by Linnea May
The idea shouldn’t sit well with me. It definitely shouldn’t make my heart jump in an excited hiccup ... and it most definitely shouldn’t make my core tingle the way it does now.
I make sure all the other guests are taken care of before I focus on him. I’m not by myself tonight, but my colleague Alex shouldn’t have to take care of every other customer by himself just because I’m too wrapped up in this man. I glance over at Alex, assuring myself that he doesn’t need my help. He’s chatting with middle-aged men at the other end of the bar who are sitting in the company of one of the angel girls in white. They are the only other two people at the bar right now, something I rarely witnessed at my previous workplace.
However, this establishment couldn’t be any more different to that shady old bar. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.
I’m met with his curious black eyes as I return to my previous position, placing both bottles of gin on the bar top right in front of him.
“Pick one,” I tell him. “As I said, Aviation has a lot going on, in regard to taste, while the Blue Sapphire notes a little more generic, in terms of gin taste. I’d say they’re equals in pure quality. It just depends on what you prefer.”
He picks up one of the bottles, the Blue Sapphire limited edition, turning it before his eyes to study the label before he sets it back down and repeats the same with the Aviation.
“I have no idea what I’m looking at here,” he admits, lifting his gaze up to mine. “Which one am I having right now?”
“Neither,” I say. “I made yours with some regular Hendricks. Since you didn’t ask for anything in particular.”
“And it tastes fine,” he insists, raising his glass.
I shake my head. “Of course, it’s fine. We only have high-end liquors here. All I’m saying is it could be so much better.”
He twirls his hand in an encouraging gesture. “Show me then.”
I regard him with a cautious look, raising an eyebrow to inquire whether he’s serious. There’s nothing I love more about my job than being allowed to run wild—to follow my creative instinct when it comes to mixing drinks—and combine ingredients that most people would never team up by adding spices that scream adventure. My passion for this art started long before I was old enough to work with alcohol legally. To me, creating drinks that curl with risky and exciting taste is what cooking an elaborate meal, drawing a detailed portrait, or making music is to others.
“There’s something I came up with recently. I’d like to show you, but it’s kind of out there,” I say to him, catching his dark eyes as he cocks his head to the side. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth when he nods.
“I’m curious.”
My hands are shaking when I reach for the bottles of gin, leaving one of them on the bar top with me and putting the other back on the shelf behind the bar.
He doesn’t say a word as I work. What I’m mixing for him is still a gin and tonic but with a special twist. He doesn’t show any sign of reaction when I pick up the bottle of elderflower tonic, adding it to the ice and Aviation gin until the glass is almost entirely full. But when I reach down to the cooler and produce a small apple, his eyebrows rise in surprise.
I cast him a coy smile before I pick up the knife and start slicing the apple. I only need small pieces—just a small portion of the sweet fruit cut into very thin slices that I divide into even smaller parts. Unlike what he may have expected, I don’t use them as decoration. I add the slices to the drink, stirring it with a long metal spoon before I hand it over to him.
“Elderflower and apple,” I comment. “Sounds strange but goes so well with the subtle fruity taste of Aviation. Trust me.”
The expression on his face changes from sheer surprise to appreciation, causing me to step closer. Leaning against the counter as my heart beats heavily, I jitter as I await his reaction. I haven’t shared this creation with many people, and I don’t like how much I fear that he might not like it.
Because it means he wouldn’t like you, either.
I try to shake off these infantile ideas, but as much as I try not to care, it doesn’t work.
He takes a careful sip, seemingly unfazed by my expectant eyes on him. I can’t read his face as he drinks. His handsome face doesn’t display any kind of expression, nothing but observant focus while he lets the drink rest on his taste buds before swallowing it.
“Good,” he concludes, and my heart sinks.
“Good?” I repeat. “Is that ... all?”
He looks at me, creasing his eyebrows in a faint display of annoyance.
“I don’t know what else to tell you; it’s interesting, nice,” he says, listing a bunch of descriptive adjectives that I don’t care for. “But to be honest, I can’t taste a difference in the gin. It’s all covered by the elderflower and the apple, which is nice, but—”
“It complements the gin,” I interrupt him. “It doesn’t cover it. Trust me, it would taste completely different if I had mixed it with the Blue Sapphire.”
He looks at me, wearing an enamored smile on his face that makes me blush.
“You’re cute,” he says, adding to my embarrassment. “I’ve never seen a girl this passionate about gin.”
I don’t know what to say to that and just respond with a blank stare. Though I’m sure my cheeks are blushing a bright pink.
Of course, he finds a way to worsen my predicament. My breath catches when he leans in closer, supporting himself on his elbows as he moves his face so close to mine that I can feel his hot breath on my skin.
“I wonder if that passion transpires to other areas of indulgence, too,” he says, his voice barely more than a deep whisper. “The sort of indulgence you’d find upstairs in the velvet rooms?”
3
Melina
“The playrooms?” I utter, sounding just as overrun as I feel.
He must know the rules. If sex is what he came here for, he should turn to the escorts, the pretty girls in black lace who wander around the room. In fact, I’m the last person he should ask about this. I’m not even an angel, a flirty companion who’ll keep him company down here—even though I sure act like one.
I’m just the bartender. Serving drinks, conducting small talk.
Do I have to remind him of the rules?
Do I have to remind myself?
“You must know a little something about them,” he says, narrowing his eyes on me. “More than I do, for sure.”
“Um, yes ... but,” I stutter, my eyes traveling aimlessly as if I was searching for someone to take this one for me. “You know that ... you know I can’t—”
He raises a hand in a calming manner, chuckling at my nervous stuttering.
“I know you can’t accompany me upstairs,” he says. “Just tell me about it. Entice me.”
I inhale sharply, about to come up with a good response, when we’re interrupted by a girl dressed in black; one of the devils who could actually show him the rooms upstairs and not just talk about it. Her enhanced cleavage sits just below her chin, and the black lace adorning her body shows more than it hides. She comes to a halt right next to him, so close that their shoulders rub against each other as she leans against the bar. Placing her hands on the edge of the bar, she smiles at him first before she turns to me.
Her name is Sandy, and she’s one of the nicer girls around here. When I started working behind this bar about two weeks ago, I was introduced to the entire staff, one by one, every angel and every devil who worked here, every waitress, everyone who was involved in the daily operations of The Velvet Rooms.
Sandy is one of the few people who ever bothered to start a conversation with me. Most of the girls who work here—especially those who dress as black devils—prefer to keep among themselves, only casting jealous sideway glances to everyone else. The competition is strong around here, and I can see why they are reluctant to form friendships with other devils and angels, but I don’t really understand why that jealousy would include me.
&nbs
p; “Melina, hi!” Sandy pipes. “Two glasses of champagne, please.”
I nod, reciprocating her smile. “Coming right up.”
I can’t help myself from watching them from the corner of my eye even though I should focus on removing the cork of a new bottle of sparkling gold. Sandy ordered two glasses, meaning she’s already entertaining a guest. Still, I worry that she may take him away from me.
It shouldn’t worry me. I shouldn’t care. He didn’t come here to hang out at the bar all night. He will leave with one of the girls eventually. If it’s not her, it will be with another devil or angel; anybody who can give him a better value of entertainment.
“You’re curious about the rooms upstairs?”
Sandy’s asking him, but I still turn around, if only for a moment, before I’m forced to pay attention to the impending cork explosion.
“Yes, I am,” he replies, “but Melina, here, appears to be a little shy about it.”
He says my name in such a nonchalant way as if he’s known me for a long time. My eyes fly back to him, catching his sinister gaze for a split second before the cork pops in my hand, forcing me to pay attention to the hissing bottle in my hand.
“She’s just polite,” Sandy says as I pour her drink. “And not as naughty as us devils. Right, Melina?”
I throw her a quick smile as I turn around and place the two glasses in front of her.
“Here you go.”
The look on Sandy’s face changes when my eyes meet hers. I don’t know what she’s reading on my face, but it causes her to put distance between herself and the handsome stranger who’s sipping on my elderflower gin and tonic.
“Thank you,” she says in a low voice, her eyes darting back and forth between the guy and me.
“You know,” she adds, her voice even lower now than it was before, “if you’re curious ... I’m sure we could work something out.”
She’s not talking to him but to me. My eyes widen at her suggestion, and I’m sure the blush on my cheeks must be visible from across the room.
He, on the other hand, doesn’t react to her words at all. He doesn’t even look at her but reaches for his drink, acting as if Sandy wasn’t even around.
She winks at me before she lifts the champagne glasses and turns around. Stalking away on her heels, she sways her body seductively in its sinful outfit.
Did she just imply that I could go up to the rooms with him? That I could become one of the devils?
But I’m not a call girl! While I don’t judge her for this job, I know I could never do what she’s doing. I could never sleep with someone who’s paying me to do so.
However, technically, that’s not what this would be. It’s not like he would pay me to ...
“Are you okay?”
His question rips me away from my dumbfounded musings. I look at him, trying to shake off whatever silly ideas Sandy just put in my head.
“What did she say to you?” he probes. “You look shaken.”
I tilt my head to the side, casting him a quizzical look.
“She... Didn’t you hear her?” I wonder, downright surprised at his question. How did he not hear her? She was standing right next to him, and even though she was whispering and directing her question at me, there was no way he didn’t hear her.
He smiles at me, shaking his head. “I must have missed whatever she said to you that was so distressing.”
I let out a helpless laugh, still unsure whether he’s playing with me or not.
“It’s silly. She just made a joke.”
He leans in closer, looking intrigued.
“Tell me.”
The way he looks at me doesn’t allow my refusal as much as I’d like to avoid it.
“She suggested I should ... we should ... you know,” I stutter, feeling like an idiot. “The rooms upstairs ...”
“She suggested you should go up there with me?” He helps me out, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
I nod, biting my lip.
He fixates me with a foreboding smile that’s as wicked as it is friendly.
“Is that something you’d be interested in?” he asks.
4
Rowan
I wish I could capture her face in a photo. She’s an exquisite beauty, so pure and young, but her intellect shines through every fiber of her being. Her hazel eyes are wide-awake, flickering with creative passion and speaking of a highly alert mind.
Smart women have always been my biggest weakness. Smart women with a strong mind and a submissive trait hidden deep inside. Their submission feels like a gift, something that must be earned and that they present to you with dignity. Nothing makes me feel stronger than the honor that comes with that.
Of course, all of that is just conjecture in her case. She may not find joy in submission; she may not even be a kinky girl in any way.
But if that were true, why would she work here?
She could be pouring drinks for strangers at many other bars across this city who don’t make insinuations. Bars where the atmosphere doesn’t drip with kinky pleasure and sin, where no girls wander around in alluring lingerie, and where no one is having sex on the floor right above.
Her cheeks flush as I confront her with the possibility of us going up there. I know it’s a mistake. Oh, it’s a fucking mistake on so many levels.
But I can’t help myself. Something about her won’t let me get away. And the fact she’s been giving me this much attention makes me believe she feels the same way about me.
A magnetic attraction that neither of us can ignore.
An attraction that neither of us wants to ignore.
“You know I ca—”
“That’s not what I’m asking.” I interrupt her as she tries to give me a response finally. “I’m not asking what you can or cannot do. I’m asking what you want to do.”
She bites her lip, a move that I have seen all too often from her. Instead of answering my question, she does something that surprises me. She reaches below the bar top, produces a little shot glass, and then quickly fills it with a healthy portion of bourbon.
I watch with astonishment as she knocks the shot back instantly, a sharp hiss escaping her lips as the liquor burns her throat.
It’s the opposite of ladylike. Nothing about her downing a quick shot of bourbon is elegant or pretty. The move came out of nowhere, leaving me utterly surprised.
Surprised and endeared.
She smiles at me, loose locks of hair bobbing at her cheeks when she tilts her head to the side. She’s saying something, but my fucked-up ears betray me again, so her words remain a mystery.
I beckon her to repeat what she just said with a twirl of my hand, subtly turning my left ear to her as I lean in closer. “Say that again.”
She furrows her eyebrows, making no attempt to hide her wonder at my lack of understanding. I fucking hate it, but I can’t blame her for it.
It’s the same, always the same.
She looks at me with that same expression of curiosity and pity that I’ve seen on so many faces before. That moment when they realize something is wrong with me, something is broken.
That I’m not a complete man, not in possession of the full strength that comes with such a privilege.
“My hearing isn’t all that good,” I say, preempting any question she might have. “I lost most of it. Especially on my right side.”
Most people, upon hearing this sad little fact about me, react the same way they do to news of loss and grief. Their heads tilt to the side, compassion and sympathy painting a somber expression on their faces, then they give me their condolences. That’s how it usually goes.
This girl, Melina, doesn’t seem to be familiar with this natural reaction. All she does is nod.
“Okay,” she says, increasing the volume of her voice and leaning in closer. “I’ll use this as an excuse to get closer to you if you don’t mind.”
She ends her words with a teasing wink, supporting herself on her elbows as she
leans in close to me, and her face almost touches mine when she positions herself on my left side.
She’s trying to act cool, but I can feel how tense she is, especially this close to me. Her entire posture is strained and alert as if she is ready to jump away at any moment.
“Wanna tell me how it happened?” she asks. “Or is that one of the topics you don’t like to discuss with random bartenders?”
She’s speaking so clearly, so close to my better ear, that I can even notice the trembling in her voice despite her obvious attempts to hide it.
“The Army,” I say, cutting it short. “Bomb explosion at one of my deployments.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh, shit!”
“Damn straight,” I agree, chuckling coldly. “It’s pretty shit, but it could’ve been so much worse. Trust me, I was fucking lucky.”
Lucky doesn’t even begin to describe it. I was dumb, first and foremost. Dumb and irresponsible because I let my temper get the better of me. Despite years of therapy trying to persuade me otherwise, I’m still convinced that my actions killed a man. But how would that therapist know? She wasn’t there. She doesn’t know what happened in Ramadi back then. No one knows because I’ve never told anybody. I don’t know if it’s shame, guilt, or just the plain and simple desire to forget about everything that happened back there, but I’ve never shared the details of those events with anyone.
And I never will.
The girl hurls me back to the present by placing her hand on mine, another move that surprises me.
“You don’t have to tell me,” she says as if it was her choice to make.
“I wasn’t going to,” I let her know. “You know enough for now.”
A faint smile graces her pretty face when she shakes her head. “Not really. There’s one thing I’d like to know.”
“What’s that?”
“Your name,” she says. “You know mine, and I think it’s only fair if I know yours, too.”
