“You appear more a liqueur guy than a brown hard liquor fan. Am I right?”
Slowly, he nods.
“Amaretto or pistachio?”
His smile is the only genuine thing about him. He’s a creeper who doesn’t have the funds to bring his wildest and most likely criminal fantasies to fruition. “Surprise me.”
I hit him with a frisky wink before slipping behind the bar. The bartender looks up when I help myself to a bottle of almond liqueur from the back shelf and pour a generous serving into a glass, but my silent promise of a fifty-fifty split of any tips I make keeps his mouth shut.
“Hold on, honey,” I say when the patron snatches up the unfinished drink and slaps a low bill on the counter. “We’re not done yet.” His hooded eyes lift from my breasts to my face when I squeeze a wedge of lemon into the mix, then add sugar syrup and an egg white.
He’s hesitant when I slide the drink to him, wordlessly announcing it’s ready, but the instant the amaretto sour hits his taste buds, he adds two bills to the first one.
“Keep them coming,honey.” He uses my self-appointed endearment, hoping it will ease me into a false sense of camaraderie.
I’m not stupid, though you might doubt that if you saw the wink I gave him while slipping his tip down the front of my bra. He paid three times the retail price of his cocktail.
After placing one note in the cash register and another in the bartender’s tip jar, I wave for the next guest to come forward.
By the time the bar is free of thirsty patrons, I’ve racked up 120 dollars in tips and am already grimacing about the blister forming on my big toe.
Working in boots without socks is never a good idea.
“Thanks for the help. Though I’ll admit I’m shocked you’re not working the floor with the rest of the dancers.” The blond bartender wipes down the counter before propping his elbows on it. He isn’t much older than me, and even with the dancers saving most of the besttricks for the patrons fanning hundred-dollar bills, he gets enough attention to announce how well he attracts the opposite sex. “They’re the big fish with extremely deep pockets.”
“And even bigger egos,” I murmur to myself.
His smile is blinding, exposing that he heard my snappy mumble. “Santo.”
After ensuring my hands are free of lemon juice, a favorite staple for cocktails in this region of Sicily, I accept the hand he’s extending. “Lu—” As I choke on my spit, mortified I almost gave him my real name, I catch my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The red hue bouncing off my hair and cheeks gives me the perfect alibi. “Scarlett.” His watch is far too suspicious for my liking, and it has me folding like a deck chair. “It’s Lulu outside of these walls, but Giana said I needed something more mature inside them.”
While raking his eyes over the rapidly filling floor space, he scoffs. “You’re ten years too old for half the men here each night.”
I balk, disgusted. “I’m barely twenty-five.”
A strange sensation buzzes through me when he drags his index finger down my screwed-up nose. “Exactly.” He takes in my whitening cheeks before he jerks his head to the left. “You’re being summoned.”
My eyes pop when I follow the direction of his gaze. Giana is among the stage curtains, beckoning me to her side with a stiff curl of her finger.
“Watch the front left corner of the main stage. One of the floorboards is loose.” I turn my gaze to Santo. “I’ve told maintenance about it half a dozen times in the past month. Nothing ever gets done.”
“Because everyone loves a damsel in distress,” we say at the same time.
I stupidly blush before I rush toward the stage. Don’t burn me at the stake just yet. Santo is extremely attractive and has a smile that could stop traffic, but the strange sensation I mentioned isn’t sexual. I’ve never had a friend, butI imagine this is how it would feel at the start of a forming friendship.
Not wanting the club to mistake the 120 dollars I made at the baras tips I’ll receive while dancing, I quickly duck into the dressing room to stash the cash in my backpack.
A squeak escapes me when Giana thwarts my just-as-fast departure. She’s standing in the doorway of the dressing room, blocking the only exit.
When her eyes roam over my red wig, an earlier worry resurfaces. She hired me as a blonde, and for all I know, this club could already have its capita of redheads.
Yes, sometimes we’re hired solely based on our hair color.
Suspicion prickles my skin when she asks, “What were you doing out at the bar?” She’s acting like a jealous ex, which makes me wonder how close her working relationship is with her staff.
“Just helping out. Santo seemed overwhelmed.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “He let you help?”
