6. Hunter

Chapter 6

Hunter

then

After two weeks of training, I'm officially ready for my first solo shift as the hostess and greeter of Splice Nightclub. My heels are high. My eyeliner is fierce. I've got this.

The doors are set to open in a few minutes, and like every night, there's already a line winding around the block.

I wouldn't be surprised if it extends all the way up the hill to our flat.

Louie isn't working tonight. Only on Fridays and Saturdays do they require two hostesses, so it's rare that our schedules will match up now that training is over. But I've become friendly with Sean, the bartender, and I've got a security guard named Angelo just a few feet away to support me.

Running my fingers along the chain of my necklace, I confirm for the dozenth time that the tiny rose gold lock in the center of my chest is securely fastened.

Some of the employees at Splice offer extras. It's a burlesque entertainment club that attracts a posh crowd, and according to Louie, her cousin Taylor can make enough in one night offering up extras to pay their entire month's rent.

I'm decidedly not open to offering that kind of service, hence why my locket, part of the required uniform at Splice, is closed off and securely fastened around my neck.

My job is straightforward: Greet the guests. Check the lists. Then gently turn away about 90 percent of the patrons attempting to get in.

"All set?" Angelo asks, striding to the door.

I nod, nervous, but I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

Angelo will be stationed nearby to serve as backup if a guest doesn't take so kindly to being turned away. That's my primary task, telling people that they aren't getting inside in a way that's palatable.

I greet the guests and offer them champagne or the season signature drink, which is currently Pimm's punch. Then, once they've received their complimentary beverage, I check for their names on the list.

The list is actually a set of four lists, plus a running log of DNEs (do not enter) and AAAs (always allow access).

The general guest lists are ranked. There's an A list, B list, C list, and D list. The number of people I can let in from each of the lists depends on the crowd, the mood, the tone, and the attractions.

It's a bit confusing, but everything is color-coded, and worst-case scenario, Angelo will help me out.

"You've got this, kid," he tells me in his deep, gravelly voice. "Just smile and charm them with your American accent as you turn them away."

I stifle a laugh. If only it were that easy.

With a single nod at me, he heads to the door to let the other security guard know that we're ready.

Straightening, I steel my spine and take a deep breath.

I've got this.

I'm doing this.

I'm gonna stand on my own two feet, even if they are guaranteed to be aching by the end of the night .

It's only a Tuesday, yet within the hour, Splice is packed. Two DJs are spinning on the main floor. Dancers are putting on public and private shows around the club.

Several scantily clad entertainers dance on exposed catwalks above the crowd.

Louie even stops in to say hello.

She's off tonight and going out with a guy she met earlier this week.

There must be a holdup outside, because for the first time all night, there is a break in the line, and I have a moment alone to breathe. Quickly, I take a swig from my water bottle and then stash it below the podium.

When I straighten, there are three men standing before me.

They're all dressed smartly, the way rich boys in London always are, I'm learning. Two of the men hang back while one approaches my stand.

"Good evening," he greets.

"Hello," I reply coolly. "Welcome to Splice. May I offer you a complimentary glass of champagne or Pimm's?"

Smiling, he smooths his fingertips against the dark stubble on his chin.

He's got brilliant blue-gray eyes that juxtapose his warm brown skin. His dark hair is longer on top and wavy, but stylishly coifed. He's wearing a three-piece suit, but he's removed his necktie, and the top few buttons are undone.

He is undoubtedly attractive, and based on the confident way he carries himself, he knows it.

"You're new here," he tells me.

When I don't respond, he eyes the tray of drinks. "I'll take a Pimm's."

I hand him the punch, careful to pass it over on one of the signature Splice napkins, just like I was trained to do.

"Name, please?" I ask as he takes his first sip.

His smile transforms into a smirk. "You're new here," he repeats.

Rather than answer him—I haven't been trained on how to handle a situation like this—I repeat my question. "May I have your name, sir?"

" Sir . I like the sound of that in your pretty little American accent." He gives me a thorough once-over, as if he's really seeing me for the first time.

Ignoring his assessment, I grind my teeth to bite back a retort. Unless the man is on the AAA list that I have no jurisdiction over, there's no way I'm letting him in tonight.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name," I repeat.

"You honestly don't know who I am?" he asks, his tone mocking. He throws back the rest of his drink, grins, then side-steps past me and the hostess stand, moving closer to the bar.

"Excuse me, sir." I scan the area, looking for Angelo. This is typically where he would intervene.

Angelo has his back turned and is over by the door. There must be something else going on outside, or maybe he didn't even see these guys sneak past him.

I'm on high alert as I try to position myself between the handsome man and the bar.

His friends, thank fuck, are still holding back, though they don't bother to hide their snickers.

I take a few more steps to the side and stand taller, accepting that I'll need to handle this one on my own.

"I thought the hostesses at Splice weren't ever to leave the stand," the man comments offhandedly.

Hackles raised, I plant both hands on my hips. "True," I snap, "but we're also not supposed to let in anyone who's not on the list, and considering you have not told me your name yet, sir , I cannot confirm or deny whether you're on said list."

"Oh, she's feisty." With both brows raised, he turns to the bar and accepts a drink from Sean.

What the hell? I didn't even hear him put in an order.

I crane my neck, hoping I can catch Sean's attention, but he's already moving down the bar. The other bartenders working tonight are hustling, bustling, and serving patrons, paying us no mind .

A hand captures my wrist, startling me.

"You're all right, love," the man trying to weasel his way into the club tells me, his voice thick with condescension. "I can assure you I'm on your list."

I've heard that about thirty times so far tonight, and more often than not, the people blustering were, in fact, not on the list.

With a huff, I twist my wrist out of his grasp and march back to the hostess stand.

"Very well," I tell him, raising my voice to make sure he hears me at his position over at the bar. "If you're so confident, why don't you allow me to check?"

He gives me a wry smile, almost as if he's embarrassed for me, and nods toward his two buddies.

"I'll meet you at my usual booth."

As the two other men breeze past me, my heart takes off. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

I'm low-key—no, maybe high-key—panicking when the tall, dark, and handsome stranger approaches the podium once again.

"Breathe, love," he tells me. Again with the condescension.

"I apologize, sir," I force out, anger swirling inside me, "but if you are not willing to provide your name for me to check on the list, then I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

He stares deep into my eyes, unblinking in a way that both thrills me and pisses me the hell off as he sips the amber liquid from the crystal tumbler he magically procured at the bar.

Where the hell is Angelo? He better reappear before this pompous prick decides to waltz right past me and enter the club.

"Mr. Spencer," the security guard's booming voice echoes around us.

Fucking finally.

We have a name. Spencer.

A common name for sure, yet I swear I've heard it recently. Where, I have no idea. Maybe I went to school with somebody named Spencer?

I can't for the life of me recall, especially now, when I'm so agitated.

"Is there a problem, sir?"

The man smirks, his eyes dancing with mirth as he hits me with a decidedly I told you so look. He turns away from me slowly, looking to the bodyguard who has to be at least six-five.

"No problem at all, Angelo. Looks like our new hire is doing an excellent job keeping entry rates low. Although she probably could use a bit of a refresher on basic manners."

An exasperated gasp escapes me.

"See?" the man adds. "Testy, this one."

"I am not," I snap.

Instantly, I raise a hand to my mouth.

Oh, shit. Yes, I am.

The man—Mr. Spencer?—holds back a laugh and taps his knuckles on the podium twice. "What's your name, love?"

My blood pressure spikes. The nerve of this asshole to turn the question he refuses to answer back on me.

Angelo addressed him as Mr. Spencer, so at least I have something to latch on to.

"Well, Mr. Spencer," I enunciate, "my name is Hunter St. Clair. You can call me Hunter, and I can call you…?"

He leans into my space, still wearing a devilish grin. I can smell the rich, warm scents of cardamom and whiskey on his breath. A hint of mint, spice, and something oh so masculine infiltrate my senses the longer he lingers.

"Can I tell you a secret?"

Without my permission, my body angles closer.

"I very much liked it when you called me sir," he says under his breath.

I inhale sharply in response to this man's brazenness. Is he for real right now? I can't tell whether he's bullying me or flirting with me. Rather than engage, I offer my most saccharine smile, stand taller, and repeat for the umpteenth time, "Your full name, please, sir ."

"Kabir Kareem Alexander Louis Cornelia Spencer."

Oh .

Shit .

After all this time, I didn't actually expect him to reply. Kabir Kareem Alan what? He rattled off at least three names before I started truly paying attention. To make matters worse, all my lists are alphabetical by last name, but which one of those is his actual last name?

I'm spiraling into a panic when he jabs the portfolio containing all the lists for the night with one finger.

"You won't find my name on any of your lists, love, but you will find it on the business card if you inquire about the owner of this establishment."

Stomach plummeting, I snap my mouth shut.

He breezes past me, lifts his glass, and calls back over his shoulder. "See you around, Hunter St. Clair."

It's not until I turn to Angelo that the pieces all fall into place. Shuttering my eyes closed, I pull in a sharp inhale through my teeth.

"That's Mr. Spencer, the owner of Splice?"

"One and the same," Angelo tells me with a lighthearted chuckle, as if this is all a joke.

Flovely.

Fucking lovely.