Page 4 of Dirty Martini
The cop arresting me brushes Elton off as he leads me back to his car, all the while looking at me with nothing but disappointment. “Hope you realize what kind of trouble you’re in.”
And it isn’t until we’re at the station, taking my mug shot, cuffing me to the bench as they call my parents that it sinks in. I hear the wordsfelony, charges, fines, and I grow paler and paler as the reality of my situation sinks in.
I’m fucked.
CHAPTER ONE
Rhys
FOUR YEARS LATER
Deep thrummingof the bass vibrates through my body, the smell of sweat and booze in the air as I shoulder my way to the back of the bar.
I swing down the partitioner and round the corner, immediately grabbing the tequila shots when I hear a customer shouting for Patrón. I select enough glasses for him and his friends, pouring the liquor with practiced carelessness before arranging them in my hands and dumping them on the bar in front of him.
“Fifty bucks!” I have to shout or else he won’t hear me over the blaring music. Some over-hyped song I’ve heard on the radio, I think. Honestly, Cassius is our DJ, but he has shit taste in music, so I wouldn’t know. When the guy presses a finger to his ear, I roll my eyes and repeat myself. “Fifty bucks!”
“What?” He shouts the question, but I know it’s not because he didn’t hear me. “That’s crazy!”
I shrug. It’s definitely pricey for a few shots, but if he wanted cheap liquor, he could have gone to any other club besides the hottest one in South Beach. Him and his group of friends probably waited over an hour to get through the door, seeing as Butch takes his duties as a bouncerwaytoo seriously.
“The cover was already forty to get in and?—”
“Give me the money and shut the fuck up,” I bark, slapping his friend’s hand when he tries to sneak a shot off the bar.
The guy’s eyes widen, sweaty face flushing even redder as he takes in my words. “What makes you think you can talk to me like that? It’s not brain surgery, bro. It’s not that serious.”
Yeah, exactly, so why is he being a prick about it?
I open my mouth, ready to curse him out again, frustrated after the night I’ve had, until a gentle hand and a pair of huge tits stops me.
“We’ll call it forty,” Britt says, making sure the asshole in front of us can see down her shirt as she holds her hand out. “Open or close your tab?”
I roll my eyes as he basically slobbers for his card, all thoughts of me and my audacity forgotten when he hands over his fancy Amex. “Open, beautiful. Think we can slide open something else tonight?”
“Ew, what the hell?” I cringe and visibly shudder. Britt, being the professional she is, doesn’t comment as she swipes his card and hands it back to him. When he and his friends take their shots and head to the dance floor, I shake my head at her. “How do you deal with that every night?”
She shrugs, taking the measly two bucks he tipped her and hiding it in her bra. “It’s gross, but it’s also whatever. Guys are creeps ninety percent of the time, so at least I’m getting paid to deal with it.”
“Right,” I mutter, half-listening to the woman who appears in front of me and orders a white wine. I move around Britt to grab the bottle. “Honestly, Davis should give you a raise.”
“Why would he when I’ve stolen most of your tips for the night while you’ve been MIA?” Working a cocktail shaker, she winks at me, both of us knowing we pool everything at the end ofthe night anyway. “Honestly, what was that? Your fifth cigarette of the night?”
I shake my head, grumbling a one-word answer as I hand off the wine, already knowing the woman has an open tab. “It was nothing.”
“It was Elton, wasn’t it?” When I don’t answer, she lets out a bark of laughter, tossing her braided hair over her shoulder as she elbows me. “What? Oh, come on. Has anyone ever told the two of you co-dependency isn’t cute?”
“It’s cute as fuck,” I spit back, although there’s barely any venom in my voice as I do. I wouldn’t say she has it completely wrong. While co-dependent isn’t how I’d describe us, it’s damn close. On my part, at least. Elton has his own friends and his own life, but me? I have the club and him. That’s it. It’s a bit pathetic—and Britt likes to make a point of constantly reminding me—but it is what it is.
“Sweet! Is Elton coming out with us tonight?” Skylar asks. Jumping between the two of us, his color-of-the-week pink hair flops over his eyes. When I grab the bucket from under the top and announce I’m getting more ice from the bar, mostly as a way of getting myself out of his plans, he just bounces behind me. “We’re hitting up Jolly’s after our shifts. You’re coming right?”
“No,” I growl, opening the backdoor with my shoulder and letting it flop closed behind me. Two seconds later, there’s Skylar, swinging it back open with the dramatic touch of a magician—sans frilly cape.
“Come on, Rhys, you never join us,” he whines. Reaching up on the tip of his toes, he tries to grab the ice scooper from the top of the cooler. He’s about one foot too short and ends up slamming into my chest when he tries to jump to get it. I can’t help but smirk when he glares at me over his shoulder, narrowing his dual-colored eyes with irritation. “I hate tall people.”
“I’m notthattall. You’re just short.” I’m not gigantic like some guys, but Skylar is a five-three ball of caffeinated energy. I gently move him out of my way as I start scooping ice. “I’m going straight home after my shift is over, and I suggest you do the same. Doesn’t Davis want us back in the morning at, like, ten or some shit?”
Skylar groans dramatically at the mention of the club owner. Davis is a pretty cool guy, mostly keeping to his office upstairs, but he’s brutal when it comes to scheduling our hours. Not that many of us are complaining. Out of all the clubs in South Beach, those who work at XO get paid the best. It’s why we all put up with Davis’s over-the-top type-A tendencies.
