25. Worst Bartenders in New York

TWENTY-FIVE

#1 Mac whatever his name is

"One girl per table. Tips are yours minus twenty percent to the house. If there's a problem, we'll switch you around, but there should never be a problem. You got that?"

I nodded for what was probably the tenth time in the last ten minutes as Kyle, the owner of Diamonds strip club and the manager of what I suspected was only a semi-legal underground gambling operation, finished showing me around the basement of a nondescript brownstone on East 125th and Pleasant Avenue, at the very edge of Spanish Harlem.

It wasn't exactly what I'd expected when Kyle told me it was a "casual" get-together. In its way, this place was busier than Opal, except it was full of men ready to see me serve them their highballs tits out.

"Rochelle, you're tables three and four. New Girl, tables five and six. Leave your things in the coatroom. Beto will take care of them."

Kyle rubbed his goateed chin and glanced through the doors toward the crowd gathered around a variety of game tables. He seemed a little more nervous than when he was at Diamonds—constantly moving and fidgeting. These were obviously some high rollers.

"They just sat down, so they need drinks ASAP. And whatever else they want. Company, a blow on the dice, a lap dance—they ask, you give, all right?" He looked me over. "You look good. I knew that size would be better."

I looked down at my outfit—if you could even call it that. The "uniform" Kyle had given all the girls consisted of black hot pants over fishnet stockings, black high heels, a bow tie…and that was all. He'd insisted I would fit into shorts a size smaller than usual, and they were riding up my butt a little. Apparently, that was the look he was going for.

"Yeah," I said. "But…I thought we didn't have to go topless if we don't want."

But Kyle was already gone. Rochelle just shrugged at me as she took a tray of drinks from the bartender. "You can put your bra back on. But you also probably won't be asked back either."

I scowled. I'd been hoping to keep my top on tonight, but apparently, that wasn't in the cards. But neither was getting my hair and nails done this week with the hundred dollars currently in my bank account.

"Fine," I said as I took a tray of drinks for myself. "Where is table five?"

I followed Rochelle into the smoke-filled room, which looked and sounded more like a speakeasy in the nineteen twenties than a grungy basement. The walls were papered in silk florals, with maroon wainscoting reaching up from the floor. Wrought iron chandeliers with glinting glass prisms dangled over men seated in leather chairs around green felted game tables—the only things that didn't look like they were permanent fixtures in the room.

It wasn't exactly a small operation. There were about a dozen tables, each surrounded by six or so men plus a dealer, most of them wearing suits or at least pieces of them, with ties untucked, jackets off, and sleeves rolled up.

Rochelle and I weren't the only servers here tonight. Two more I recognized from Diamonds were already strutting around the room with drinks. Another was sitting on the lap of an older man in the corner, grinding on him while the others around the table leered and laughed.

"You ready?" Rochelle said. "Come on, mami. The money's out there."

I straightened my back, just like I was waiting in the wings for my cue. It was another part to play. Just another part.

"Ready," I said and followed her toward table five, where four men sat waiting for cards to be dealt.

"Gentlemen," I greeted my customers for the night. "Can I get you anything?"

The men all turned while the dealer shuffled, each openly appraising my body.

"Nice, a new face," said a barrel-chested man in a striped shirt and paisley tie. He had a mustache that reminded me of old pictures of my grandpa when he was young, but he spoke with a thick Eastern European accent.

"New attitude too," I said with a wink, earning more than a few chuckles and a low howl.

"Boys, this is…" Kyle appeared behind me with a cue I recognized. Was I giving a stage name or my real one?

I flashed the smile that always won over customers like these. "Gigi. How're you boys doing tonight?"

"Better now that you're here, honey," said another gray-haired man beside the first.

"That's for sure," added a third who looked like my uncle Tino.

The fourth man at the table, who was younger and vaguely resembled the older one in the paisley tie, just cast a blank glance toward me before picking up the cards set before him.

I kept the grin pasted on my face but made a mental note to focus on the others. Obviously, this one wouldn't be the biggest tipper.

"Well, let's keep that going," I told them. "We got some shots of bourbon for you on the house." I set down the shots in front of each man, allowing them each an up close and personal view of my bare chest. I didn't have much, but what I had looked good. They seemed to appreciate them, anyway. "Now, what else would you like?"

Each of the men placed their orders, one with an extra fifty for a lap dance later.

"And I'll have a whiskey on the rocks."

The voice was like a wet finger drawn down my back on a very windy day. I turned and found the very last person I would have expected. Or wanted to see at all.

Shawn Vamos smiled, revealing that gold filling again among stained teeth. Regrettably, I had to admit he was still handsome, though The sooty black eyes that had charmed me at fourteen were just as sooty and mysterious, the grin just as devilish.

"You know what I like, baby," he said.

"Shawn, you know her?" asked the large man in the tie.

Shawn nodded. "Yeah, Lis, this is my girl?—"

"Gigi," I interrupted with a wild look. "It's Gigi."

Shawn's sharkish smile spread with an acknowledgment of our little secret. "That's right. Gigi." He turned to the men. "We go way back. You boys need anything, she'll find a way. And I do mean anything."

The leers at the table grew a bit more familiar. A bit more expectant.

Dread landed in my gut like an anvil.

"I'll be right back with your drinks, fellas," I told them, then turned, conscious of all eyes on me, while I made my way to the bar.

Shawn, however, did not sit down. Instead, he followed me back to where I submitted the orders for the table and waited while the bartender, a large man who simply went by "Mac," went to work.

"What do you want?" I asked without looking at Shawn, who had made himself comfortable right next to me. "What are you even doing here? You've never been into gambling."

"I could be into gambling. I could be into anything." He leaned back against the bar and lit a cigarette. "But I don't think that's the question, gorgeous. What are you doing here?" He toyed with his lighter, flipping the flame on and off. "What happened to your boyfriend?"

"What boyfriend?" I played dumb. Sometimes it worked. But not tonight.

"You know who. I heard you were all over some guy at Casper's last weekend. Spent the night on the couch. Was it that four-eyed gorilla from Opal?"

"Word travels fast." Apparently, our plan had worked, in my favor, at least. "Yeah, that's him. Although I don't see why it should matter to you."

For some reason, I didn't like admitting that I was in a relationship with Nathan out loud. Not to Shawn. Not like this.

Fake.

Not. Real.

But that was the point of this whole little performance, wasn't it? To make Shawn think I didn't matter anymore. That I was taken.

"It matters when it comes to my assets."

I bristled. "I'm not a fucking bank account, Shawn. Or one of those fake Fendis you used to hawk out of the back of your car."

Shawn's easy smile curled into a snarl, just like it always had. "Watch it, baby. Don't let that temper run away with you now. Things are just starting to get fun again."

I smiled at the bartender, who glanced at Shawn but was wise enough to say nothing while he mixed an old-fashioned.

"Four-eyes know you're working here?" Shawn asked, first nodding out at the crowd, then making no effort not to ogle my breasts. "Rubbing yourself down with baby oil like a piece of meat for these old men?"

Then he looked away in disgust, like my body meant nothing to him. Like I was old news.

I supposed I was.

"Who?" I asked again as I watched Mac start on a gin martini. He was a lot faster than me, but I wished he could go faster just so I could escape this conversation.

"Don't play dumb, Jo. Your boyfriend." One black brow lifted. "Is it serious?"

I shrugged. "Serious enough. We live together." I turned. "And we're getting married."

The lie tasted like the biggest pill I'd ever had to swallow. I literally almost choked.

"And he doesn't want to control my job, unlike you," I added. "He actually trusts me."

"Married, huh?" Shawn looked me over again. "If you needed a job, honey, you know I'd always help you out."

I turned, unable to keep the glare off my face. "I don't need a pimp, you asshole."

Shawn looked me up and down. "You sure about that?"

It was everything I could do not to throw one of the drinks in his face.

"Yes. Now fuck off, and let me get back to work."

I tried to turn away, but before I could, Shawn snatched my wrist and whipped me back around to look at him.

"You and your smart fuckin' mouth," he bit out. "I can tell you one thing: he ain't ever gonna marry you, Sunshine. No man wants to come home to used goods for the rest of his life. I sure as shit wouldn't."

"Didn't stop you before," I snapped back.

His hand gripped even tighter. "You think you're better than me? You always did, didn't you? Well, you're not, and you know I have the proof. You think your fancy man in glasses is gonna want you when he knows you've done way more than shake those titties around?"

"Don't," I gritted out. "Stop."

"All I gotta do is click a button, gorgeous. Then your face is all over the internet, moaning for more while you take it good and hard for the camera."

Shame flooded me as my face and body heated like a flame. "You promised you wouldn't."

"And you promised you'd always be mine," Shawn cut back. He looked me over again like a car salesman valuing a trade. "They'd be crazy for you over on OnlyFans. That body could still be good for something, after all."

I stared at the bar top, then over to Mac, who was still pouring drinks, somehow even more slowly, as if he were enjoying the show.

"Don't," I said again, though my voice had lost its edge. Then, "What do you want?"

Shawn glanced back at the table, then returned his smarmy gaze to me. "Nothing. For now. Just for you to remember who you really belong to."

When Mac placed his drink—basic scotch on the rocks—Shawn picked it up and raised it in my direction.

"One of these days, I'm going to need that charm again, Sunshine," he told me. "Especially with this crowd. Lis seems to like you. So have fun with old four-eyes, but when I call, you're gonna come. Or else that video is going up everywhere, and you can kiss your boy toy goodbye."

He raised his glass to me as if in salute, then sauntered back to his table.

Shaking, I waited for Mac to make the last two drinks while I stared at the bar top and tried to calm my breath, my heartbeat, and literally every cell in my body that was screaming at me to run.

But that I couldn't do.

Because Shawn had always been a predator.

Which meant if I ran, he was guaranteed to chase.

Faking a relationship was never going to work—if anything, I should have known it would make him pick up the scent that much more.

Eventually, my breath calmed to the point that I could gather the drinks. I turned to bring them back to the tables but found someone else had joined the men at table five. And to my horror, it was yet another face I would have preferred to never see again.

Carrick Hunt's dark brown eyes darted between Shawn and me, and I knew he'd seen our entire interaction at the bar. The difference between them was stark. Both were predators, but while Shawn was about as hapless as a puppy at this table full of full-grown wolves, Carrick had the confidence of a pack leader.

Or maybe one that was even more dangerous and unpredictable. A lone wolf.

I took a deep breath and plastered on a smile. Took one step forward and then immediately set my tray back on the bar and made for the exit.

"Hey," Kyle called out just before I reached the coat room. "Where do you think you're going?"

I turned. "Kyle, I'm so sorry, but there's, um, been a family emergency. I have to go."

"Lemme guess, your grandma's in the hospital," Kyle jeered. "Get back to work."

"Kyle, please. I really can't go back in there. My table is?—"

"Your table is full of some of the biggest Gs in the city," Kyle cut in through his teeth as he grabbed my arm. "I went out on a limb to hire you here tonight, so you can't just run out and leave me hanging, kiddo. You promised me hours."

I clutched my shoulders. This wasn't performance. It was torture.

"I'm sorry," I tried again. "I'll come back to Diamonds if you need. Tonight, I just…I don't think I can do this."

"And I don't think I give a shit. Get your ass back in there and get to work. Now."

I knew that tone. I'd heard it enough in the voices of hardscrabble men in Belmont. In bouncers and doormen, and even policemen, from time to time.

It was the one that said "don't even try it" to kids like me who wanted to break the rules.

I didn't want to try. I didn't want any of this.

So I lifted the tray and followed my ex-boyfriend back to the table and delivered the drinks.

It was just another part. Just another role, I told myself.

And in a few hours, this show would be over.