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“Big tippers. A small group just came in and it looks like they got lots of cash to spend.”
“Nice.”
Lynette is seven years older than me, putting her at thirty, and probably the coolest girl I work with. She’s newer than I am, only having worked here for three months, but we got along immediately. She’s a bombshell with her long, dark hair, flawless face, and a body people spend thousands of dollars trying to achieve.
“You okay? You seem down.”
I push my curly hair behind my shoulder and give her a smile. “Just tired and a little stressed, but I’m okay.”
She smiles back, balancing drinks on a tray. “Okay. See you out there.”
I make my way to the floor and immediately spot the table Lynette was talking about.
A group of four men, all impeccably dressed, sit around a table with their expensive looking watches on display around their wrists, gold rings on some of their pinkies, and a bottle of our most expensive liquor in the center of the table. The going price for that particular drink is five-thousand per bottle.
Lynette gets my attention and nods in their direction, telling me to help them.
I hold my head up high, push my shoulders back and strut toward the table.
“Good evening, gentleman. I’m Mariella and I’m clocking in for the evening. Is there anything I can get for you?” I ask with a bright smile, making sure to look at each of them.
They’re all impossibly good-looking, but they also reek of power. Something about that combination is intimidating, but I hold my own.
The man to my left holds my gaze before allowing his eyes to roam slowly down my body before moving back up. He’s got jet black hair, almond shaped eyes under full, but perfectly shaped eyebrows, and a smattering of hair on his face like he’s only been growing it for a week. What’s most obvious is the smirk playing on his lips, like he’s thinking about all the filthy things he wants to do to me.
“Hello, Mariella,” he says, rubbing his thumb across his bottom lip as he studies my body.
I don’t have the perfect tits Lynette has, but my love handles accentuate my already wide hips, and my ass is plump. This man leans back in his chair to get a better look.
“Hello,” I reply in a friendly tone. “Are you doing okay over here?”
I turn my attention to the other three as I start grabbing empty glasses. When I lean over, I see the blue eyes of one of the men drop to the slight cleavage this dress showcases. My full B-cup isn’t much, but I don’t think most men care. This one is dangerous. I can feel it radiating off of him. He doesn’t smirk or grin. He offers me no words, only a penetrating gaze. It’s like he’s on the edge of exploding. Maybe I interrupted a tense conversation.
I move on quickly, ready to try to get something out of the friendliest looking one. He has kind eyes, light brown hair, and a small smile.
“Can we get another bottle, please?” he asks. “We’ll be taking it to go with us.”
“Yes, of course.”
Before he or I can say anything else, someone walks up next to him. I only see his thighs at first, but as I let my eyes wander upward, I notice he’s got the sleeves of his crisp black button-up rolled up, showcasing powerful forearms. I feel like I stop breathing when I see his face, and I know that’s cliché, but it’s true. My breath hitches slightly and I hope my gasp was only audible to me.
His face is cruel—brows nearly furrowed, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed on me. His hair is slicked back and as wavy as the ocean on a windy day. The sides are buzzed short and showing just a hint of salt and pepper coloring. The whiskers on his face look rough, and I imagine you’d get quite the burn if you rubbed your face or thighs against it too long.
The friendly one moves to get up, but the man in black puts his hand on his shoulder and sits him back down. With his other hand, he brings a cigar to his lips and it’s then that I notice his fingers are cut, bloodied, and starting to bruise.
He blows the smoke out of his mouth but inhales it through his nose, his eyes never leaving mine. I step back with three empty glasses in my hands.
“I’ll be right back with that bottle,” I say to the man who still has a hand on his shoulder, keeping him seated. I look at the one in black again and ask, “Can I get you anything?”
He tilts his head back slightly before eyeing each of the men at the table. “Khalid is waiting for you, Jian,” he replies, his voice rough and deep. The flirty one gets up. “You go with him, Tommy.” The angry looking one with blue eyes stands next.
When they’re gone, the guy who seems to be in charge removes his hand from the shoulder of the man who requested another bottle, and sits next to him. With the cigar still between his fingers, he points at the guy’s face and drops his voice really low. All I catch ismake sureandfix itand thennow go.
He stands up quickly, grabbing his phone from the table.
“Do you want me to get the bottle before you go?”
“I’ll take it,” the man in black says, finally speaking words to me. “Go, Kyler.”
