Page 8 of Falling for Them (Cinderella’s Daddies #1)

Eight

Ella

Bartleby’s is the kind of pub where people go to have a quiet meal and maybe throw back a few drinks. It’s not rough. The owner keeps a pretty tight rein on the clientele, making sure they treat the waitstaff right.

Which is why I notice the four guys at table thirty-nine who stare so hard at me. People don’t harass the servers here. It’s not normal.

It’s also not my table, so not my problem. Or at least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

But all the servers here at Bartleby’s help each other out, and it isn’t long before Natasha rushes past the bar. “I have to pee so damn bad. Food just came up for thirty-nine, will you bring it out?”

“Sure,” I say, trying not to wince. I don’t want to go anywhere near those guys.

This is just my luck, though. It’s been a couple of days, and I haven’t been able to reach Joel to tell him I can’t go to the gala.

To be honest, I haven’t been trying that hard.

I haven’t felt up to it, and I haven’t felt strong.

Just thinking about Tommy’s betrayal has me tearing up.

What the hell happened to our relationship?

He and I used to be so close, and after Dad died last year, I thought we’d get closer, because we’re the only family we have left.

But nope.

On top of him stealing from me, I now don’t get to go to the Tyler Gala, and it was the one bright, indulgent thing I had to look forward to.

Now I’m miserable while serving food and drinks at Bartleby’s, and freaking out when these men look at me wrong.

They haven’t ordered much, just a plate of onion rings to soak up their beer, probably. I carry it over with a neutral expression on my face. I don’t want them to know they’re freaking me out.

“Here are your onion rings,” I say, setting down the plate.

One of them grunts in acknowledgment.

His buddy says, “Hey, wait a minute. Do you know Tom Marchand?”

I know better than to answer honestly. Tommy doesn’t have a knack for making friends. In fact, he mostly makes enemies. The other night when he showed up at my apartment, his face beaten to hamburger, is a prime example of that.

“Sorry, no,” I say.

He squints at me, skepticism on his face. He doesn’t believe me.

Shit. I don’t know who these guys are or what they might want, but I need to start being more careful if Tommy is pissing off more people.

“Are you waiting for him?” I say quickly. “I can ask my boss if anyone has left a message for you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” another guy says, his voice gruff.

I give them what I hope is a winning, air-headed smile, and saunter off. Maybe they’ll leave before the end of my shift, and I won’t have to worry about them anymore.

The rest of the evening passes in a haze, other than my nerves, which are tight and uncomfortable.

Every muscle in my body is tense, as if I’m waiting to run.

How I wish I were working at Tyler Analytics tonight, with its security guards on the ground floor, and the well-lit hallways, and the stern, well-muscled form of Kingston Tyler himself, watching over everything and everyone like a protective father.

Eventually, the men at table thirty-nine leave, and I exhale deeply. I don’t often drink alcohol because I can’t afford it. But after my shift, Kevin Bartleby, my boss, holds up a pint glass next to one of the taps and cocks his head in question.

“On the house. You look like you need it,” he says.

“I’ll take it, thanks.”

He slides it down the bar to me. “Fries and a cheeseburger, your usual?”

“No, I’ll have fries and a salad, please.” The salads here aren’t very good, but I’m too nervous to eat a heavy burger.

Once I’m fed and slightly buzzed from the ale Kevin poured me, I hang up my apron, grab my purse, and go out into the cold night.

The four guys from thirty-nine are standing right across the street.

Shit.

And one of them looks up when I leave the pub.

It could be a coincidence, I tell myself. They’re just hanging around, enjoying an evening out.

I don’t believe that for a second.

My apartment is six blocks from here. I don’t feel great walking around the Bellefleur District at night, but I’ve learned a few tricks, ways of protecting myself from unwanted attention. Mostly, I’ve learned how to walk quickly and remain beneath anyone’s notice.

But once I’ve already attracted notice, what then?

I have no fucking clue.

I fall back on one of my usual tricks—sticking close to other crowds of people, so I don’t look like I’m alone and defenseless.

There are plenty of groups around because it’s only ten p.m. Two strip clubs line the next block, as well as a karaoke bar and a late-night diner.

I hurry toward them, hoping that the men from table thirty-nine remain where they are.

After walking a few yards, I bend down and pretend to adjust my shoe while I peek beneath my arm.

They’re following me. Shit.

A neon sign lights up the window of the karaoke bar.

Kitty Cat Karaoke. A crowd of people loiters in front, talking and laughing.

They aren’t waiting to get in, but socializing in front of the door, and there are enough of them that I might be able to lose myself in the group.

I’m short enough, maybe the guys following me won’t notice.

I push into the group. “Hey, sorry, excuse me,” I say as I boldly make my way through them.

“You could go around,” someone says in a rude voice.

“Sorry,” I say.

I don’t want to attract anyone’s attention. The door to the karaoke bar opens, and rather than go past it as I’d planned, I duck inside as a couple exits.

There’s a small window next to the door, and I hunch away from it while trying to peer out.

The men who were following me walk past the bar. The door remains closed. Exhaling, I slump against the frame.

“Paying or singing?” a deep voice inquires.

I look up and find a large man with his hands on his hips, glaring down at me.

“Sorry, what?” I say.

“Are you paying or singing?” he asks. “There’s a cover charge here, unless you’re performing.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“Well, you have a voice. You’re up next.” He turns to call over his shoulder, “We have a new performer, Kitty Cats!”

A loud cheer erupts from deeper in the room.

Hell.

“No, actually, I’ll just go back outside,” I start to say. Then I realize that if I go outside, those men are probably going to find me. I can’t stay here forever, but I can waste an hour or two. “Yeah, okay. I’ll sing.”

Sebastian

The Kitty Cat Karaoke bar goes nuts at Rick’s announcement.

I lean back in my booth, getting comfortable.

It’s been strangely quiet in here tonight.

I was tempted to go up and take the stage, myself, just to alleviate my boredom.

But the people who frequent this place currently don’t recognize me.

As soon as I open my mouth to sing, that’ll change, and I just can’t fucking handle that.

I take a sip of my iced tea and pick up my phone, reading through my contacts list and deleting people I can’t remember.

The opening to “Me and Bobby McGee” by Janice Joplin begins. Bold choice. Older tunes aren’t as popular here. Usually we get a lot of pop music with a sprinkling of indie rock. Well, when Rick said we had a new performer, maybe he meant really new, as in, they’ve never been here before.

And then the performer sings her first line.

This is no amateur.

Startled, I scoot to the side of my bench so I can see the stage. I can barely believe my fucking eyes, because standing there in a pair of black jeans and a black button-up blouse is the maid from Tyler Analytics.

She follows Joplin’s inflections perfectly, like she has grown up singing this song. Her normal voice isn’t the same as Joplin’s, but she’s modified it a little from what I heard before at King’s building. Tonight, she sounds a little scratchier, a little rougher.

Beautiful and talented.

I was interested in her before.

Now I know that I need her.

When the song reaches the vocables, where Joplin sings all the “la-la-la” parts, the maid raises her hands, inviting the audience to join in.

A few of them do, but most are sitting still, enraptured by the maid’s singing.

Is she pop star material? Not yet, not without some training.

I’m not going to see her on the next reality talent show.

But she can carry a tune and she sounds damned good.

The song ends and the audience loses their shit. Clapping, whistling, stomping, cheering. The maid—fuck, I need to learn her name—blushes, and it’s so fucking adorable, I can’t stand it.

The audience clamors for an encore. The maid shakes her head, but they don’t let up.

“Okay, okay,” she says into the mic. “One more song. Any requests?”

I stand up, raise my hand. The entire joint goes silent as I do. It’s weird the influence I have here, when they don’t seem to know who I am. Maybe because I’m a regular, maybe because I’m at least ten years older than everyone else in the place.

Doesn’t matter why they’re all looking to me. I have the maid’s attention now, and she’s the one I want.

She squints at me. Does she recognize me? She’s seen me twice at Kingston’s building.

“Okay,” she says, pointing in my direction. “You have a request?”

“Yeah, I do. ‘Do I Wanna Know?’ by the Arctic Monkeys,” I say. It’s the song I first heard her singing in the Tyler building. I wonder if she’ll realize who I am.

She grins at me, her smile knowing—she does remember that, and she recognizes me.

“Will you sing it with me?” she asks.

Everyone in the lounge cheers, but I shake my head and sit back down in my booth.

She looks as if she wants to press the issue, but a couple of guys right next to the stage raise their hands, and she nods that they can join her.