Page 21 of State of Ruin

I finish pouring the drinks and turn to set the bottle of champagne in its ice bucket behind the bar when one of them—a gorgeous redhead in a sleek one-shouldered white dress—stops me with a raised hand.

“You can leave the bottle, honey.”

“I’m afraid I can only serve it to you by the glass,” I explain. “I’ll need to stamp your hands for those glasses, and then when you’ve finished your glass, I’ll be delighted to refill you. It’s two drinks max if you want to go upstairs later.” The only way Alchemy can protect its two-drink policy is by handling bottle purchases this way. Full refills only. I’m not sure why I have to explain this to her, unless she’s a new member.

Her jaw drops open. I think she’s trying to frown, but I can’t be sure. “We bought the bottle. We can decide when we’ve had enough. And I don’t need a fucking stamp. You think I want to risk getting your shitty ink on my Valentino?” She gestures at the dress.

Conflict is not something I enjoy, but a lot of our staff training goes into dealing with entitled asses. Alchemy works because there is zero tolerance for any divergence from the rules. It doesn’t need to make its members happy, but it does need to keep them safe. The protocol is always rules over accommodation when it comes to alcohol consumption, although it’s not difficult to see that she’s already had a few drinks off-premises. Unfortunately, that’s not something we can police.

“I’m happy to leave the ice bucket here for you, of course,” I say, gesturing at the bar in front of me as her girlfriends start to turn and pay attention to this little tiff. “But I will need to give you all a red stamp in that case, to show the doormen that you’re not interested in going upstairs.”

“We paid fifteen hundred dollars for that bottle,” her friend says, leaning over the bar in a way that suggests she’s trying to intimidate me. I can see the whole way down her cleavage like this. “How long does it take you to earn fifteen hundred, hey, honey? A long fucking time, I’d say, judging by your nasty little Target shirt. We’re going upstairs later, whether you like it or not, and you’ll still be here, serving up your little drinks and hoping someone stuffs a few singles in your bra.”

I am absolutely able to handle myself with these Manhattan princesses—I’m from Jersey, for chrissakes—but the sheer nastiness of their words has me reeling. I hold up my hand to tell them that Alchemy doesn’t tolerate abuse of its staff or its policies, but I don’t get a chance, because a huge fist comes slamming down on the polished wood of the bar, making me—and my adversaries—jump.

Oh fuck, it’s Sinclair.

CHAPTER 12

Elyse

Istare at him, and I’m not the only one. He’s wedged his body between me and them, his forearm planted across the bar. Do not cross. Not only is he here, but he’s here in all his fucking glory, and he looks pissed.

“Sinclair!” the redhead trills, right on cue. I’d roll my eyes if I wasn’t so professional, and it would feel real good.

He ignores her. “I promise, not a single guy in here is stupid enough to fuck someone who’s too drunk to consent,” he intones. He’s speaking to them, but he’s looking only at me. His eyes are so blue, his tone so icy that I have secondhand embarrassment for them. “You’re not above the rules. Take the flutes and let her put a fucking stamp on your hands, or I’ll throw you out myself.”

Still, he watches me, and I watch him. His dark hair is styled back from his face as if he just came from a rich-guy hair salon, and I have the sudden memory of making a total mess of it as he kissed me afterward. It felt so lush between my fingers.

“Fine, just stamp us already,” the clothes-snob friend says. “Fuck’s sake.”

Sinclair turns toward them and crosses his arms over his chest like a bouncer, watching as I stamp their hands one by one. His intimidation tactics work—they flounce off with their flutes and their stamps and not another word, although the redhead manages to shoot me a filthy look as she leaves the bottle of DP on the bar.

“You shouldn’t have to deal with that shit,” he says in the quiet voice of someone who doesn’t have to raise their voice to make themselves heard.

I shrug. “News flash. A lot of rich folk are entitled assholes.”

He narrows his eyes. “Is that supposed to include me?”

“I think you should decide that for yourself,” I tease. “It’s interesting that you feel attacked. All I would say is that some people think their money entitles them to treat other people however they want.”

Our eyes are locked, the air between us thick with the memories of last night. My inner walls flutter in a way they have no business doing.

He lays his hands flat on the bar, splaying his fingers. Such gorgeous fingers, long and tan and thick. Gorgeous—and skillful. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with me treating you however I wanted to last night,” he says, very softly and very slowly.

Goosebumps break out all over my body, and I stay very still. “I did not.”

“Good.” It’s barely audible. Then: “You know that wasn’t about the rules just then.” He jerks his head toward my least favorite customers’ retreating backs.

I frown. “It sure sounded like it was, but I’m not sure what made them have such a temper tantrum.”

“You did.” He leans in, and it’s hypnotic. “Women like them spend a fortune to look like that. They’re bottomless pits. Then they show up for a night out, and the first person they see is you behind the bar, wearing ‘Target’”—he makes bunny ears with his fingers—“and looking more incandescently beautiful than they could ever dream of. That’s what set Red off. Doesn’t make it okay, but you sure as fuck shouldn’t let her blatant jealousy ruin another second of your evening.”

I’m sorry—my brain is stuck on incandescently beautiful. For a moment, I can’t function. I can barely remember to breathe.

“That’s very kind of you to say,” I manage, but he leans in, shaking his head. He is a tan dreamboat this evening in a pale blue shirt, so starched and perfect that you might think he puts a new one on every half-hour.

“There’s nothing kind about me, Elyse. Remember that. I wasn’t kind last night. I was selfish. It’s just fortuitous that my selfishness worked out for you, too.”