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I know that between the heels and my need to not trip over chairs, the sway in my hips is more pronounced than usual. And with the way this fabric keeps shimmering and rippling over my curves, well…
Let him choke on that bubbly.
He sets the flute down and clears his throat. His own mask settles on his face—the boss who gives orders and expects to be instantly obeyed. He gives me a once-over when I approach his side and simply grunts his disinterested approval.
“What can I get for you?” I smile benevolently at him. Not too sweet, but enough to show I’m willing and happy to play his game. And just for added fun… “Sir?”
Demyen leans back slightly in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he regards me. “Get me a Rum Martinez. Cuban.”
Oh… Fuck. You.
I smile and bat my lashes like the slutty bimbo he wants me to play. “Right away, sir. Anything else for the table?”
The hungry looks in their eyes have me feeling likeI’mon the menu. A few of them chuckle and mumble how they have “something they can give me.”
But Demyen shoots them a glare and the table instantly quiets. “No. You’re to serve me exclusively. Just the Rum Martinez and a Cuban. For now.”
“Understood, sir.”
I turn and make my way to the bar, making sure the sway in my hips is as sensual as I can manage in these heels without toppling over. Demyen’s pretending to not be interested, but I’m pretty sure one shift in the tablecloth would blow his bluff.
The bar is as lavish as the rest of the party, and as much as I’ve been doubting if such a cocktail would be possible, it occurs to me that Demyen isn’t the kind of man to shortchange his guests or himself. If he orders a stupidly complicated drink, he’ll get the stupidly complicated drink.
“One Rum Martinez and a Cuban, for Mr. Zakrevsky.” The bartender was only half-paying attention until I mentioned Demyen. As soon as I drop that, he goes double-time.
Just as I guessed—they’re fully equipped to create the smoky infusion of rum and bark. The bartender even plates it on a thin round of mesquite wood, with a small but decorative prop to hold up the lit cigar. The whole process can’t be rushed and ittakes a good five minutes at least for the bartender to go through the whole smoke infusion process. When he’s done, he slides the plank to me and quickly moves on to the next drink.
I carry the wood on one hand, weave through the maze of tables, and smoothly place the drink and cigar tray in front of Demyen. “Your cocktail, sir.”
Demyen’s brow tics, but otherwise, there’s no other sign of approval at my swift and confident service. Not that I would expect any. He takes a long draw on the cigar, blows the smoke out, then lifts the glass for a sip.
He sips a good amount, lets it sit on his tongue, then swallows.
“It’s terrible. Take it back and get me a new one.”
“Excuse me?”
He quickly looks up at me as if I’ve just insulted his mother. “Is there a problem?”
“No, sir. I just need clarification for the bartender?—”
“It tastes like shit. Get a new one.”
He even has the audacity to shoo me away with a flippant wave of his fingers before returning to his riveting conversation about racehorses.
I’ve dealt with customers like him before. This is nothing new.
I just neverfuckedany of those customers before they treated me like this. And they never nursed me back to health, or put a roof over my head, or?—
Or made me work practically in the nude.
So as much as his attitude stings—and Ihatethat it does—I’m determined not to let him and his ego get to me. I scoop up the mesquite tray, resist the urge to pluck the cigar from his mouth, and weave my way back to the bartender.
“You’re kidding me, right?” he asks when he sees me coming.
I don’t know what to tell the guy. “He says it tastes like shit. He wants a new one.”
