Page 2 of How To Catch A Killer … And Date His Best Friend

What can I say? I’m a go-hard-or-go-home kinda girl.

There are constant lines out the door, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. We’ve been profitable since the day I opened a little over a year ago, but the day I hired a social media marketer, my little bar took off into the stratosphere.

Kia is here every night filming content for our social media accounts, and the day she pitched The Velvet Slap, I officially crowned her the goddess of all social media marketers.

Every Friday night, she posts a code, and when the customer approaches the bar, they’re not to say anything except that code. No hi, no may I have. Nothing. Just quote that code, and you’ll receive one free Fireball shot along with your Velvet Slap. And as a general, unspoken rule, the second the customer receives their slap, their friends throw money at my bar. They cheer and celebrate their friend having the shit slapped out of him, which livens the mood and has everybody else joining in.

It honestly blows my mind how much Fireball I go through, but that kind of enthusiasm gives me life.

Since the moment the doors opened, Black Velvet became my everything.

Every facet of it is so undeniably me. Every booth, every lick of paint on the walls, right down to our signature cocktails—The Red Kiss, Last Regret, and of course, No Alibi, which I like to think speaks for itself. I crafted this place right from the very pits of my soul, and I have lived it every moment since.

I fashioned Black Velvet after Coyote Ugly, my favorite movie growing up. It’s completely owned and run by women. Well, apart from Marcus and Dean, our trusty bouncers, who work the door and keep us safe. They are part of the Onyx Heights Motorcycle Club, who all but run this city, and while they look like they could shred me to pieces with their bare fingers, they’re actually ginormous teddy bears with overprotective hearts of gold. There’s no one else I’d want watching our backs every night.

At Black Velvet, there’s no official uniform, though there are black tanks and crops out back if someone wanted one. For the most part, my bar staff opted against it, because in a bar like this, if you want to pull in those tips, you need to earn them, and the best way to do that is to look the part. Show some skin and smile like you’re about to make someone’s dreams come true. Flirt with the customers just enough to make them think they stand a chance, and the cash will roll in.

It’s all a performance, and my bartenders know it. Hell, they thrive on it. The moment you step behind the bar of Black Velvet, you’re no longer just some girl working for tips; you’re the reason why the hundreds of people who come through here each night have the time of their lives. You’re not just a bartender; you’re a dancer, a therapist, and an overall badass, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Each and every one of my bar staff is beautiful in their own way. We have women of every shape, size, and color, and while there’s no denying just how stunning they are, it’s their confidence that truly makes them shine. They love their jobs, and it shows in their work, making it a pleasure to bartend alongside them every night. They’re passionate and motivated, and because of that, they’re an incredible bunch of women to have on my payroll.

Black Velvet is about the vibes, and we don’t just reach that every night; we obliterate it. There’s honestly no place like it.

As I get back to work, busily taking orders and glancing over the rush of bodies surrounding the bar, I can’t help but take in the faces. We’re at capacity tonight, just like every other Friday night.

There are people from all walks of life, yet every single one of them has one thing in common. They talk too much when they’re drunk. They spill their guts, blabbing about every dark skeleton hidden in their closets.

I’ve heard enough secrets behind this bar to ruin lives. The kind of secrets people would kill for. Not that I ever would. Although, given the right circumstances, who knows what I’d be capable of?

Working in a bar teaches you two things very quickly—how to pour the perfect drink, and how to fake a personality. You meet a lot of people here, but there are generally three main types: liars, idiots, and men who mistake arrogance for charm. Sometimes they’re all three at once. By midnight, they think they’re the main character. By 2 a.m., most of them are just embarrassing, but I don’t judge them for their choices. At least, I don’t judge them out loud to the point they’re aware of it. I’m a very judgmental person. What can I say? It’s in my DNA.

I like my work nights the same way I like my customers—predictable and gone by morning. But that’s not always the case. There’s generally a rhythm to a busy night. Drinks, laughter, loud music, and of course, the occasional mistake that people tend to regret the next morning. And from my experience, it generally starts when somebody says just one more drink.

I have to admit, there’s something oddly satisfying about watching somebody fuck up so profoundly that I know his or her life won’t ever be the same the moment they step out of my bar. Does that make me a monster? I don’t know, but it does make me realize that in that very moment, even though I haven’t got my life figured out, I’m really not doing too bad. Hell, I’m actually doing pretty well for myself.

I have a bar that I love and a beautiful home. It may only be a small apartment, but I can’t bring myself to upgrade. My car is paid off, and at only twenty-two, I’m financially stable—apart from the crippling student debt from my arts degree I insisted on getting, which I’ve never used and likely won’t ever need. Though we can go ahead and file that under life experiences that don’t ever need to be talked about.

All I’m missing in life is somebody to go home to every night. Somebody to crawl in bed beside, to hold me while I sleep, and love me despite my flaws. The perfect guy would likely share those flaws. He’d be a little wild and could make me laugh. But not a pathetic little chuckle. I mean a whole belly laugh. He’d have that alphahole vibe about him, but not be overbearing, and all other men better watch out when he’s in the room, because one wrong glance at me would have them out cold on the ground. I know I’m not supposed to love a territorial man, but there’s something so wickedly sexy about it. I’d love to have a guy be like that over me. To know that just the idea of another man looking at me drives him crazy with jealousy.

He wouldn’t squirm at gore and would happily judge all the idiots who walk into my bar with me. But most of all, he’s gotta be hot as fuck, and I mean, full on panties dropping left, right, and center. The kind of guy women want to climb like a tree, and have me watching my back everywhere we go, but I wouldn’t have to worry, because he’d be all mine. A big dick would also be a bonus. Ginormous even. Oh, and I suppose, he should probably be a good guy. Maybe that should have been a little higher on my list.

Shit, my priorities have always been a mess, but it is what it is, and I won’t apologize for that.

My Velvet Slap victim and his friends finally move on from the bar to make space for newcomers. Fresh faces appear before me, and as I’m quickly clearing the dirty shot glasses the men left behind, a shadow falls over me.

My gaze collides with a wide, defined chest that’s straining against the fabric of a black shirt. I trail my stare up over a pair of large shoulders covered by a leather jacket before heading higher to a stubbled jaw that’s sharp enough to cut glass.

The man is huge, and he’s staring at me through a pair of pitch-black eyes as though he’s already picturing every position he wants to bend me into. His gaze heats my skin, and if he keeps looking at me like that, there’s going to be trouble.

“What’ll it be?”

“Water,” he says in a deep, no-nonsense tone that sends shivers coursing over my body. “Hold the ice.”

A smirk settles on my lips as I reach for a glass, all while refusing to take my eyes off him. Now that’s my definition of a snack. Tall, dark, and delicious. Black unruly hair, giving off the don’t-fuck-with-me vibes. I don’t know a thing about this man, but I already know he’s a walking red flag.

Exactly my type.

“Hold the ice?” I tease. “Who orders water without ice? That right there is the power move of a crazed psychopath . . . or a serial killer.”