6. But I’m A Bartender

Chapter 6

But I'm A Bartender

MEGAN

M y hands are shaking as I close my eyes, praying to whichever deity will listen to me to make this entire scene dissolve into just a terrible nightmare. But when I open my eyes, Mr. Middleton is still watching me. The corner of his lips quirked up.

"I can explain," I say without thinking.

I wonder if there's any way to weasel my way out of this. A few minutes ago, I called him a ruthless murderer. I even told him how many.

To his face.

Oh, dear God.

"Get me the first aid kit, Parker," he says with a strange emotion dancing in his eyes as he looks at the man who had come looking for me at my college.

When the door closes behind Parker, Mr. Middleton asks, "Explain what?"

"Um," I try to wriggle my hand away from his grip, even as the spasms of pain make me want to cry out. "I don't know. My idiocy? Look, please don't fire me or kill me."

"I have no plans of doing either," he claims as he presses the cold compress around the swelling in my wrist, his touch surprisingly gentle.

"Then I'm not in trouble?" I ask cautiously.

He lifts his gaze to mine, and his icy steel gray eyes turn my mouth dry. Up close like this, I can see his evening shadow clinging along his defined jaw, offering a blend of danger and attractiveness to anyone who dares admire it.

"In trouble for what?" he asks, and I snap my mouth shut, refusing to offer him reasons on a silver platter.

When I don't say anything, he gives me an amused glance. "So you do know when to stop talking? That's good to know."

My face burns in both mortification and insult.

Parker returns and walks inside, grinning at me, as he hands over the first aid kit to Mr. Middleton.

"Hurt yourself, did you?"

"Get out, Parker," Mr. Middleton snaps.

Perhaps I expect everybody to regard this man with a certain amount of fear, which is why my jaw nearly drops when Parker doesn't leave but instead makes a face and speaks again.

"Come on, I'm just trying to be nice. I just want to be her friend. She's the nicest bartender in here."

"Get out before I throw you out," Mr. Middleton says, not even looking in his direction as he takes out a heavy-looking roll of gauze.

I stare in Parker's direction, and he just winks at me, making a hand telephone, mouthing ‘Call me.' I sneer at him as he walks out. However, I don't escape unscathed because when I look back at my boss, he's staring at me with an unreadable expression.

I don't know where to look, so I look down at my hand, squinting my eyes in concentration. The look of irritation on his face and the gentleness of his touch doesn't match. He wraps my wrist with great care and by the end of it, I can't so much as bend it.

"I can't work like this," I say with great dismay, lifting my hand and studying his workmanship.

"You're not going to work today," he says, closing the small first aid box and heading over to his desk. He takes a seat in his oversized office chair, places his hands on the table, and watches me with little effect.

Panic fills me as this whole thing is making me uncomfortable. "You said I wasn't fired."

"You're not," he replies calmly.

He reaches across his desk and picks up a file, opening it. It gives me the time to take a really long look at him. Describing this man as handsome is an injustice. In his slate grey suit, which is probably worth ten times my yearly salary, he has this distinguished yet dangerous air about him. He's tall and fit, and while his strongly sculpted face is expressionless most of the time, I've noticed that his eyes are the key to figuring out his mood.

"If you're done gawking at me, you can take a seat," Mr. Middleton gestures towards one of the empty chairs across from his desk.

"I wasn't–" I try defending myself, but he just watches me with raised brows.

"Are you going to sit down, or should I pick you up and carry you over here as well?"

His threat has the intended effect, and I hurry to sit across from him.

I catch a glimpse of the file he's holding and realize that it belongs to me. He has my employee file open in front of him. Most people would read the information on their computer screens; interestingly, he's printed it out.

"Where have you worked before here?" he asks, leaning back in his chair and studying me.

"Um," I try to gather my thoughts, but it's a little difficult to focus on anything when he watches me with that intense gaze of his. My lower abdomen tightens when he holds my eyes, and I sink my teeth into my lower lip, trying to snap out of it. Lusting after this psychopath isn't what I should be doing right now.

"I worked–It was a bakery. I've worked as a barista at a coffee shop and as an assistant manager at a bakery."

"Why didn't you include those positions on your resume?"

Because they fired me from both places.

I try not to grimace. "I didn't think it was relevant."

"Is that so?"

I feel like I've been called into the principal's office.

I squirm in my seat and for some reason, I get the feeling that Mr. Middleton is enjoying my discomfort as if he almost "gets off" on it.

"Have you considered a managerial position?"

"Excuse me?" I blink at him.

He sets down the file and studies me. "To be more precise, your current manager's position."

I stare at him in stunned silence.

My brain begins to work at some point, and I say, sounding stupid to even my own ears, "But I'm a bartender."

"I'm aware of that." Mr. Middleton gives me a steady look. "But starting tomorrow, I want you to start training another employee to take your position. I want you to become the floor manager."

"But that's Steve's job."

"And now it will be yours."

"That's a full-time position," I say in a panicked voice. "I can't work full time. I have to go to college as well."

"I'll make it a part-time position for you," Mr. Middleton says, unbothered. "It'll be a trial position for three months, so you know."

I hesitate, "I don't think-"

"The pay is double what you're earning now."

Double the pay?

I immediately reconsider.

"I've always wanted to be a manager."

He smirks at my quick response. "At least I know what motivates you now."

He leans back in his chair. "You can go home for the day, but I expect you to start interviewing potential hires tomorrow, so come in early."

I stand up quickly, a little dazed by what's happening.

I've just turned around when he adds, "And Megan-"

I look over my shoulder to see him looking at my attire. I don't think there's anything wrong with my faded jeans and cropped sweater, but he has a look of disapproval on his face.

"Wear something appropriate for your new position."

"It's not like your establishment is the Four Seasons Hotel or something," I retort in a snarky tone.

When he just gives me one of his flat looks, I shut up. I'm learning quickly that those kinds of looks from Mr. Middleton don't bode well for anyone...even me, his new manager.

"I'll figure it out," I mutter, telling myself not to provoke the man.

I can feel his eyes on me as I leave his luxurious-looking office, and it's only when I close the door behind me that I acknowledge my wildly beating heart. Aside from the slight incident of him carrying me, he has been nothing short of professional, and yet, the way he looks at me is almost like a dangerous beast eyeing its prey.

My core moistens at the memory of the way he spanked my ass in one smooth movement.

Jesus, that man has red flags written all over him; I scold myself. Don't even think of him like that.

He's too damn old for you, anyway.

"So, he just offered you a job? Like out of nowhere?"

My hand moves in deft strokes as I draw Naomi's features with the charcoal in my hand. "Yeah, and can you stop moving your face, please? You're throwing me off!"

My roommate and best friend shifts on the couch, striking a suggestive pose and grinning. "Paint me like one of your French girls, darling."

"I swear to God, Naomi," I growl. "This is for my assignment."

However, I have already lost momentum, so I crumple the paper and throw it in with the rest of the pile in the corner behind me.

Our apartment is a one-bedroom piece of crap. The living room (if you can call it that) is tiny, as is the kitchen. Over the past two years, we've raided garage sales and fixed up tossed-aside pieces of furniture to fill our tiny home. The whole place is a mix and match of assorted colors, but it's home.

Naomi stretches her lithe body across the couch. "I can't sit still. You know I can't. Just draw somebody from memory or a TV show or something. I've had five expressos since this morning. I am incapable of sitting still."

I glance at the vintage wall clock I found at a yard sale last year. I still have a few hours before my first shift as the new part-time manager of The Blue Whiskey.

"If this works out, and the pay is good, we can move to a better place," I murmur. "God, I really want to leave this hellhole. Mickey is a fucking pervert of a landlord."

Naomi is still in cosmetology school, but she works at a salon nearby. She doesn't make much money either, but it's enough to pay her share of the rent and manage some savings (at least that's what she tells me). She stands to her feet, and I watch her rummage for eggs in the fridge. I stare at her and contemplate just how much we are the complete opposite of each other.

Naomi is playful, whereas I'm usually safe. I barely style my natural coils, whereas she wears a different hairstyle on any given day. A red wig on one day or long braids on another. She looks like a fucking supermodel most times and is also the complete opposite of me with her flirty personality. She's a people person. I, on the other hand, don't like people much.

"I want a condo," she muses, looking for a pan in the pantry. "With glass windows that overlook the city. And a water bed. I definitely want a waterbed."

My hand is idly sketching some broad features with my charcoal piece, and I ask, "What do you want a water bed for? Do they even still make those?"

She looks over my shoulder, winking at me. "Have you ever had sex on a water bed?"

I look up at her. "It can't be that good."

She wiggles her ass at me. "You remember Johnny?"

"The guy from the coffee shop?" I ask, trying to recall Johnny's face.

"Ooh, yeah." Naomi cracks two eggs into the pan. "He had this massive water bed. The boy reached places in me nobody's reached before, do and it's not like his technique was good. The bed kept moving. And so he kept going deeper."

She lets out a large chef's kiss. "Best sex of my life. It's a pity he got back together with his ex, or I would have definitely gone back for more, provided he still had that water bed, of course."

I groan at the thought of phenomenal water bed sex.

"My dry spell is never going to be over. I need to get laid."

The sizzling of the eggs reaches my ears, and I hear the toaster click to indicate that the toast is done. My fingers are still moving over the textured paper as the face I'm drawing begins to get a few more features.

"The last time I tried to get with someone, it was a fucking disaster," I recall.

Naomi brings her plate to our chipped coffee table and sits down on the carpet, her expression heavy. "It still pisses me off. Ricky is a fucking asshole. He needs to grow a pair."

"I saw him the other day, and that bitch Ashley," I tell her, focusing on shading the piercing eyes on my paper. "She brought up the video again."

Naomi's hand freezes in mid-air. "What?"

I try to shrug, but even six months have done nothing to mute the humiliation I've had to endure.

"That bitch!" I can hear the fury in my friend's voice.

I channel my anger into my art piece. "I gave back as good as I got, though. You would have been proud."

"I told you back then that you should've just kicked her ass when she leaked that video of you!"

I look up at Naomi, my own jaw tight. "You know I can't do that. I don't want to lose my scholarship. There's just one more year, and then I'm done."

I look down at the face that I've drawn, and, to my shock, it's a familiar one.

Naomi probably notices my expression, and she leans over. "What is it?"

When she sees the face, she lets out a whistle. "Fuck. He's hot."

"That's my boss."

Her jaw nearly drops. "The one who-"

I nod mutely.

I've captured Mr. Middleton's intense eyes, the cutting edge of his jaw, the slick hair that he always has pushed back.

I let out a rushed breath. "I should toss this."

"Are you kidding?" Naomi retorts. "It's freaking fantastic. And you have class right after your shift at eight in the morning. Just put it in your bag. You have to submit it. It's not like he'll know."

That's true.

I carefully seal the page in a file and tuck it into my bag. Then, I can just put it in my locker at work and head to campus.

"By the way, can I borrow some of your clothes? I'm supposed to dress the part for this new position, but I barely have money for rent this month, much less a nicer outfit."

Naomi stares at me, a gleam in her eyes. "Oh, this is the moment I was waiting for. Let me dress you, Cinderella."

"What? No!" I scramble back. "Absolutely fucking not!"

"Come on." Naomi abandons her dinner, grabbing me by the leg as I try to run to her room.

I try to shake her off, but she attaches herself to my leg. "I did a great job on your hair! Let me dress you!"

"No!" I shout, trying to push her off.

"Don't be a bitch," she wrestles me to the ground. "I got groceries this month, and you owe me! Besides, I need a model for my class, too. I just need a few pictures."

"I don't want to." I struggle. "You dress like a whore!"

I'm exaggerating, of course.

"Well, maybe if you dressed like one, you would get laid once in a while!" she retorts, pushing me back and running like a track star to her room.

"I don't even know if my ass can fit into your clothes," I say, now regretting that I even asked her.

"All my bottoms have a lot of stretch. You'll be fine."

I get to my feet and follow after her, "I'm telling you. I don't want you to-"

"I'll cover the remaining part of your rent." She dangles the bait in front of me, her brows waggling. "Let me dress you and take a few pictures for my class."

I pause at the doorway. "You promise?"

"I get paid in a week." Naomi narrows her eyes. "I'll cover your share."

I press my lips together before saying reluctantly, "If you make me look like a hooker, I'll kill you."

"Pretty Woman was a hooker."

"This is real life, Naomi."

Her sinister smile makes me whimper.

"Exactly."