Page 2 of A Dance With Devils
“I never fucked your mother.”
“Would you like to? I don’t mind. She’s always liked you.”
“Sickening thought.”
Another giggle falls from her mouth. It’s enough to make me smile to some degree and remove the frown that was forming. Whatever we are together, there is a respect between us. We’re on the same wavelength in life mostly, minds working in the same way most of the time. It’s all a game in reality. That’s what it’s like to have an endless supply of money. The only thing that becomes relevant is what to do to relieve the boredom and monotony. For her, it’s playing with me. For me, it’s playing with anything but her.And I need something new to play with.
Chapter 1
Ally
Jesus, of all the places for these jerks to land in.
I stare around the bar and huff, trying to work out how to get these fools out of it so I can finish my shift when Petra takes over without calling security. If it had been Adam or Wyatt coming on at seven, I’d have left them to it, but with Petra being rostered on there’s not a cat’s chance in hell she’ll be able to deal with these rich boy antics.
My hand wipes the rim of the glass I’m holding, the towel slowly turning to shine this last one up right. I don’t even like this place, but hey, the money’s good and the clientele’s usually quiet and decent regardless of their wealth. These dicks though? Assholes. Every single one of them. In fact, the whole day has been crap. Filled with nothing but asshole after asshole, and now rich dick after rich dick. I don’t know where they’ve come from in this part of town but either way - I’m done with it all.
A large crash sounds out in their corner, the entire table’s worth of champagne glasses and bottles probably getting tossed to the ground by the sound of it. My eyes roll, fingers almost instantly grabbing at the cleaning gear, and I walk around the bar to get to the mess. By the time I approach the table, a fake smile plastered on my face to hide the ten hour shift I’m tired of, all eight of them barely acknowledge me starting the clean-up.
The smile drops from my lips, care for bothering abandoned if they’re not looking at me anyway. I shouldn’t be surprised. This is the kind of man that lives uptown – away from here. All rich. All above the likes of me. All bred from wealth and privileged circumstance. Short of ordering from me, or Petra, or Adam or Wyatt, there’s no interaction with servers. We’re tools. That’s all. We make the drinks, bring the food, clean the mess regardless of who made it, and that way we keep our jobs.
My eyes stay down, pieces of glass being picked up one by one and placed carefully into the trash bag. Shoes. Lots of shoes. Expensive shoes, standing in the liquor swilling around the floor beneath them as if the cost is irrelevant. Highly polished. Suit trousers. Pinstripe. Plain.
I crawl under the table a bit more, reaching for the two bottles of Cristal still slowly trickling champagne, and pull them back to me.
“Bring more,” one of them says, sharply.
And then he slaps my ass.
Great. Not only are they raucous, but they're getting handsy, too
I roll upright, pushing my knees up from the floor until I’m standing and straightening out my skirt. “Yes, Sir,” mumbles out of me.
They all laugh as I walk away, another cheer of drunken chaos raining out behind me as one of them talks about my ass. The hollering gets louder the further away I get, curse words dripping out of their silver spoon fed mouths, as if their mamas never taught them any manners.
A quiet couple frown over on the left of the bar, and then another couple get up and start leaving because of the noise. My head turns back to the hustle of men, grit finding some attitude. I don’t need security to calm them down. I’m running this bar. Me. Two damn years I've worked here under the guise of interest. It’s just enough, with tips, that I can pay the rent and keep us fed while my brothers finish school and I try to find a way out of this mess.
The trash gets dropped behind the bar and my feet turn, body aiming back at them. No one looks at me again, not even when I get up close and cough loud enough to get through the noise.
“Gentlemen, could I ask you to quieten down a little?”
Nothing. Not even a head turn my way.
I step in closer, gripping my fists to keep me grounded. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave if you don’t-“
A hand lands on my shoulder, turning me back towards him and stopping my mouth.
The dark, olive-skinned looks are enough that my mouth falters, brain unable to function in his steady presence. He doesn’t smile. Not even a hint of interest other than seemingly trying to stop me speaking.
“I suggest you go back to your bar rather than carry on,” he says, reaching into his pocket, as he turns me and walks me backwards. A clip of notes gets pulled out of it, his fingers pinching out enough hundred dollar bills to pay my rent for months let alone one. “You’re about to go too far, Ally. You’ve gone far enough already.”
The fold of notes gets pushed into the top pocket on my shirt, his eyes looking over my shoulder at the ruckus still carrying on. “If you didn’t know, that’s Niall Baston. One more word out of your mouth and your boss could lose this bar. Take the money for your trouble and back away.”
“I-“
I get pushed back another few paces, his hand turning my shoulder to point me towards the bar. “This isn’t the time to push your luck. Go little Ally cat. Go back where you belong. Don’t bring the champagne.”
Ally cat?
