Page 5 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

Next day

Club Naos, New York

Thursdays are usually slow. Not that Naos turns into a ghost town, that never happens, but the high rollers who tend to frequent my brother’s upscale club prefer Friday and Saturday nights to cut loose.

Unfortunately for me, tonight the entire club has been reserved for a private function.

However, instead of the typical bespoke suits and designer dresses, the space is filled with a throng of bodies in leather and ripped jeans.

Local bikers, whose leader happens to be Drago’s buddy, have decided to throw a birthday party for one of their members at our club.

Yay me.

“If you continue to stare at my tits, I’m going to kick you in the balls, Johnson.

” I smack the bearded dude on the chest with my notepad and head toward the bar.

That’s easier said than done since I first need to somehow squeeze through a wall of sweaty men.

Empty beer bottles and glasses rattle when I lift my tray above my head to slide between two tall tables crowded with more bearded guys, all singing along to a song blaring from the ceiling-mounted speakers.

“Tara!” the bartender yells over the clamor. “These highballs are going flat over here!”

“Fuck you,” I mumble under my breath and slam the tray onto the counter.

These guys can drink a river dry, apparently.

My feet are killing me, and I’m beyond done with the cheesy one-liners I’ve been suffering through.

What I wouldn’t give right now to deal with the usual pretentious bimbos and overbearing alphaholes that hang around here.

Most of the time, the clientele numbers around eighty, each with deep pockets filled with the spoils of their shady underground businesses.

Tonight’s horde of nearly two hundred is a far cry from that. Aside from the illegal shit, that is.

I’d love to kill my brother when I get home for making me do this crap, but he and Sienna are in Chicago right now, visiting Sienna’s sister. My revenge will have to wait.

I know, I know… Being forced to take “disciplinary leave” from my position as the general manager of Drago’s diamond smuggling is a fair punishment for causing a scene at his and Sienna’s delayed wedding reception.

The whole thing makes me feel like I’m back in high school and have been suspended again.

But I get it. I embarrassed him. Spoiled the perfect day for my sister-in-law.

Yeah, I fucked up. Again. But making me work at Naos? That blows!

To make matters worse, I couldn’t get a regular job somewhere else while serving my “sentence.” Not because I didn’t want to or didn’t try, but because of a “security risk.” Seems Big Brother has decided to make another bold business move and might have pissed off someone else in New York, so me being on my own is a huge no-no at the moment.

I’ve been wondering if it has anything to do with the Greek Syndicate, because Drago totally flipped out when he heard I’ve been dating Stavros.

Stubborn, overprotective boar!

After a twenty-minute lecture on how I should have my shit together by now, Drago laid down the law. I am to fill in for whoever calls in sick at his club. Waitress, bartender, janitor… it doesn’t matter. I’ve been relegated to stand-in at this point. A Jill Of All Trades! Master of none, it seems.

So far, I’ve inventoried everything in the storage room.

I had to go on a middle-of-the-night “hunting trip” to buy limes when we unexpectedly ran out.

And, I even got the chance to have the Tom Cruise Cocktail experience by working behind the bar for a few nights.

That was fun, until I screwed up a mix and one of the patrons ended up in the ER.

Fuck. My. Life.

I’m a waitress now, and I despise that even more than doing inventory. But I promised myself that I would prevail. I will not fuck this up! God knows I’ve fucked up pretty much everything else so far.

“This is for the gentleman in the reserved booth.” The bartender sets a bottle of Dom Perignon and two flutes on a silver tray and pushes it toward me.

“There’s a gentleman among these Neanderthals?”

“VIP. He’s in number twelve.”

I push the tray back. “Jelena and Maja are serving everyone who’s hanging around in the booths.”

“This guy requested you specifically.” He leans over the wooden counter, smirking. “I didn’t know you were into Italians, Tara.”

“Ha! Hell would freeze over first.” I grab the tray and make my way across the dance floor toward the far end of the section of semi-private booths.

The middle of the club is packed. Bodies swaying and grinding to the driving beat.

The thumping bass reverberates through the floor, sending pulse after relentless pulse to the center of my chest. It’s almost impossible to push my way to the VIP booths.

At least I recognize most of the faces. I’ve gone with Drago to a few meet-ups held by this MC.

They are a rowdy bunch, but having so many of these bikers around doesn’t bother me.

Much. In general, though, I don’t do well in a big crowd of people I don’t know.

I always feel as if everyone is staring at me, waiting for me to fuck something up. I can’t stand it.

Keeping the tray as steady as I can, I push between two guys ogling one of the other waitresses. The last thing I need is to drop this damn bottle of vintage champagne. I bet it costs more than my car.

Granted, I’m still driving the old POS that I used in my college days.

I’m good with other people’s money but suck at handling my own.

I never did manage to save enough to buy something better.

So I’m stuck with Old Betsy because Drago refused to buy me a new car while I was in school, telling me I had to earn it.

That’s his Balkan personality, through and through.

We may have moved to the States two decades ago, but he never lost even a smidge of the lessons from the old country.

Ugh, if I didn’t love my brother so much, I would’ve said fuck it and moved back into my apartment once he fully recovered from being shot.

I might have, too, if I hadn’t gotten evicted because I forgot to pay the rent.

In my defense, I was more worried about my brother’s life than bills at the time.

Regardless of yet another blunder by me, I respect Drago enough to humor him and his security concerns.

Although I’m still not convinced that anyone would actually try to hurt me just to get to him.

Who would care about me, honestly? But, fine, I’ve agreed to stay put.

The luxurious booths that go for fifteen grand on a regular night fringe the dance floor in a wide arc.

The frosted glass walls separate each seating area and provide a semblance of privacy to the lofty occupants lounging in the inner sanctum.

Designated servers are typically stationed at the entry point, ready to wait on these VIPs hand and foot.

Booth Twelve is Drago’s personal space. No one but him is normally allowed to use it.

But tonight is not a normal night. And it seems that the bastard currently sitting there has decided to screw with my evening even further.

The two lamps at either end of the white leather sofa are dimmed, making the space murkier than the rest of the club.

Spinning around a couple gyrating at the edge of the dance floor, I don’t even look at the booth occupant as I walk up and set the tray in the middle of the low, glass table. “Your champagne, sir.”

“Well, well… looks like she has some manners after all.” The rich baritone rumbles along my skin, setting off an unexpected shiver.

My head snaps up, eyes zeroing in on the man relaxing with his arms outstretched across the back of the sofa.

The white leather sharply contrasts with his entirely black attire.

The top three buttons of his fitted dress shirt are undone, revealing a sliver of chiseled bronzed chest. Light reflects off the thick golden chain and the cross that hangs around his neck.

I let my gaze wander higher, to the painfully gorgeous face I hoped to never see again.

The lower third is covered by short stubble that makes it look like he’s perpetually sporting a perfect five o’clock shadow.

The neat trim doesn’t hide his strong chin or wonderfully angular jawline.

His nose is straight, and his deep brown eyes are framed by thick, dark lashes.

And then there’s that slightly wavy hair, impeccably styled and so black that it practically absorbs the light around him.

Goddamned Arturo DeVille.

Sienna’s brother.

Fury fills me as I take in his flawless features.

I wish I could get away with marring them just a little.

Or a lot. I’d call it payback for leaving my brother with a scar across his cheek when the two of them tried to kill each other.

I know DeVille didn’t get away unscathed, but it wasn’t enough.

I’m completely positive that Drago would have been able to kill the bastard if Ajello hadn’t appeared and broken up their little clash.

Fate could be a real bitch sometimes. I’d like to kick her ass, along with DeVille’s.

My brother is the only family I have left, and the thought of anyone hurting him makes me go ballistic.

Oh, right… If I needed a reminder of how I got to where I am now, there he is.

The devil incarnate.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask through my teeth.

“That’s more like the real you.” Arturo’s lips pull into a condescending grin. “Take a seat, Tara.”

I smile back as wide as I can. “I think you’re forgetting where you are, DeVille. You don’t get to give orders around here. And it’s Ms. Popov to you.”

That grin disappears, transforming into a scowl. “Will you just fucking sit down, woman? I need to talk to you about a serious matter.”

“We have nothing to discuss. Nothing you’d say is of any interest to me.”