Ingo seems surprised that I’m still here after two hours, because he actually starts interacting with me. Directing me to serve customers over there, telling me to fix three vodka tonics. Mixing drinks is the hardest part—there’s a slew of different liquors, and everyone expects me to know the difference between Ketel and Belvedere, Tanqueray, and Bombay. I don’t. But I figure it out. Someone comes back and shoves a half-finished drink in my face, complaining there wasn’t enough booze in it. Another person took a sip, made a shocked face, and then grinned at me—too much, I think.
Finally, when Ingo tells me to fix a pair of Goose and sodas, I break down and ask him. “Ingo, how much liquor do I pour in?”
He scoops ice into the cups, snatches the bottle of Grey Goose out of the rack without looking at it. Pours, speaking. “One…two.” He lifts the cup, points at the line of liquid. “About that.” He finishes the drinks, takes money and keeps addressing me. “Customer comes back a lot, tips well, make it stiffer for ‘em. Want a dude’s number? Extra booze and show him that cleavage. Didn’t like the way some bitch looked at you? Less booze.”
He’s in motion while speaking, taking orders, filling, and cashing out, never stopping.
“The dudes with the tats? The H? Don’t fuck with ‘em. Make their drinks mostly all booze and keep it all business. Don’t flirt unless you like it kinky and fucked up, cuz those dudes are hardcore pervs.”
“I’ve noticed,” I say.
“Yeah, heard about you and Wendell.” He pauses, leans over the bar and lifts his chin to indicate he’s ready to take an order.
I endeavor to mimic him, always in motion, never idle. And it suits me—I’ve always liked to stay busy—if I’m idle, my brain plays tricks on me, spins me into trouble-land.
“What do I do if I see something bad happening?” I ask.
“Tell me.” He glances at me. “But unless it’s violence or someone messing with a girl and she’s not liking it, leave it alone.”
“So pretty much anything goes, here?”
He shrugs. “It’s called Sin for a reason.”
The night progresses. I get the hang of it. There’s a rhythm to it, it’s almost like a dance. Ingo and I work well together, moving around each other easily. I chatter at him, and he lets it flow over him, only responding occasionally.
Finally, the club seems to be dying out. I have no idea what time it is, how long I’ve been here. Ingo pops a beer and shoves it at me, along with a keycard. “Go take a minute in back. I got it.” He shows me the faintest of smiles. “You swam, Donovan.”
I feel proud. Exhausted, but proud.
I take my cold beer to the service corridor, lean against the wall just inside, and take a long sip.
Close my eyes, letting raw exhaustion like I’ve not felt in a long time wash over me.
“The fuck are you doin’, Myka?” That voice.
Silky smooth, velvety, dark, deep. Gosh, that voice. It’s pure sex layered over raw, primal threat. The very sound of it goes straight to my lady bits, makes me shiver.
I hold up my beer, lift the folded wad of cash from my apron. I don’t look at him. “Working.”
I’ve decided on a new tactic: play hard to get. It’s a new ploy for me, but hey, it’s a thing for a reason, right?
He’s in front of me. “You ain’t workin’ at Sin.”
I look up at him. “Okay, but I am.”
“Why?”
“I need a job. And I know you guys, sort of. Kane introduced me to Inez, and Inez hired me, and I spent the night working with Ingo.” I watch his face, study it, the hard angles and planes, the high sharp cheekbones, the deep-set dark eyes. His emotions, if he even feels them, are kept deep.
He studies me back—I’m rewarded and thrilled when his eyes slide from mine downward, pausing and lingering at my chest, slithering down my belly to my legs. His jaw pulses.
“Ingo trained you?”
I laugh. “If you could call it that. I mostly just figured it out as I went. I screwed up a few drinks, but I did okay. I’m still here.” I shrug. “So I guess I work at Sin with you.”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak for a long time.
“Are you just going to stare at me?” I ask. “Or did you have something you wanted to talk about?”
