7. Learning The Ropes

Chapter 7

Learning The Ropes

MEGAN

I don't see Steve when I walk in for my shift, and I'm about to reach the staff locker room when I see a familiar face.

"Well, if it isn't Miss Tayla ," Parker grins mockingly.

"You were some strange man on a college campus approaching me. When are you going to let that Tayla thing go? "

"Never, that shit was funny. Where are you going?"

"To put my bag away in my locker," I say as if it's obvious what I'm doing because it is. I try to walk around him because he's blocking my path, but he's an immense guy, much to my annoyance.

"Boss wants to see you," he says with a smirk.

"You enjoy annoying the hell out of me, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do. Now come on, the boss wants to see you."

"How can he want to see me when I just got in? At least let me put my stuff away."

"Sorry, Miss Tayla." Parker puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me around.

"Stop calling me that," I say in irritation.

"But that's who you introduced yourself as," he chuckles.

"Has anybody ever told you how annoying you are?" I glare over my shoulder at him as he opens a door that even employees aren't allowed through.

"Constantly," he says cheerfully, urging me through the door.

"I can walk by myself." I shrug off his hands, annoyed.

"Fine." He doesn't look fazed by my small outburst. "The boss is waiting for you."

To his credit, he stops following me but continues to watch me from the middle of the hallway. Having no choice, I knock on Mr. Middleton's door.

"Come in."

His voice is curt, and for some reason, my stomach does a complete somersault.

When I open the door, I freeze.

He's standing in the middle of his office, half-naked.

"I – I can come back," I try to get the words out as my eyes are drawn to the ripples of his defined chest. If I thought he looked good in a suit, he looks mouthwatering without one.

"Are you done looking?" He drawls. "Hand me my shirt."

I feel numb as I look around blankly for a shirt, only to see a freshly pressed one hanging from the coat rack. I stumble towards it, eyes toward the ground, and drop my bag in the process.

I've just grabbed the shirt when I hear him say in an intrigued voice, "What is this?"

"What?"

When I turn around, he's holding the laminated file that holds the charcoal drawing I made of him just a few hours ago. Dammit, it must have spilled out of my bag.

My heart climbs into my throat as horror fills me. "No, wait! Don't look at that!"

I dart towards him, one hand holding the shirt, the other aiming at the file, but he holds it over his head, just out of my reach, studying it.

"It's a remarkable likeness," he comments as I slam into him in an attempt to get the file back, my face hot with embarrassment.

"Please give it back!" I half-demand and half-beg, mortified. But he stands still, tilting his head back to inspect my sketch.

"There are situations when I believe that college is a waste of good money, but you're quite talented. I just didn't know you had a habit of drawing me. But you should know, I don't particularly appreciate you putting my face out there. Anonymity works to my benefit in my business."

Without thinking, I put one hand over his chest as I reach up on my toes to grab the picture. It's just then that he looks down at me, and I realize our position. My face goes slack, and I find myself unable to move. My eyes are drawn to his full lips, which are inches from mine. His breath wafts over me with the scent of fine whiskey and, I think, mint.

He also looks taken aback, but his eyes narrow, and the air between us suddenly becomes charged with electricity. I find it hard to breathe, unable to move back, and suddenly, my own body is not mine to control.

"You're treading in dangerous waters, Miss Taylor," he warns in a thick voice, his free hand curling around my waist in a grip that has me gasping. The way he says my name has my core contracting in need.

His eyes move to my mouth, and I can hear a small voice in the back of my head screaming for me to move, but my body isn't listening. A pair of sexy lips are moving lower toward mine, and my heart is racing desperately in both fear and anticipation.

"I don't have a habit of fucking my employees," he whispers seductively against my mouth, our lips not touching.

I instantly feel the dampness in my panties even as the crushing humiliation makes me immobile.

Did he just imply?

I push him away, rebuking the intensity of my attraction to this man. "I wasn't suggesting anything, Mr. Middleton. I just want my sketch back."

"You mean my sketch?"

He doesn't look at all fazed by this exchange between us on the surface, but his eyes are damn near communicating that he plans to devour me. This isn't some college boy who'll beg me to suck him off. No, this is a man who'll have me down on my knees with a single word.

I don't fuck my employees.

His words echo back in my head, and I snap out of my sudden shell-shocked state. Falling under this dangerous man's spell and into his bed is probably the worst thing I could do. This job is simply a means to an end. I work to eat and pay for school, and that's it. That's all it could ever be.

"I wasn't hitting on you!" My words are furious. He's making assumptions about me without any valid reasons. "And that sketch is for my art class. I demand that you give it back."

"Why would you draw me of all people?"

"I – There's no particular reason." I stumble over my words. "I don't know. I mean, I had to draw somebody, and so I just drew you. Give it back."

"I don't think so," his words slither out of his mouth like a snake. "I just told you. I don't like my picture–"

Panic begins setting in.

"But I'll fail the course if I don't hand this in today. Look, I'm sorry, I'll never draw you again. I swear. I just - I need to use this one. I don't have to name it anything. No one will ever know it's you. Please."

I hate begging.

I detest being forced into a position where I have to toss away my pride and beg so desperately, but people love putting me in that position for some reason. They love tearing away at my self-respect until I'm groveling at their feet. Everyone in my life has done that to me so far except a scant few.

Why did I expect this man to be any different?

Mr. Middleton frowns as he looks at me, and there's a strange emotion in his eyes. "You don't have to get that upset. Here."

My hands shake as I snatch back the drawing and hold it against my chest. I feel cold all over, and suddenly, I want to leave, but he's holding me by my shoulders and guiding me to the couch, ordering me to "Breathe."

I shake off his touch. "I'm fine. I'm okay. Like I said, I need this for my class."

"I get it." He lowers his voice as if he's attempting to calm down a frightened child. "It's fine."

"I won't draw you again."

My heartbeat is slowing down as I glance at him. How can I explain to somebody like him what it's like to live in my shoes? He would never understand why something so slight in his eyes could have me so panicked. I can't afford to make one misstep in school...hell, in my life. Every decision I make matters.

"It's a good drawing. Do you mind if I look at it again?" He holds out his hand as he simultaneously asks the question. I suppose it isn't really a request but more of a demand, so I reluctantly hand over the sketch again. "Why is it so important?"

I suppose his question is straightforward and may be warranted based on my overreaction, but I feel like I've explained myself enough. Of course, I realize that a man like him won't take no for an answer, so I purse my lips and reply, "It's for a mid-semester project. The top five students can present some of their work in an art exhibition next month. I need to win it."

We all have to hand in five pieces each and this is my last. Usually, the charcoal sketch isn't looked at as carefully as the earlier submissions, which is partly why I drew it so hastily, but I still have to hand it in with the rest of my work. An incomplete would disqualify me.

"Which exhibition?"

"Do you even know anything about art?"

"Which exhibition?" He repeats with less patience.

"There's one at The Box Gallery next month," I huff.

"I see."

He hands me back the file, and I hold it tightly, watching him warily as he shrugs into his shirt and buttons it up.

"You can put it back in your bag."

He picks up his tie and wraps it around his collar. His calm behavior settles me and I move towards my bag and quietly tuck in the file and zip it up as if it's a secret government file that I've hidden from an enemy faction.

"Sorry about that," I say, realizing that my overreaction must have made me just look like some unstable, crazy person. It's not a good look for someone who's just been made part-time manager of a club filled with unsavory characters most of the time.

He glances over his shoulder at me, and our eyes lock. "You don't need to apologize, Miss Taylor."

I try to ignore the flip my stomach makes when he drawls out my name like that. God, I really don't know what to make of this man. My opinion of him keeps changing.

"Take a look at these." He gestures towards a stack of files.

I walk over to his desk and see that it's a bunch of resumes.

"These are for the bartender positions?"

"Yes."

"Who prints out resumes anymore? We could have done this all electronically," I say, blurting out what is quite obvious to me but may not be to someone at least ten years my senior.

"You're going to interview all of them today," he orders without acknowledging my rhetorical question. "That's why I told you to come in early. Select one on the spot and begin training them. You will still be working the bar for a week or so until they get the hang of it, but you'll be handing over a bulk of the work to this new person."

I hesitate, and when I look him square in the eyes, I suddenly remember what his chest felt like under my hands. It takes an enormous amount of struggle to keep my voice steady.

"I feel like I need to ask this. I don't understand your thinking. Why do you want me to take on the manager's position? I don't have this kind of experience, and Steve is actually kind of good at it," I lie.

I'm having second thoughts about accepting this position if I have to interact with Mr. Middleton like this constantly. When I was just a bartender, I never met the man. Now, we've become way too familiar with each other in a short span of time.

The look he gives me chills me to the bones. It's as if putting on the shirt changed his entire demeanor. He's all business now.

"You should keep in mind, Miss Taylor, that I'm not accustomed to my employees questioning my decisions."

I blink and stare at him in confusion. The man switches between moods like I do on day two of my period.

"Fine," I say, refusing to be offended by his tone. "I'll interview them."

"As if there was any other appropriate response," he mutters in a deep voice as I fling my bag on my shoulder and exit the office.

Diana is a sharp-eyed brunette with two years of bartending under her belt. She seems to be pretty friendly and knows enough about different drinks that I decide to go with her. I hate to admit this, but a part of my hiring decision is based on the fact that she's pretty enough to get good tips from patrons but not quite pretty enough to cause drama like our previous server did. She should be a perfect fit for The Blue Whiskey.

My shift is quiet and as the hours tick by, I still don't see Steve anywhere and I have to wonder where he's gone. While Mr. Middleton did offer me his job, and I'm slowly accepting that I actually may have a knack for this, I have to wonder whether Steve was fired or ‘disposed of'. For a place like this, it's a legitimate concern.

"You good?" I ask Diana, although I'm only asking out of courtesy. She definitely knows her way around a bar and is doing a good job so far. She's not the type of employee I need to babysit whatsoever. "I need to check something in the back."

"Yep, I can handle it."

"Cool."

I leave Diana to work the bar and go check the shift schedule. Maybe Mr. Middleton moved some things around on the calendar, and Steve wasn't scheduled to work today.

"Heard you got promoted," Billy says casually as he flips some burgers for the people seated in one of the back booths.

"Yeah, and?"

"About damn time."

I have to grin at the club's line cook as he stares at my ass. I think he actually means the compliment but ruins it with his gross ogling of my backside.

"How's Brianna doing?" I ask, reminding him about his girlfriend. A girl I've met on numerous occasions.

"Hanging in there." After plating the burgers, Billy pulls the bell for the servers to come to get the order. "She hates being pregnant. Let me know if I can get an extra shift next month, boss. I need the money. Diapers and shit."

"Let me talk to Ralph," I tell him, scribbling it down on the schedule notes. "I think he wanted some days off next month, so I'll put you in for his shifts."

"Thanks, doll. You're a real one."

Billy then moves towards me and lowers his voice, "Did you hear about Steve?"

I go still. "What about him?"

"I heard the big boss called him into his office, and then, like ten minutes later, he was dragged out into the alley. Ron was on a break, and he saw the whole thing. They beat the shit out of him."

"What?" I freeze. "Why?"

"Dunno." Billy shrugs his shoulders. "Maybe he didn't like that you were taking his job and said some slick shit."

I knew there was a possibility that Steve would lose his job but then again there was always the chance that he'd be moved to the earlier shift and I work the late one. I don't know. I guess that was wishful thinking. Maybe deep down I always knew that this was going to end badly once I accepted the job.

"I didn't steal the job from him, Billy," I say defensively. "They told me it was available and asked if I wanted it. I didn't ask questions."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me. You know the kind of place this is. Steve must've stepped on some toes. Don't have nothing to do with you." He adds a bag of fries to the deep fryer. "But I'll tell you one thing, doll, you'd better be careful. I know the money's good here, but it's not worth your neck."

Billy makes a valid point.

"Then why are you sticking around?" I ask, filling in the schedule on the whiteboard.

It's a rhetorical question, but Billy answers it anyway. "I want my kid to have a good life, you know. My old man was a right bastard. Treated me like shit. We never had any money, and he used to take out his anger on me with that fucking belt of his. I don't want that for my kid, and this is the best job someone like me is ever going to get."

I smile bitterly. "I guess both our fathers were pieces of shit then. It was hell for me, too. My dad threw me into the street when I was ten and made me beg on my knees to be let back inside. It was like a game for the asshole, and his wife was even worse. She liked making me eat scraps off the kitchen floor. Kinky bitch. I hope they both rot in hell."

When Billy doesn't respond to my overshare, I wonder if the little glimpse into my childhood was too explicit for him. "You okay?"

My question becomes stuck in my throat as I see Billy standing in front of me with wide eyes and a nervous face, looking behind me. As I follow his gaze in damn near slow motion, my blood turns cold when I see Mr. Middleton standing there watching us.

And he's furious.