawn to the second floor where a darkened window overlooks everything below. I wonder if he’s up there. I want to ask about the manager, but I don’t. I was so nervous the night before I don’t even remember his name. Or maybe he never gave it. But his eyes, those stayed with me until I was alone in my bed, trying to sleep.
He’s dangerous and there’s something about him that makes me want to know more. Pain or something like it.
Cassidy moves like she’s gliding instead of walking, her balance perfect even with a tray stacked high with drinks. I, on the other hand, am still trying not to trip over my own feet. I should have worn more practical shoes, but it’s too late. I only hope that these four inch heels won’t be responsible for me breaking my neck.
“Stay close,” she murmurs as we weave through the floor, her voice calm but clipped. “Watch how I talk to them. Keep it professional. And for the love of God, don’t spill anything. These people are here to disappear from the outside world but trust me theynoticeeverything.”
“Got it,” I whisper.
Cassidy hands me a smaller tray and nods toward the kitchen doors. “Test run. Just food. Appetizers. Table twelve—four guys. Don’t talk, just smile, drop the plates, and walk away. Easy.”
I nod, nerves buzzing as I balance the tray.
The kitchen is a blur of heat, steel, and motion, but the cooks know the drill and have the order ready. Four plates perfectly arranged. I line them on the tray, testing the weight, and head back out to the floor, Cassidy following in my wake.
Table twelve is near the corner—private but still with a good view of the stage where the band is playing. Four men sit there, all in expensive suits, all with the kind of presence that says they’re used to being noticed.
I set down the plates carefully and smile, trying my best not to make eye-contact. I have no clue who these man are but considering they all have shoulders the size of Rhode Island, I’m guessing they’re athletes of some sort. Professional athletes make me nervous. A girlfriend from prep school had a bad experience with some hockey guys our freshman year and I’ve never forgotten it.
“Enjoy your appetizers guys.”
But before I can back away, one of them leans slightly forward. “You new here?”
His voice is deep, smooth, and I glance up—straight into the face of Grant King. I recognize him instantly. Hard not to. Star quarterback, MVP, the kind of athlete even someone like me, who doesn’t follow sports, can name on sight. He’s dating some Hollywood actress. Or maybe an influencer.
“Yes,” I manage, my voice steady despite the fact that my pulse just tripped over itself.
Grant smiles, leaning back casually in his chair. “Figured. I’d remember a face like yours.”
The other men at the table chuckle quietly, clearly used to this routine. Grant doesn’t take his eyes off me.
“What’s your name?”
“Jules,” I say, because what else am I supposed to do?
Cassidy swoops in before the moment can stretch too far, setting down a bottle of Tequila with practiced grace. “Mr. King, Jules is still in training tonight,” she says smoothly, giving me a subtletime-to-goglance.
Grant’s grin deepens, unfazed. “Training, huh? Guess that means I’ll be seeing a lot more of you.”
I force a polite smile and take my cue, following Cassidy away from the table as my cheeks heat.
The second we’re out of earshot, she mutters under her breath, “Rule two—don’t flirt with the members. They can flirt with you, but you don’t take the bait. Unless you want to end up in a tabloid or worse.”
“I wasn’t flirting,” I protest softly.
Cassidy glances at me, one brow arched. “I’m not saying you were but guys like Grant King? They’re sharks. Smile, keep it professional, and don’t get pulled into their orbit. Trust me, it never ends well.” She sighs. “The stories I could tell you.”
I nod, heart thumping in my chest so loud it’s a wonder she doesn’t hear it.
The rest of the shift melts in a rush of orders, trays, and Cassidy’s quiet coaching. I do my best to keep up, smiling when I’m supposed to, nodding when I don’t know what else to do. But every so often, I feel it again—that prickling weight along my spine, the sense that someone’s eyes are following me.
When I glance up at the window, I can’t tell if anyone’s there.
Can’t tell ifhe’sup there.
