I grimace. “No? But I’m a quick learner.”
He glances at Si. “What do you think, Silas?”
Silas passes a hand through his perfect copper hair. “Tough gig, even for an experienced bartender.” His eyes rake over me, assessing and checking me out at the same time. “Sweet little thing like you? Chew you up and spit you out.”
“Why does everyone think I’m so sweet? I’m not sweet, and I’m not little, either. I need a job and I’m a hard worker. If I can bale hay for twelve hours in the North Carolina heat, I can tend bar.”
Kane nods. “Balin’ hay ain’t no joke.” He crooks a finger at me. “Come on, darlin’. I’ll let Inez decide.” He glances at Silas. “Be right back.”
I follow him into the club, through the crowd of dancers. The music tonight is slower, not as frenetic but more hypnotic for the slow, almost syrupy way the beats recurve and twist and coil in on themselves. He leads me to the back, to a door disguised in a back corner; a keycard from his pocket admits him with a beep and a flash of green light.
On the other side, the music is muted, the air less close and hot; it’s dimly lit. A service corridor, high ceilings but narrow. Racks piled high with sleeves of plastic cups line the walls, other racks containing cases of beer and liquor. Garbage cans, more racks of boxes of liners, straws, napkins.
Kane turns right, and I follow him—it’s a long walk to the other corner, where an exit sign beams red above a door. Stairs on the other side lead up and down; Kane goes up. We pass the second floor and exit at the third. On the other side, a totally different world—brightly lit, spacious, open, cool, quiet, only a faint thudding audible here. It’s a foyer, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the parking lot, the lights of Vegas glimmering in the distance.
Kane leads me around a corner and knocks on a door. There’s a pause, and the door opens—I catch a glimpse of a window with the club beyond it, a one-way mirror. The woman from the hallway, Inez, is on the other side of the door, looking dour and unpleasant.
“Kane. May I help you?” Her voice is low, raspy, rattling.
He shifts. “Uh, this is Myka Donovan.”
Her pale green eyes fix on me. “Yes.”
“She wants a job. And I know we just lost Haley. So I figured you could talk to her.”
Inez stares at me a moment, then glances at Kane. “Very good. Thank you.” To me, then. “Experience?”
“In bartending? None. But I grew up working hard, and I know I can learn. And I really, really need a job.”
“Any service experience at all?”
I shrug. “Some. Mostly washing dishes. I waited tables at a diner in Nebraska for a week or so. Wasn’t that complicated. Not easy—it’s hard work. But it’s not complicated.”
She peers at me, expressionless, a statue carved from ice. She lets out a breath. “I am short-staffed, so you’re fortunate. Or unfortunate, perhaps.” A short, white-tipped fingernail taps against her thigh. “Very well. But I warn you, I’m throwing you to the wolves. I’ll put you with Ingo, my lead bartender. If he says you can hack it, you’re hired. You’ll keep whatever tips he sees fit to share with you. Survive the night, and we’ll try a full shift tomorrow.”
I restrain my eagerness. “Thank you, Inez. Seriously, thank you.”
“Thank me if you make it.” She reaches inside and hands me a short black apron. “As you said, it’s not complicated, but it’s very hard work. Drink all you want, but if you fail to do your job, you’re out. The best ones work sober. Steal, and we’ll…well, best not find out, hmmm? Unless you’re a martial arts expert, let security handle issues, and they will come up, trust me.”
“I was raised to be honest, and I don’t drink. I tried it once, recently, and it was awful. And I have no issue letting the boys handle the rough stuff.”
“The boys?” This, with an arched eyebrow.
I shrug. “Kane, Lash, Chance, Rev. I’ve met Si, and I’ve seen his brothers but I haven’t met them yet.”
She snorts. “The boys.” She flicks a wrist at me. “Go. Sink or swim, Ms. Donovan.” I turn away and she calls my name. “And Myka? A word of advice, woman to woman? Stay away from Rev. Women throw themselves at him all the time, and they all break themselves trying to get his attention. You’ll get nowhere with him but heartbroken.”
I blink. Quite a blunt warning. “I…um. Yeah, thanks.”
A nod. “Find Ingo. Blue mohawk. He’s main floor, tonight, near the stairs to Fisticuffs. He’ll be expecting you.”
* * *
Two hours later,I’m drenched in sweat, my feet hurt, and I’m yet again wondering what the heckle-schmeckle I’ve gotten myself into.
It’s pure madness.
The line at the bar is four deep, end to end at all times. I got a crash course in the point-of-service computer, and a quick rundown on how to mix drinks. Ingo clearly doesn’t expect me to last five minutes—he spends maybe that long training me, and then leaves me to figure it out. Red wristbands drink for free, orange pay for shots and mixers but not beer. A tattoo like I’ve seen twice now also drinks for free.
