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Chapter Two

Lux

“Thanks for covering for me.” I pat Lisa on the shoulder, ducking behind the bar.

“No problem,” she grins. “I know how bad the cravings get when you’re trying to quit.”

I grab a bottle of water from the mini fridge and chug it down, popping a mint into my mouth to chase the cigarette stink away.

“I was doing so good, too.”

“Rough day?” Lisa asks, joining me behind the bar. We have five minutes till opening time, and Carlo gets pissed if we’re not behind the counter when he does his final walkthrough.

“It was…weird, for sure,” I tell her, pulling my dress down a little to expose an extra inch of cleavage. As much as I hate putting myself on display behind the bar, tips are tips. And these customers are big tippers.

Carlo thunders into the room, looking for something to yell at us about. I roll my eyes covertly at Lisa, and she giggles quietly, smacking my butt. We straighten up as he saunters over, appraising “his best girls” as he calls us.

“Hello, Mr. Mancini,” I say sweetly, smiling and making my eyes go wide. Lisa copies me and we wait for Carlo’s motivational phrase of the day. He likes to throw random quotes at us before the start of every shift. They often range from cliché to mind-bogglingly bizarre.

“Girls, do you know what the great Al Capone once said?”

His beady little rat eyes stare us down intently, waiting for a response. I open my mouth to say something semi-snarky, but Lisa steps on my toe and shakes her head.

“He said, and I quote,” Carlo starts, his voice taking on a tone of self-importance, “ ‘You can go a long way with a smile. You can go a lot farther with a smile and a gun’.”

We nod solemnly. I sneak a glance at Lisa and see her trying not to laugh. Carlo Mancini is, by far, the weirdest boss I’ve ever had.

I ended up behind his bar three years ago when I applied for an ad looking for a dishwasher at a nightclub. I’d been on the hunt for a nighttime job that wasn’t shady and paid relatively well. Except when I arrived for my interview, I was told the position was closed, and the only other option was a bartending gig.

Feeling desperate, I begged him to give me a shot—never mind that I had zero bartending experience. Carlo gave me an audition round that same night and I made three hundred dollars in tips. He hired me on the spot.

As Carlo wanders away, Lisa and I relax against the bar, waiting for customers to come in. She grabs a Diet Coke and takes a long sip.

“You’d think with how often he quotes Capone,” I whisper, “that he’s secretly a mafia don or something.”

Lisa chokes so hard on her drink that I have to smack her back. Finally, she manages a deep breath and laughs awkwardly.

“Good one,” she says, still clearing her throat. “Lucky for us, he’s just a bar owner.”

Weird reaction. I shake my head. It wasn’t that funny.

I’m about to ask her why she’s acting so weird when a few regulars waltz in and order a round of cocktails. We fall into a steady rhythm of pouring drinks and chatting with customers, and the night flies by.

It’s after midnight before we finally get a bit of a break. People are buzzed and happy, socializing and dancing. I lean back against the counter, sipping some water, and look around. This definitely isn’t the type of place I’d choose for a night out.

The Velvet Room is a single room—spacious, with a soaring ceiling and walls of windows that are tinted for privacy. Deep blue velvet curtains drape artfully across the windows, the same shade as the round booths. A shiny lacquered dance floor sits in the middle, surrounded by bar tables and tufted seats.

Of course, there are back rooms, too. Small cozy spaces for private parties, dates, and probably shady activities. Thankfully, I never have to serve those rooms, so I turn a blind eye and do my job at the main bar.

Lisa is far more senior than me, so she’s in charge of serving the private rooms. She gets a call on the special tablet linked to them and rolls her eyes at me.

“Three more bottles of Mo?t,” she scoffs, scrolling through the order. “These people are spending money just to spend money, I swear.”

“At least you get great tips back there?” I offer, giving her an encouraging smile. A man sits down at the bar as Lisa wanders away to find cold bottles of champagne.

“Hey there,” I smile at him. “What can I get ya?”

“Glass of bourbon, beautiful,” he says, looking me up and down. We chat as I pour his drink but I keep my distance. It’s a delicate act, balancing a friendly smile with a cold, hard bitch look. Sometimes, being too friendly gets you in trouble.

And let’s face it, I get in trouble just because I’m alive and breathing. I don’t need to invite any more troubles to come my way. They find me readily enough even when I’m trying to avoid them.

Lisa ducks back into the bar, joining me, and we start slowly tidying up from the earlier rush.

“You never told me what happened to you,” she says, grabbing a stack of towels to fold.

“Right! I completely forgot.”

I find a basket of lemons and start chopping in preparation for the closing rush. “So, I was working at Rocky’s today, like usual, right?”

She nods, half-listening as she wipes down the beer taps.

“There was this table of guys,” I continue. “Really nice suits. Expensive. I could tell they’d be big tippers, so of course I’m over there playing friendly waitress.”

Lisa snorts, shaking her head. Anyone who works in the service industry knows that tips are our lifeline. Our employers never actually pay us enough of a wage to survive—except Carlo, who pays better than any boss I’ve ever had.

“Then this guy just drops dead in front of me!”

“Are you serious?” She’s stopped wiping and is staring at me, mouth open in shock.

“YES!” I stage-whisper, not wanting the patrons seated at the bar to hear. “And that’s not even the weird thing. So, I run to call 911, right? And when I turn around, they’re hustling him into a black SUV. Poof! Disappeared!”

“They just…took him? And left?” she asks in disbelief.

“Yep, super weird, right?” I toss the chopped-up lemons in a glass container and start wiping up the mess. “Maybe he was a politician or something. That’s the only thing I can think of.”

“Wait,” Lisa says slowly, walking over to me. “What did he look like?”

“Hmm, you know my memory is pretty shit,” I shrug. “Older? Maybe in his sixties? He had this really thick silver hair, though, I did notice that. Just picture, like, the main dude in any mafia movie…he gave me those vibes.”

“A mafia movie?”

I glance at her, wondering why she’s looking at me so strangely. Before I can ask her if she’s okay, her tablet lights up, and she ducks out from under the bar. I’ve never seen Lisa hustle so hard to serve a private room before.

Really weird. What the hell is going on today?

Usually, I’m the one who’s the weird, odd man out. Maybe this whole day is a dream I’m having or something. It wouldn’t surprise me at this point.

Lisa’s gone for longer than usual, so I finish the cleanup and announce last call for alcohol. People start filtering out of the bar, but some diehards stay to get their last drinks. Lisa finally appears while I’m trying to make four cocktails at once and jumps in to help me out.

“Sorry!” she yells over the music from the other side of the bar. “That party was out of control. I had to get Carlo.”

I wave her off, telling her it’s no problem. We move in sync, pouring drinks and closing tabs, until the final customer stumbles out of the bar.

“That killed me,” I say, untying my apron and tossing it on the counter. “I need seventy-five hours of sleep to recharge now.”

“I feel you,” she laughs, swatting me on the shoulder. “Go home, I’ll finish the cleanup.”

I’m so grateful I could cry and kiss her at the same time. I thank her profusely and grab my purse, practically running out the door.

As soon as the cool nighttime air hits me, I get a tiny burst of energy. I glance at my phone, noting I have three minutes to get my ass to the bus stop for the last bus across town. Breaking into a stumbling run, I dash across the street, almost crashing into a dark SUV parked at the curb.

I get to the stop in record time, panting and out of breath. My butt hits the hard metal bus stop seat and I try to steady my breathing. A minute or two go by without any sign of the bus so I get up to check the digital sign, wondering if it’s late tonight.

The sign is blank.

Blank.

No.

I scramble to find my phone in my oversized bag, maniacally typing in the city’s website to pull up the live schedules. Bus 132, Crosstown, departed six minutes ago.

The last fucking bus left right as I came out of work. I glance around helplessly, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do now. I shoot Lisa a quick text asking if she’s already left but I get no answer. Desperate, I dash back across the street and try The Velvet Room’s front door.

Hell, I’d take a ride from Carlo at this point.

It’s locked. I bang on the doors a few times for good measure, but all I get in reply is silence. Glancing around, I find that the street is deserted.

The only vehicle I see is that dark SUV I smashed into a few minutes ago. The windows are so tinted that I can’t even tell if there’s someone inside.

Shit, I hope there’s no one inside. That’s creepy as fuck.

Realizing I have to walk across the entire city, from this shit neighborhood to my shit neighborhood, practically shreds my soul in half. Groaning, I whip out my headphones and jam them into my ears. It’s going to be a long walk.

I spend the next two hours covering more city blocks than I ever have in one day. Every couple of streets, I pause. That weird feeling from earlier in the afternoon creeps up my back again. It’s like someone’s watching me.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I pull out my headphones. They don’t even plug into my flip phone. They’re just a decoy so no one bothers me. I pick up the pace, listening for footsteps behind me.

Nothing. But it feels like someone’s there. My palms are sweaty as I discreetly root around in my bag for something to use as a weapon, just in case.

My breath comes out hard and fast as I speed up even more. Adrenaline pushes me past my athletic limit, and I find myself jogging home across the city. I briefly consider calling a ride or taking a taxi, but I know my bank card will get declined in a second.

So, I keep walking and praying tonight isn’t the night I get murdered. By the time I reach my building, my toes are numb, and I’m shaking from exhaustion.

You can do it. Just two flights of stairs and you can pass out face down in your bed.

I clutch my keys between my fingers, the best makeshift weapon I could come up with, and turn on my phone’s flashlight. Somehow, I force my body to crawl up the stairs. I turn the corner, dreaming of my fluffy mattress, and stop dead in my tracks.

My front door is wide open.

My sluggish brain can’t process what’s happening as I creep slowly toward it. Peeking in, I see clothes and pillows strewn about. My cheap thrift store coffee table has been smashed to pieces.

Great. The cherry on top of this piece of shit cake of a day. Why does everything in my life have to be like this?