The nights he’s been here, I’ve felt him watching me from across the room. I’ve felt his gazegluedto me in a way that makes me feel deeply uneasy. The few times I’ve glanced his way, it’s always me he seems to watch—not the other girls. Even so, I haven’t mentioned it to anyone because I don’t wish to sound like a diva, or like someone who thinks they’re more attractive or important than they are.
I squash my apprehension down into my belly as I walk to his table. His suit is pale gray and loose—not dark and fitted like the ones I’m more used to seeing at Velvet. And his mask isn’t as close-fitted or embellished as other guests’, which suggests it isn’t money that grants him entry to this club—it’s business.
He looks up as I reach his table, watching closely as I place the glass on a coaster.
“Your Grey Goose, sir.”
“Thanks,” he mutters.
I turn to walk back to the bar when his words halt me.
“Slow night?”
I straighten and glance about the lounge. “For now. It usually picks up around eleven.”
He takes a long sip of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of the hand he’s still holding the glass with. “Is your man about?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your man. Fiero.”
Blood rushes up my throat, threatening to taint my whole face beet colored.
“Fiero isn’t my man,” I say, backing up.
“No.” He places his glass on the table while my heart pounds. “He’s your boss, now. Your man’s your boss.”
“Oh, right,” I frown. “You mean, where’s my boss?”
“Right y’are.”
“Um, I don’t know, I'm afraid. I… I can ask Vivienne. She’s his Head of House.”
He shakes his head, grinning. “No bother. I was just curious. He’s usually around, like.”
“Yes.” I swallow. “Yes, he is.”
“How long’ve worked here, Pfeiffer?”
His use of my name startles me. We don’t wear identity badges here and I’ve never told him my name. He could have asked someone who works here but… I never see him speaking to anyone.
“Um, I don’t know…” I feel strangely uncomfortable and not just because of the questions. He’s looking at me in a way that feels predatory. “Three weeks I think.”
“Not long then.” He takes another sip of his drink.
I shake my head, glancing back toward the bar in the hope someone might rescue me. No such luck. José is laughing with another customer—a masked woman who clearly enjoys his stories.
The Irishman watches me closely, his eyes like slits. “Why don’t you sit for a while? It’s not busy. They can spare you for half an hour.”
My throat is completely dry.
“I’m sorry, it’s not allowed.”
His face doesn’t fall as such but he licks his lips like he’s tasting my lie on the air. I conceal a shudder.
“I’m grateful for the invitation though,” I rush out. “I’m sorry. I have to get back.”
He nods slowly as I back away from him, bumping into another table as I do. Thankfully, it’s unoccupied. Then I turn and head back to the podium.
