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“Yeah.”
“You blanked out for a second there, and you’ve got customers,” he says.
I look to my left and realize that he’s right. “Oh, shoot, I’m sorry,” I quip and put on my brightest smile as I start taking orders.
My brain switches back into work mode. Although I’m focused on every task at hand, I still manage to listen, steal glances, and follow the three club leaders as they move around the bar area like panthers on the prowl.
“I’ll have two lagers, please,” one prospect says. He seems nice. He said the magic word, so I give him a smile to go with his drinks.
“Here you are,” I say, sliding the beers over to him.
“Thanks,” he replies, tipping me generously.
Paddy corrals Orion, Kai, and Drake away from the crowd and over to their usual booth by the stairs leading to the upper floor. Up there, they have bedrooms, private offices, and a few rooms available to rent for the night.
Some of the club members use those when they’re looking to get laid—and they’re always looking to get laid. The King & Sword is a magnet for wannabe MC “old ladies” and barflies.
It’s a culture of booze, drugs, and indulgent decadence. The complete opposite of what I grew up with, yet fascinating, nonetheless.
Sometimes, when I’m closing the bar for the night, and the music is off, I can hear the guys pounding into one girl or another, even two at a time when they’ve had enough tequila shots prior. I can hear the moans and the screams of raw pleasure, and I have to admit it turns me on and makes me want to lose control.
“Two shots of whiskey,” another prospect says. Another newbie I’m unfamiliar with.
“Sure, which one? We’ve got single malt, blended—”
“The smokey one, right there,” he says, pointing at a specific bottle.
“Good taste,” I shoot back with a smile and proceed to pour his two shots.
He chugs them both down in the blink of an eye, then asks for a refill. I take a second to get a better look at this guy. He’s young, in his early twenties, with messy brown hair and dull hazel eyes.
The clean-shaven, plaid-wearing type looks like he doesn’t really belong here, but he wants to fit in. He needs liquid courage for that, hence the double shot consumption.
“Are you sure?” I ask before pouring him two more.
“Oh, yeah, I need it,” he says, then narrows his eyes at me. “I’m Kyle.”
“Nadia,” I tell Kyle.
“How well do you know them?” he asks, tipping his head toward where Kai, Orion, and Drake sit.
I flash a quick glance at the table and give him a pleasant smile. “I’m just a measly barkeep,” I reply. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s it, thanks. Unless you wanna give me your number?” Kyle says, the corner of his mouth ticking nervously.
“I’m sorry, I don’t date customers,” I shoot back and gladly move on to serving a young couple.
I can still feel Kyle’s eyes on me, however. They are persistent and kind of creepy—the kind of persistent that makes my skin crawl. But I stay focused on my work, talking and laughing with Travis and the other guys at the bar. I do everything I can not to look at Kyle until finally, he moves away to a different corner of the venue.
It’s a busy night, and then some.
I’m counting ten new prospects milling about with the club members present. There are plenty of locals, too—working men and girls in skimpy outfits and wearing too much makeup. I could drown in the smell of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke wafting in from outside. At least the music is good.
“Gimme a shot of tequila,” a woman’s nasal voice cuts through my thoughts.
I stop in my tracks and turn to find her practically holding on to the bar counter for leverage. Carla. I don’t like her. A former prostitute, according to Paddy, moved to our neck of the woods after a few months spent in prison in Northern California. She works as a stripper now, and she comes down here almost every evening before her shift starts.
“What is she doing here?” Travis mutters as he passes by me.
