Page 11 of Direct Action

“Be right back.”

“Take your time.”

I hoped Sterling meant that, because I needed a five-minute break in the back room to pull myself together.

With my eyes studiously glued to Lori, I wandered through the crowd in her direction. Lori was a pretty blonde bartender who had a way about her that drew a crowd to her end of the bar. That had a lot to do with her quick wit and comebacks as well as her girl-next-door vibe that men ate up. By the time I made it to her, I was proud I hadn’t looked at Ryan’s table.

Pete’s table.

Pete and Mason were there, too, and for some reason I always considered Pete my big boss. Sure, all the guys didn’t equally own the Plank; it was just that Pete was the stern one out of the bunch. And he was there too. Yet my brain was stuck on Ryan.

“Chloe, a word,” Muriel said, coming up beside me.

If Pete was my big boss at the Plank, Mason was the easygoing boss, Fallon was the anything goes boss—in that if you went to him with a shift change, his response was always, “As long as you all have it worked out, there’s no problem.” Aiden and Gavin were just Aiden and Gavin. They came and they went, and they always had smiles on their faces, but they passed the buck to one of the others. Not in mean way—they were always friendly. I just got the feeling they deferred to the others for whatever reason.

Muriel was my mysterious boss. She was aloof while managing to be friendly-ish. Standoffish but pleasant. This being my third shift, I hadn’t been able to suss her out fully, but I was leaning toward no nonsense and no second chances.

In other words, she kind of scared me, and I really needed this job, so her asking me for a word didn’t give me the warm and fuzzies.

“Sure. Here or . . .” I let that hang.

“Here’s fine. Cynthia is a no-show tonight. Could you stay on and cover her section?”

Internally I groaned. Externally I smiled.

“Absolutely.”

With a practical nod, she smartly walked away.

Yeah, no nonsense, and my guess, Cynthia wouldn’t have a job to come back to if she tried to show up for her next shift.

I ordered Mr. Taylor and Sterling’s drinks, waited for Lori to put them on my tray, and didn’t dare look around the room as I stood at the bar.

Surely Pete, Mason, and Ryan wouldn’t be mad I had a second job here. It wasn’t like I didn’t show up at the Plank when I was scheduled. And I was a waitress, for goodness’ sakes; it wasn’t like I’d signed a noncompete. Besides, the Vault wasn’t competition. The clientele here was very different from the younger, hip crowd that drank at the Plank.

But it was the look of disgust on Ryan’s face I couldn’t get out of my head.

The music was back to a low hum in the background of a sea of conversation that floated around me as I made my way back to Sterling’s table.

“. . . she’s making waves,” I heard Len telling Sterling. “It might become a—”

“Thank you, Chloe.” Sterling spoke over Len, cutting off whatever he was saying.

I carefully set Sterling’s bourbon in front of him. I placed Len’s martini down—Monkey 47, of course, with extra olives, and—you guessed it—shaken, not stirred, like he was James freaking Bond. I’d barely fought back an eye roll when he’d ordered his first one. Lori, however, did not when I put in the order. Before I could walk away and leave the men to their conversation, Len stopped me.

“Are you from around here?”

Please, sweet Lord above, do not have this jackhole hitting on me.

“Sure am. Born and raised.”

I made my move to leave, but this time Sterling waylaid me. “Unusual.”

“How so?”

“There are more transplants than natives here in Southern California.”

I didn’t know if that was strictly true or not. What I did know was I didn’t want to get into a debate about it and invite further conversation. But not responding would be rude.