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The bartender gestures at the counter full of elegant supplies. “What does he want? What’s wrong with it?”
“I wish I knew what to tell you.” I sigh and flip my hair over one shoulder, leaning against the counter for a quick break. “I’d just make it the same exact way and see what happens. His taste is probably shit.”
He smirks and gets to it, taking my advice.
Three years in the food service industry, and I can promise anyone—half the time, it’s the customer who can’t taste worth a damn.
“I’d be careful if I were you.”
I slide my gaze to the side where the gentle voice full of warning came from. The woman from earlier, the one who played with Willow in the garden, is leaning against the bar with a martini in her flawlessly manicured hand. She’s eyeing me with something like interest mixed with disdain.
If I remember correctly, I think she’s Demyen’s assistant.
“Oh?” is all I can think to ask. I need to be careful, like she said.
“He has eyes and ears everywhere. And he won’t hesitate to make you pay for the slightest insult.”
“Oh.” I need her to like me, or at least like me enough to keep being good to Willow, so I play the demure, obedient waitress and lower my eyes. “Well, I hope Mr. Zakrevsky’s ears won’t mind a little frustrated joke.”
She stares at me for one heavy, silent moment. Then smirks. “His ears heard nothing. And his taste buds haven’t clocked a good cocktail in years.”
Someone beckons her to their table, so she glides away without a second glance at me. It’s just in time for the bartender to slide a new Rum Martinez across the counter, and then I’m back to pretending I actually enjoy serving Demyen hand and foot.
Just as I expected, he takes one sip and nods his approval.
“Much better.”
The threads on my self-control are working overtime. It’s a literal miracle my eyes don’t roll back in my head.
“Give this to Tarken.” Demyen holds up a folded slip of paper between his fingers. He’s too focused on flicking his Cuban cigar to look at me or bother to explain who the fuck Tarken is.
I know better than to ask. “Yes, sir.” I take the paper from his fingers, making sure to glide mine over his in a subtle move to get some sort of rise out of him.
The way he stills, just for a moment, tells me that it worked.
I walk away to deliver whatever this message is, or receipt, or death threat—I don’t even know, and I don’t care at this point. I just need to know who Tarken is and where he’s sitting or standing or?—
Someone squeals with laughter and playfully smacks her companion’s arm. She tells him he’s “so bad” and says his name.
Bingo.
I walk over to the couple and hold the note out for Tarken. He’s gotta be a decade or two older than Demyen and ten times as sleazy. He looks me up and down and the smile on his face grows into something larger and lecherous.
I ignore it and maintain my own customer service smile. “This is from Mr. Zakrevsky.”
Tarken takes the note, but not before enveloping my hand in his. Clearly, his lady companion either doesn’t care or isn’t paid enough to pretend to.
He reads the note, nods, and tucks it into his jacket pocket. “Tell Mr. Zakrevsky I’d love to. I’ll be in touch. And while you’re at it…” He steps closer and smooths a hand along my ribs, tracing my exposed skin lightly with his fingertips. “Ask him how much he wants for your lovely company.”
I keep that damned service smile on and tilt my head to one side. It’s about as flirtatious as I’m gonna get with this creep. “I’m afraid I’m exclusive to Mr. Zakrevsky. Shall I have him send you someone else?”
“If you have a twin, then hell yes.” He laughs, and his companion laughs with him. I don’t think she even knows what the joke is; she’s been staring off at the pool fountain with boredom. Tarken pulls me closer to him and leans in to breathe in my hair. “Please assure my good host that no amount is too high. You are worth every penny, I’m sure.”
I carefully slip away before his fingers have a chance to slip beneath the dress. “I’ll see what Mr. Zakrevsky can do.”
That seems to satisfy the creep. He returns to entertaining his lady with more bad jokes.
When I return to Demyen’s side, he’s got a stack of playing cards fanned in one hand and the cigar poised between his other fingers. “What did he say?”
