Page 7 of Demon

“She’s new.”

“Yeah. Gathered that. What’s her name?”

Tez shrugged, “Ciara. Irish. That’s all I know. I don’t ask them questions. They just have to be something the punters look at and want to order drinks from all night.”

“I’m thinking you should change the dress code.”

“Why, Demon? It’s never bothered you before?”

“Does now.”

“Do you know her?”

I shook my head. I didn’t. We’d never met. Not before today.

“Look, Demon,” there was a note of nervousness in his voice, an attempt at appeasement. Whatever I told him, he would do. That’s how this whole gig worked, so if I told him that the bar staff were all wearing onesies, that’s what he would make happen. “I’ll keep a better eye on the barmaids. I’ll enforce a look don’t touch approach. But having them dress like this pulls the punters in, spending their money just to look at the merchandise. The, err, girls,” he added quickly.

I nodded. We were getting a shitload of the profits from this place, and it had been making a ton since it had opened. Every night was busy. The sex crazed and starved flooding in to see tits and pay for a lap dance. And it made sense to keep control. We’d paid off the licensing department to get it up and running, but we didn’t need to push our luck.

The girl moved back to the bar, a tray of empty glasses resting in her palm, and I sprung to my feet, following.

“Ciara, huh?” I said as she stepped back in behind the bar.

“That’s right,” the Irish accent purred across the space.

She didn’t lift her eyes, staring down at the glasses she washed in the sink.

“What you doing here?”

Her face sprung up, a sudden flicker of emotion, anger, fear, panic. Gone in a moment as she seemed to choose irritation.

“Working.”

“I can see that. You’re Irish.”

“And?”

“Just wondered what brings you to South Shields.”

“Not allowed in South Shields, us Irish?”

I swallowed the frustration building in my throat. Be nice.

“We don’t control who comes and goes in the North East.”

“Really?” she swirled her finger over the front of me. “That’s not what that leather cut says.”

Fuck, she was difficult.

“It’s not what you think.”

“Is it not? You’re not part of a bike gang?”

“I’m part of a motorcycle club.”

“I know what MC means,” she answered, swirling the cloth angrily around the glass she’d been cleaning the life out of. “You own this place?”

“No. We have an interest in it. But it’s owned by Tez. Terry,” I corrected when her eyebrows pulled together in a frown.