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I'm getting too much of a thrill out of the way she says my name. "What? I told you I was coming back for you."
"At two!"
"No,yousaid that. Like I said, I came to enjoy the music and"—I give the bartender a little wave—"I'm in the mood for something different, what can you recommend me?"
He comes over, flinging a tea towel over his shoulder. "Do we have a budget?"
I grin. "No. Let's break a record tonight."
He grins back. "I have a 21-year-old Suntory Hibiki."
"Sold." I like him already. "And don't stop them coming." I turn back to Clarissa. "Don't you have a club to run?"
She narrows her eyes and storms off.
I grin at the bartender, who's trying his hardest to keep a straight face. Call me crazy, but I bet her employees probably don't dare speak to her like I do.
***
Five and a half hours later, the lights come back on in the club.
It sheds a light on the uncollected glasses on the tables, strewn napkins under the seat, and scattered coasters along the bar. James, the bartender, collects the glasses the servers bring back to the bar and places them into a tub to take back to the kitchen.
He's been great company all night, serving me some of his favorite drinks as well as even taking some of my suggestions. One of those things is how to make a drink that costs $20 feel like you're getting your money's worth.
Sliding my business card across the bar, I say, "Call Jaxon, he'll be able to hook you up with some of his suppliers."
He takes it with a nod. "Will do. Thanks, Matthias."
"And you'll have to come and see my ice ball press collection."
"James. Are you done?" Clarissa asks from across the room, carrying four wine glasses in each hand like she's done it a thousand times before.
"Impressive," I say, lifting my eyebrow in the direction of her filled hands.
He takes them from her, placing them into his dirty drinkware tub. "Don't you know? Ms. Masters is an old hand."
"No. I can honestly say the only time I've seen her with a glass in her hand, she was lifting it to her mouth." The words were meant to be a joke but they come out a little more acerbic than I had intended. She scowls. Something about her reaction digs at me, like a stone in my shoe. I thought it was funny. She obviously didn't feel that the same.
"You ready?" I ask, to break the tension.
"I have to make sure everything is wrapped up here."
James comes back from another trip to the kitchen. "You can go, Ms. Masters. We've got it. You look tired."
I almost have to hold her back.
Calling a woman tired is a surefire way to get yourself killed. Or, at least, fired.
"Er, James, I have a feeling you're going to need that number for more than equipment. Call me if you need a job." I reach my hand out to shake his, and slip five one-hundred notes into his palm. He pulls his hand back and gives me a discreet nod. "I'll share it with the rest of the bar staff."
I shake my head. "It's yours. I've got the rest covered. You do a phenomenal job." I mean it. If this place ever goes under, I might just buy it right out from under Clarissa. I feel guilty for the thought. It's obvious that this place is Clarissa's creation, through and through. She might be one of Lucifer's demons, but she has good taste.
"Clarissa, let's go," I prompt her.
She scowls and starts walking away. "One more minute! I'll be right back."
I don't trust her; I wouldn't put it past her to leave me here, even though I'd been here for the last five hours just waiting for her. So, I follow.
