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I can’t tell him the truth, that my head is still in my bed with Jude even though it’s been days since we were there together.
It’s bad for a tip, just like it’s bad for me that I can’t seem to get the guy out of my head. I blame it on his revelation and some deep-seated guilt I didn’t know was festering inside of me until I was put in the situation.
“I can think of a few ways to wake you up,” the handsome man says with a wink, and I beam at him like his words and offer aren’t completely and utterly disgusting.
The guy is good looking, but so are more than half the men who drink here while I work. Looks and a little bit of charm only gets a person so far, and if trashy pickup lines filled with innuendo are all they have left, then there’s a reason they usually end up striking out and going home alone.
I don’t tell him any of this. Instead, I lean closer, knowing I’m angled right when his eyes go to the mounds of my chest. My corset—part of my uniform—pushes them up to damn near around my ears.
“Is that right?” He nods enthusiastically, and I’d bet a week’s worth of tips that the man is at least getting a chub from this interaction. “Orgasms usually put me to sleep.”
“I’ll make you come so hard that you’ll—”
“Can you put your tits away long enough to get me a drink?” a man snaps from the end of the bar, his fist banging on the bar top to emphasize his agitation.
“Sure, doll. What can I get for you?” I say after standing, plastering a fake smile on my lips, and walking in his direction.
“Scotch, neat.” I reach for the mid-level stuff which is what most of the patrons come in and order. They don’t want to look cheap, but their pockets couldn’t handle drinking the high-end stuff. Plus, I have a lot of regulars, and it would be a huge hit to the bank, and something they’d struggle to explain to their wives with how often they sit at the bar and chat with me while on shift.
“Not that swill,” he snaps. “The Macallan.”
I reach a little higher on the shelf and pull down his whiskey of choice, making sure not to over pour this one.
“One twenty-five,” I tell him before placing his drink in front of him. We’ve had too many people come in, order the expensive stuff, and dart out the door. I slide it across the bar when he passes me a credit card. “Want me to open a tab?”
“Just the one,” he hisses, the glass already halfway to his lips.
The snarl doesn’t leave his face, and although I’m in no mood to deal with angry assholes who set out to make other people miserable, I smile kindly at him when I pass back his credit card and slip to sign.
“Anything else?” I ask, when really all I want to do is get away from the jerk.
Even the guy throwing out ignorant pickup lines on the other end of the bar is better company than this bitter guy.
He grunts, the non-response coupled with a look of disgust on his face that carries more irritation than any other stranger I’ve seen.
Because there’s no reason for his hostility toward me, I wipe down the already clean bar right in front of him just to keep him irritated. Petty, I know, but I have to get my thrills somewhere.
“Do all the bartenders around here own Hermes watches?” he asks, eyes glued to the leather band around my wrist as I continue to wipe the bar.
“Only the lucky ones,” I tell him with a quickly fading smile and a shrug.
I don’t know this man, and even if I did, I wouldn’t open up about my life. It’s none of his business how I get my money. And despite the shame I feel every time I spend the thousands of dollars of hush money my biological father continues to put in my account every month, it doesn’t stop me from spending it. I consider it a giant fuck you to Weston Lewis and the agreement he made with my mother so long ago.
His dedication to keep his adulterous ways from his wife put me through college and keeps me living very comfortably. Their secrets aren’t mine, but I made an oath to my mother long ago that I’d never open my mouth and let those betrayals come to light. She took that guilt to the grave along with the love she had for a man who only used her and chewed her up before spitting her out and moving on.
“And those Rag & Bone jeans seem a little out of place for a bartender serving half pour, overpriced scotch.”
