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One of the men is facing me, and when I look over at the table, he looks up and meets my gaze head-on. His piercing grey eyes leave me breathless with fear. This man is no stranger to violence.
I quickly look away and start preparing the drinks. Handing them over, I warn the pretty server under my breath, “Don't linger for tips.”
I watch her leave and wonder if she'll be smart enough to listen to me. She won't be the first fool to be attracted to power dressed in designer clothes and then pay the price for it. When I see one of the men grab her ass under the short skirt, I tense up. Then I see the smile on her face and I close my eyes in regret and pity.
This one won’t last.
I turn my back and go back to work. Unlike other dance clubs, The Blue Whiskey stays open after the clock strikes three a.m. The music dies down, and most of the people who still want to dance the night away move on to other clubs in the district. Conversations become hushed, and shady business dealings begin.
From three in the morning, for the next few hours until sunrise, The Blue Whiskey is at its most dangerous. I have never met the owner of this club, and I never intend to meet him, although I’ve heard about him. The dude runs a tight ship. So tight that even the LA police department turns a blind eye if a man is shot in his club or lies dead in the adjacent alleyway. A man with that kind of influence is not someone anyone like me should get to know.
I busy myself with preparing drinks as the sounds in the room become more muted. I keep my eyes down, and my flirtatious smile (which is part of my job description) fades away.
An hour ticks away, and I look up, between orders, towards Table 21. The men are still sitting there. Two of them are clearly drunk, but the third one, the one in the tailored power suit with the grey eyes, is stone-cold sober. The glass of whiskey is in his hand as he gently swirls the liquid. Once again, he notices that I'm watching, and he looks back at me.
He has a head full of dark hair, almost jet black under the flashing lights, and he arches a sharp brow at me, the corner of his lips quirking up at what he clearly perceives as my interest.
I lower my gaze.
I'm not blind.
The man is sex on a stick.
But I have an exam tomorrow, and I can't take that exam if I'm too busy lying next to the dead body out in the alleyway.
The door of the kitchen opens and the manager, Steve, walks out frowning. “Megan, why do we have extra servers tonight?”
“What?” I glance at him. "We have eight like every night. What do you mean?”
“Sally is still on the roster,” Steve scowls. “She said you told her to work overtime.”
I blink, “What? I didn’t–“
I pause when I look up to see Sally leaning towards one of the drunk men who lifts her skirt and stuffs a few dollar bills in the lining of her panties.
My heart nearly stops. “I didn't tell her to work overtime, but I think she's working that table.”
Steve immediately looks to his right, and he goes still before hissing, “Has she lost her fucking mind?”
But he doesn't move to go toward her; he just stands there and watches as the other man grabs a willing Sally who has hundred-dollar bills peeking out from her low-cut top and her crotch. Her cheeks are flushed, and she looks a little tipsy.
“What do we do?” I ask quietly.
But Steve’s face is white with fear as he stares at their sober companion. “We ain’t doing shit. She's fucked. Oh, fuck.”
One of the men grabs Sally's skirt, and I can hear a ripping sound. My heart nearly stops in its chest. No matter how I planned to stay out of any altercation over at Table 21, I can’t watch something like this unfold.
The giddy smile on Sally's face has disappeared, and she suddenly looks frightened as she pushes the man away. My heart is pounding as I realize that Steve isn't going to do anything. A familiar fear rises up in my throat and I try to block out a memory that seems to be overlapping with the scene playing out in front of me.
“Steve, do something!” I hiss in alarm, but Steve is just frozen solid.
Sally is screaming now, trying to stop them from groping her, and bile rises up in my throat as I whisper, “I’m sorry.”
I can see Steve turning towards me, his voice sounding confused. “What?”
But I block it out, grabbing two full bottles of wine and sliding through the go-between. I hear Steve calling my name in a panic, but I can't stop myself. “Megan–“
The grey-eyed man watches me in interest as I stride over, my face set. He hasn't lifted a finger to help Sally, who is screaming hysterically as she tries to escape his disgusting companions.
