by Clara Stone
I shake my head, laughing, and throw back my shot. The alcohol burns on the way down, and I grimace. One of the bouncers pokes his head inside and gives us the signal. It’s time. Let the chaos begin.
“Time to saddle up, kids,” John says. “Our night’s about to get fun.”
That’s one way to put it. With half-off drinks from eight to ten p.m., we’re the most appealing place in town for the college-aged crowd. The swarm can be suffocating, and if I had a choice, I’d never set foot in here on a Friday. I look down, then at Cat, who mouths, “You okay?”
I nod and head to the back room to pick up a handful of bottles and extra towels, and to give myself some time away from the watchful eyes of my friends. I make one last attempt to get my skimpy costume to be less skimpy, then take a deep breath, square my shoulders, load up my armful of supplies and head back out.
“You look like someone who’s been thoroughly chewed up and spit back out,” John says when I return. He reaches for two of the bottles in my hand and stacks them under my space.
“Thanks,” I mumble, crouching down and organizing the tools of my trade. I’ve been bartending for two years. I know how it’s done. I just hate having to bare it all in the process.
“You’ll be fine, Jessica,” John says as I stand, his hands on his hips.
“I don’t get why you guys don’t have to dress like this. Why is it only the girls who have to strut around looking like someone stole our clothes and rolled us around in feathers?”
“Because we’re in the business of getting people drunk, doll-face.” He assesses me top to bottom and gestures vaguely at my body. “And that right there is how we make it happen.”
I glare at him and he shrugs, unapologetic.
“Hey, at least the boss-man thought ahead and spruced up the place with that sexy security team out there.” Cat wiggles her eyebrows.
“I’m definitely not complaining about that.” I laugh, my gaze traveling to our bouncers, who are seriously a sight for sore eyes.
“Then why are you looking so . . . bummed?” Cat asks.
John wraps an arm around her and looks at me with a bit mischief in his eyes. “You know, if you need to get laid, I’m always here.”
“Dream on, Johnny-boy. Jessica is too smart for the likes of you.” Cat shrugs off his arm and walks toward a customer on the left side of the bar.
“So, what do you say?” His eyebrows are high, like he’s attempting to look smoldering. He reminds me of that one dark-haired hero from one of the Disney films.
“You’re so out of my league, Prince Charming.” I push him playfully.
He walks backward, his arms spread wide. “Just think about it. You, me—”
“And Tracy?” I raise my eyebrows.
He points his finger at me. “Now there’s an idea. A threesome. Or better yet, foursome. I’m sure Cat would love to join too.”
“Fuck off!” I hear Cat holler from her station.
I laugh, shaking my head, and turn to fill a drink order for a guy I barely register. I pocket the tip he leaves on the bar as he turns away and wait for the next customer to appear.
“Look lively, people,” Rick, our boss, says as he walks by. “The night’s about to get interesting. Just got the word that Stamos is headed here tonight.”
“No shit!” Cat exclaims.
“Tonight?” John asks.
“That’s what I heard. Just make sure he and his boys are constantly fed. I don’t care if you don’t serve our usuals. Stamos and his men are a priority; they spend a shitload of money. Got it?”
John salutes him as Rick walks away, mumbling something about “Just got the word, my ass,” as he spins, making a show of serving drinks as the bar starts packing up.
Cat is busy on the other side with another customer, talking up a storm. I serve a patron a dirty martini and three more shots before I make my way over to her. She turns to make a red firecracker on the counter by the back wall, and I lean in to discreetly ask, “Is Rick talking about the same Stamos you told me about?”
“Yup. The one and only.”
“If he’s such a badass, why hasn’t anyone arrested him?”
Cat shrugs as she takes the drink back to the bar. She lights it up and a group of college guys howl at the blue and red fireshow. She then turns around and faces me. “No one’s willing to talk. I mean, who would, when people disappear or ‘accidently’”—she put air quotes around the word —“end up in the hospital for tipping off the cops? Stamos isn’t just some badass around these parts, Jessica. He’s even got the cops on his payroll. You don’t mess with that kind of shit. Or his boys. They’re all nothing but trouble.”
“You sound like you speak from experience.”
She shrugs. “What can I say? I like them bad and broken. And Stamos’s men are everything that’s bad and broken. ”
I nod, processing what she said as I serve a girl and her boyfriend a couple beers.
Cat taps my shoulder and jerks her chin toward something behind me. “Speak of the Devil, and he doth appear.”
I turn around and catch a glimpse of the group of men walking through the front door. A man in a white tux is in the center as they make their way toward the stairs to the VIP room. The people around them get out of the way, parting like waves for the prow of a boat. Anyone who doesn’t is roughly shoved aside. I cringe as one guy trips and spills his drink down a leather-suited woman’s top. I look away just as her date steps in front of the poor guy, cracking his knuckles.
Oh boy.
But before the fight can even break out, one of the bouncers makes his way over to them and drags each toward the front by their collars.
I guess that’s the end of that—in here, at least.
“Well, fuck me nine ways to Tuesday.” John steps up beside me. “Is that who I think it is?”
Cat nods. “A little early for their usual appearance, isn’t it?”
“Well, newbie . . .” John throws his arm over my shoulder, but his gaze is turned toward the second floor, where Stamos and his men disappeared. “You’re about to get the experience of a lifetime.”
I can only imagine.
For the next three hours, I serve drinks to any and all who ask, losing count of the number of times some idiot spills his liquor on me and then tries to wipe me down in a pathetic attempt to touch my boobs.
“Jessica,” John shouts. When I make my way over to him, he shoves a huge tray of drinks at me. “Take this order upstairs.”
My eyes widen, and I blanche.
So far, I’ve managed to avoid having to deal with Stamos and his men. I dart a quick look at the VIP area; the group has tripled since I last took notice of them. “You want me . . . to go up there?” I sound like an idiot.
“That’s what I said.” He smirks. “It’ll be good for you. Besides, remember how I promised you a good time?”
I groan. “But . . .”
“Are you ready to admit you’re not up for Friday nights?” His face is so smug that I want to punch him.
“No.” I grind my teeth.
He smacks my butt. “Then giddy up, cowgirl.”
I take a deep breath and pinch my nose. “I hate you so much right now.”
“Hate me all you want, sista. But I’m doing you a favor.”
“More like doing yourself a favor.” I take the tray from his hands, grumbling under my breath. “Some friend you are.”
He laughs. “I’m all about hands-off training, sweet thang.”
“It won’t be so bad,” Cat says. “If they’re here this early, it’s usually ‘cause they’re celebrating something. So the chances of anyone leaving in a body bag is low.”
“Body bag?”
She squints, and I don’t know what to make of it. Is she joking about the body bag, or the fact that they’re here to celebrate?
It doesn’t matter, I decide. I’ve got this. Squaring my shoulders, I place the tray on the palm of my hands and raise it above my head.
<
br /> “I can do this,” I tell myself as I walk through the gyrating sea of bodies.
Time to go meet the meanest, baddest men in Florida.
STOP BEING SO fucking obvious, Fisher.
When I agreed to meet with Stamos, I wasn’t expecting Fisher to be with him. I thought I’d have to get close to the scumbag, infiltrate his inner circle, and then maybe I’d manage to track down my friend before he did something stupid. So seeing said idiotic best friend sitting in the same room as the man I know is number one on his hit list came as quite the shock.
I almost couldn’t keep it together.
Almost.
But if he doesn’t stop staring at me like I’m his long-lost prom date, it’s not going to matter; he’ll blow my cover for me.
If only you’d called me back, jackweasel.
He narrows his eyes, like he heard my thoughts.
I mentally flip him the bird. You see that, too, brah?
“Hope you’re enjoying our hospitality, Mr. . . . ?” prompts the guy from the fight the other night. The one who stared at me like I was his next meal while he talked to someone—presumably Stamos—on his cellphone.
“Killshot. Just Killshot,” I offer. After that energizing victory chant, I’m kinda in love with the name. It’s so me. And I’m certainly not planning to give this asshat my real moniker. “Or Batman. Whichever you prefer,” I add, adjusting my Batman mask.
The room is buzzing with the filtered music from down below. Apparently, Blue Tango is the place to be on Friday nights. Dressed up and all. And I did.
I’m Batman. I finally found a use for the mask I’d purchased as a teen, after all these years of saving it for later. Well, okay, so maybe the text had said the theme tonight was burlesque, but I’m sure Batman has thrown his own burlesque-themed parties, with all that orphan money and all. So how could I resist? I’m fucking Batman.
I swirl the drink in my hand and look across the lounge area at the man himself. Constantine Stamos. The person I’ve had my eye on since two days after Anna left—and who apparently has a thing for me too, since he hasn’t looked away since I sat down.
After much investigation and the help of my agency friend, Neil Harris, I finally found him. And Fisher, it seems. Of course that stupid fucker abandoned what was left of his family to hunt down the person who had his parents killed. I mean, why the hell not? He may as well draw a big fat FBI brand on my forehead and walk away with the Dumbfuck of the Century award while he’s at it.
I resist the urge to level another glare in Fisher’s direction.
I should have known better. I knew he wanted payback, and I should have kept a closer watch on him. If I had, neither of us would be sitting here right now.
“Okay . . . Killshot.” Stamos’s voice hums in the room. “My men tell me you’re a force to be reckoned with.”
I cross my legs at the ankles, taking another satisfying gulp of whiskey.
“Tony here was quite impressed by your performance the other night,” Stamos says, pointing at the guy behind him. He’s not wearing the same Men in Black-issued attire as the rest of Stamos’s thugs. Instead, he’s wearing faded jeans and a red polo shirt. He’s also two or so years younger than I am and seems especially pleased with the compliment he’s been given. And even with part of his face covered by a weird half-mask, I feel like I know him. Like I’ve seen him before.
I eye him a moment longer, studying him.
He smirks, and I immediately make the connection. He’s the dude that marked Jess at the coffeeshop. Ice boils in my veins, and I have to forcibly turn my attention back to Stamos.
“Entertainment is my forte,” I respond, scanning the room for the other guy I saw lurking at the coffeeshop. But between the standard issue bodyguard uniform most of the guys are wearing and the ridiculous masks and body paint on the others, it’s nearly impossible to tell if he’s here or not.
“As I stated earlier, I do believe your . . . special technique to . . .”—he waves his hand in a circle—“to disarm a man is something I can use in my line of work.”
I gulp down the last of my drink and slam it on the table before me.
“MMA gambling is just one part of the business I run,” he continues, watching me with the shrewd attention of a predatory hawk. “I have varied interests.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“Here’s how it works, Killshot.” He snaps his fingers and Tony hands him a folder.
Stamos slaps it on the table before him and gestures for me to pick it up. I lean forward and start flipping through picture after picture of dead men, guns, and people in the ring. I already know all this, though, so it doesn’t surprise me. I make sure to keep my expression neutral, dispassionate, unfazed.
“You don’t look very surprised,” Stamos says.
I shrug. “When you walk around with a dozen men protecting you, it doesn’t exactly scream that your operation is legit.”
The deafening sound of guns being drawn and pointed at me is efficient, practiced. These guys clearly mean business. I swallow the momentary fear back down, where it belongs.
Two years back, all of this would have made me sweat bullets. But now, I’ve learned to become the master of my emotions and . . . lies.
I give a quick glance to Fisher, who looks like he’s about to jump in front of a firing squad. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, watching Stamos uneasily. His fingers are wrapped tightly around the gun he’s subtly angled to point just a tiny bit more in Stamos’s direction than mine.
I press my lips together, fighting back a smile. Stamos relaxes into the couch, laughing, bringing my attention back to him.
“Candid. I like that. I run a very tight ring of workers, Killshot. It’s my rules, my way. I pay you to do a job, and you do it. That’s all there is to it. Do we have a deal?”
“What kind of compensation are we talking, here?” I ask. I honestly don’t care; I just don’t want to seem too eager. Sometimes not asking the expected question leads you further away from your mark than jumping for it the first chance you get.
Stamos smiles. It’s an oily smile, the sort you’d expect to see the Devil wear as you hand over your soul on a silver platter. “Enough. More than you’ve likely seen in your life.”
I doubt it, seeing as I was “born with a golden spoon up my ass,” as Fisher has so kindly pointed out plenty of times. But I’m happy to indulge Stamos.
I tilt my now empty glass at him and incline my head, grinning. “Do you have anything stronger?”
Just then, waitresses enter the room with booze trays, and I smile. Perfect timing. They study the room, and their eyes turn wide as they take in all the guns still pointing at my head. My gaze connects with the one in the front, and I notice her hands shake a little.
“You’re scaring our beautiful waitresses,” I say, glancing pointedly at the weaponry. No one moves. I wave my hand at the girl who would clearly rather be in front of a runaway train than here. “Got any whiskey there, gumdrop?”
“A-ah,” she stammers and walks over on wobbly legs. “Yes.”
She leans forward and offers me the plate. I give her a smile, a genuine one. “Thank you.” I down that shot as she quickly shuffles away and let out a loud sigh, feeling the burn as it rolls down my throat. “Your call, Stamos. Call your men off or have them shoot me. Besides . . .” I twirl my finger in the air, indicating everyone in the room. “I’m sure their arms are hurting by now and killing me would be such a waste, since I just agreed to your offer and all.”
“I like you, Killshot.” Stamos smiles that oily smile again and signals his men to lower their guns.
I wave the empty shot glass toward the cluster of waitresses, requesting another drink. “I mean, I’d really be stupid not to. Who doesn’t want heavy pockets and booze to celebrate with after? If I’m going to Hell, might as well enjoy the here and now. Am I right?”
Stamos lifts his glass in agreement. He finishes off his drink and sets
it down on the table between us.
A girl in a red outfit covered with feathers and ruffles leans forward. Her hand is steady as a rod as she offers the drinks to Stamos first. He takes a drink from the tray. But before she can move away, he grabs her wrist. She looks at him, unflinching. Gotta give the girl props. I know grown men who would have shit themselves. “I’ve never seen you here before.”
She nods and mumbles something I don’t catch. He lets go and she goes around offering drinks. Stamos, on the other hand, is fixated on her. I’m too busy wondering why to really pay attention to her. But when she comes to stand in front of me, I see the tattoos decorating her wrists.
Born to drum. With drumsticks are over the U. My eyes travel up, and I finally understand Stamos’s fixation.
My eyes widen before I can stop them.
It’s Jess. Fucking Jess.
When I don’t make an attempt to take a glass, she looks at me questioningly. And maybe I imagine it, but I see recognition light her eyes before she quickly looks down; my gaze follows hers—right down the center of her top.
Her normally pleasant look turns sour.
“Drink?” She bites the word off. I take one from the tray, absentmindedly, as a million questions run through my head.
What the hell is she doing here?
Did Tony know that she worked at Blue Tango? Is that why they set the meeting up here?
Is this some sort of warning that if I step out of line, they’ll hurt her, a girl I barely know?
My jaw clenches as I watch her move on, serving others until her tray is empty. And why does she have to look so goddamn amazing right now? With her flushed cheeks and red pouty lips, her long neck and that skin—so much fucking skin. God damn it! I adjust in my seat and try not to focus on the fact that, buried underneath the swirling morass of confusion and frustration and anger, a new emotion is prickling to the surface.
“Let’s talk numbers, shall we?” Stamos’s voice breaks my spell, just as she exits the room.
