It was a busy night at the Frisky Missy. People were shouting over the band, laughing too loud, and somewhere near the bar a woman was crying about god-knows-what into a glass that was mostly melted ice at this point. Every table in the place had someone trying to hook up, talk their way into a free drink, or drown some feeling they didn't want to look at sober. Every table except the one closest to the far wall, where a man sat by himself like the noise belonged to a different room entirely.
He was tall. Taller than most men I'd seen come through here, and definitely taller than me, even with the extra inch these stupid heels gave me. I started walking toward him with a tray tucked against my hip, and that's when a pack of girls cut in front of his table like they'd been waiting for exactly this excuse.
I couldn't hear what they were saying. I didn't need to. One of them laughed in that high, performative way women do when they're trying to make their words sound sweeter than they are, leaning into his space like proximity was a personality trait.
"Hey, Alex!"
I didn't even have to turn around to know who that was. "Ya," I called back anyway, twisting toward the voice. Franklin Jackson — Frank, to everyone except the bar's official paperwork — was glaring at me from across the floor like I'd personally set fire to his liquor license. Most people called him Frank for short, even though the man dressed like he was still twenty-six and not closing in on fifty.
"Why the fuck are you just standing there!" Frank barked, sounding more like a man defending his territory than an actual employer.
"Ya, ya," I muttered, waving a hand at him that said, clearly, I don't care about your dick-measuring tonight, old man. Every so often he got like this — loud, snippy, throwing his weight around like he had something to prove on a Tuesday. He didn't. He just liked feeling like the king of his own tiny, sticky-floored kingdom.
When I turned back around, the girls were gone. No more laughing, no more leaning. The man was alone again, watching the band like they were the only thing in the building worth his attention.
I started toward him and didn't stop this time.
Up close, his face was unfairly put together. Short beard, clean lines. Hair cut tight on the sides, longer on top, pushed back with just enough gel that it had started giving up an hour ago. And his eyes — dark green, the kind of green that looked carved out of stone instead of just colored that way.
Fuck, he's hot, I thought, and then immediately hated myself for thinking it with my mouth half-open.
"May I ask why you're staring at me," he said before I got a single word out. His voice was flat, cold, like he was reciting a question he already knew the answer to. No smile. No real expression at all, just a kind of dark stillness that made the hair on my arms stand up.
"I'm sorry," I said, feeling heat crawl up my neck. "I just haven't seen you here before."
"First time," he said.
"Can I get you something to drink, sir?" I asked, doing my best not to let my eyes wander anywhere they shouldn't. Failing, probably.
That's when he smiled. Not a big one — just enough to crack the ice a little — but it changed his whole face, took some of the shadow out of it. "So you're a waiter," he said.
"I am," I said, smiling back, hoping he'd let the moment end there so I could go fall apart somewhere private.
"You're a little different from the others." He laughed under his breath, teeth flashing white for half a second.
"What do you mean by that?" I forced a laugh of my own and glanced down at myself, checking for spills, stains, anything that might explain the comment. The outfit wasn't mine — not really. Frilly, tight in the wrong places, built for a body that wasn't shaped like mine no matter how I dressed it up. I wore it because men tipped better when they thought a pretty girl was bringing their beer, and pretty girl was a costume I could put on and take off like anything else.
"Nothing," he said, shaking his head, and the motion sent a few strands of half-dead gel sliding loose over his forehead. "I'll have a beer. Whatever's on tap."
"Got it. Be right back."
I turned and walked toward the bar before my face could do anything else embarrassing.
Frank was already over there, talking Steve's ear off about something. Steve was twenty-five, about to turn twenty-six next month, and somehow still patient with every idiot who stumbled up to his side of the counter. "Hey, Steve," I said, sliding in beside Frank. "If you want me to actually work, you've gotta stop distracting my bartender."
"Ya, ya, whatever, Alex," Frank said, grinning before he wandered off toward his office in the back, probably to go count something or yell at someone on the phone.
"What can I get you," Steve asked, already reaching for a glass.
"Beer. Any beer." I leaned an elbow on the bar and scanned the room — the laughing, the spilled drinks, the people pretending tonight was the best night of their lives because the alternative was admitting it wasn't. I hated this part of the job most. Not the heels, not the tips, not even the outfit. Just watching people drown themselves in noise because quiet scared them more than anything.
"How's it going so far," Steve asked, filling the glass.
"Another day, another penny," I said. "Also dressing like this in hell, but you know. Living the dream."
"Bet Frank loves his maid outfits." Steve smirked, setting the beer in front of me. "Doesn't help that it's you wearing it, either."
"Ya, ya." I flipped him off without much heat behind it. Being me in this outfit — a man dressed as a woman to squeeze out better tips — wasn't comfortable in any sense of the word, but comfort wasn't really on the table tonight. "You know why I do it."
"I know." Steve's smile softened, lost some of its teasing edge. "For your sister."
"Yeah. Smile and laugh till I can finally be free of this place." I forced my best customer-service grin, the one I'd perfected over a year of doing exactly this. "Even though I'm grateful Frank lets me."
"He treats you like his own kid." Steve started wiping down the counter, not quite looking at me anymore. "He'd do anything for you. You know that."
"He helped my mom raise me and Karen since I was six," I said quietly. "He's not my dad. But he might as well be."
"You'd better get that beer to your guy," Steve said, nodding past my shoulder. "He's been watching you this whole time."
"Oh, shit." I glanced back to find the man's green eyes locked right on me, steady, unblinking. "That damn tan makes those eyes look even worse," I muttered, mostly to myself.
"Ya, ya," Steve said, rolling his eyes before turning to help someone else.
Okay, I told myself, grabbing the beer. Just walk over there, apologize for taking thirty years to bring him one drink, and get out before you say something stupid.
I turned and started crossing the floor, the glass cool against my palm, the noise of the bar pressing in around me like it always did — too loud, too bright, too much. But for the first time all night, none of it mattered as much as getting back to that table.
Frank caught up with me near the end of the night, after the man — Law, I'd find out later — had already left, after the floor had been mopped twice and the last drunk had finally stumbled out the door. Frank didn't look angry anymore. He looked worried, which was somehow worse.
"What's up, Frank?" I asked, even though I already knew what was coming.
"Why'd it take you so long with that guy earlier," he said, studying my face like he could read the truth off it if he looked hard enough.
"It was nothing. We were just talking about the club." I smiled, the kind of smile I used when I needed him to stop worrying so much. "First time here. He had questions."
"If that's all," Frank said, and something in his shoulders relaxed. "Keep working. And if anything happens — anything — you tell me. I'll handle it."
"I hope you won't have to," I said, and meant it more than he probably realized.
He smiled at that, patted my shoulder once, and disappeared toward his office, leaving me standing there in heels that were starting to feel like a personal insult, thinking about a man with green eyes who'd told me his name was Law and asked when I got off work.
Four a.m., I'd told him. I won't wait if you're not there.
Stupidly, some part of me already hoped he would be.