Page 3 of Shaken and Stirred (Bottle Service Boys #1)

ALEX

The animated thump of house music thrummed through my veins on tempo.

Some nights, the music felt like the only thing keeping my blood pulsing and my brain computing.

Even the energy drink I’d chugged before my shift couldn’t keep me on my feet as well as the heavy pulsing beat.

If the power cut out and the music vanished, I’d collapse to the floor in a heap, fast asleep.

Day to day, I balanced graduate school, family drama, and work—three obligations that could have kept my schedule packed individually.

Together, they damn near drove me into the ground, but all were essential.

School would get me out of this life, my job kept me in school, and my family was, well, they were my family.

“Hey, boo.” Trevor, the perkiest and twinkiest of my coworkers, bounced into the staff lounge wearing a beige puffy jacket that reached his ankles and a winter hat with fur trim. “Dayum, it’s colder than Parker’s balls out there tonight,” he said with a dramatic shiver.

I turned from my locker and raised an eyebrow at my favorite coworker and one of my closest friends. “And you know Parker’s balls are cold… how?”

He hip-checked me as I reached his locker next to mine. “You know our boss has a heart as cold as ice. It’s only fair to assume his balls are just as frosty. Have you tried to picture that man fucking?”

“Ugh, Trev, no, I fucking haven’t.” Despite owning one of the most popular gay nightclubs in the area and employing a gaggle of guys who worked in nothing more than underwear, our boss was professional to the extreme. He was the last man who’d so much as look at an employee with a lustful gaze.

“Give it a try. It’s damn near impossible.” He shed the jacket and stuffed it into his locker before tugging off his Golden Girls sweatshirt. His chocolaty brown hair had royal blue tips this week that matched the blue nail polish on his slender fingers.

“You might be onto something. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him crack a smile. How could he possibly let go enough to fuck?” I said with a grunt.

Trevor snorted. “Exactly. ‘Oh, yes. Take my long, turgid dick. Is that the spot? Your ass is so very tight.’” He moved his hips in a stilted, awkward thrust that matched his stiff words.

I couldn’t help but bust out laughing. The impression was dead-on with the formal way our boss spoke and his stiff mannerisms.

“Well…” I said as I yanked my sweater over my head, “… he’s doing something right. Guys come here practically tripping over themselves to get within five feet of him.”

“Yeah, he’s hot and loaded. Of course, they all want him.”

Was it my imagination, or did I hear a hint of bitterness in Trevor’s tone?

“Hey…” I grabbed a tube of gold glitter and tossed it his way. “Can you sparkle me up?”

“Only if you’ll return the favor,” he said as he snatched the tube midair as it flew his way. We’d played this game countless times before. “Actually, I’ll do it anyway. You know I love running my hands all over that muscular body of yours.”

“Please, we both know I’m not your type.

” I stepped out of my jeans and shoved them in the locker with my sweater.

Thankfully, Parker kept the heat in the staff room cranked up this time of year.

With the foot and a half of snow outside, working in booty shorts and a damn bowtie could suck.

Five minutes after working the floor, I’d be sweating my ass off, but peeling your clothes off in the dead of winter sucked.

Trevor lost his clothes, leaving him in the tight black shorts we called a uniform.

“Sad but true. I don’t make much of a secret of my love of older men.

I’d say I’m not your type either, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen you with anyone that I forget if you even have a type. You probably forget too.”

“Yeah, well, I’m too busy to hook up.”

Trevor snorted as he squeezed a dollop of glitter onto his hands. “Girl, please, we work in a damn sausage factory. You could get your dick sucked any night you’re here, and you know it. Five minutes in BJ Alley, and you’d feel like a new man.”

Ah, BJ Alley, the strange half-hallway around the corner from the restrooms. Twenty feet of wasted space leading to an emergency exit we’d thankfully never had to use.

Parker tried for years to obtain permits to block off the area, but the city shot him down every time.

It turned out they liked people having a way out in case of an emergency.

Crazy.

BJ Alley had become the worst-kept secret in Top Shelf’s history. The hidden nook patrons and staff alike disappeared to for a quick suck or fuck. After the fifth security camera mysteriously broke, Parker gave up trying to keep people away.

Trevor rubbed the glitter over my shoulders and across my chest with slow, deliberate strokes. A mischievous grin curled his glossy lips, and one second later, his thumbnail raked across my nipple. A zing of pleasure shot straight to my dick.

“Seriously?” I asked as I jolted.

He did it again. Shit, maybe I did need to find someone to get me off if Trevor’s touch was doing something to me.

I slapped his hand away before he made my damn dick hard. “Quit it with that crap.”

His shit-eating grin only grew. “Turn around so I can get your back,” he said as he wiggled his shimmering fingers.

“If you even think about touching my ass…” I narrowed my eyes at him.

Laughing, he spun me around. “I’ll behave, I promise. Besides, Parker would kill me if you went to work with a gold handprint on your ass.”

Two minutes later, I was twinkling and ready for a five-hour bottle service shift.

As Trevor disappeared to wash his hands, I slipped into my low, black uniform sneakers and secured my bowtie.

Black spandex shorts, black shoes, and a black bowtie—the Top Shelf uniform of champions or bottle service boys looking to score as much in tips as humanly possible.

Trevor returned as I reached the door. “Hey, wait, what about me?”

I pulled the door open, and the volume increased tenfold. “What?” I shouted, pointing to my ear. “Sorry, can’t hear you?”

“Oh, screw you.” Trevor flipped me the bird.

I waggled my fingers at him and slipped into the hallway.

“You loved that nipple tweak, and you know it,” he shouted after me.

Ah, revenge. So damn sweet. Guess he’d just have to wander upstairs to Parker’s office for his rubdown.

He could thank me later. Trevor might like to complain about our boss, but he’d been gone for the man since the day he interviewed.

Parker was everything Trevor went for in a guy—older, serious, rich, and intense as hell.

Chuckling, I wormed my way through the crowded dance floor to the hostess booth for the night’s VIP schedule.

“Hey, Alex.” Luke glanced at the computer after smiling at me.

The lucky bastard got to wear a suit while the rest of us pranced around in a few scraps of fabric shy of naked.

But Luke didn’t work for tips, and showing skin brought in the big bucks and the customers.

“You’re on seven and eight tonight. Seven is booked for the entire night by two different parties.

One from ten to twelve and another from twelve to two.

Seven is only booked for the first two hours. ”

The ten o’clock booking gave me a half hour to make sure my area was ready for a group of men to spend an obscene amount of money on alcohol and the experience .

Thirty minutes to get my game face on and prepare to spend hours pretending I loved the club scene and loved serving rich assholes.

I didn’t like socializing with anyone, let alone rich partiers.

To them, I was nothing more than a fit body who delivered the alcohol and let them slap my ass.

But money was money, and I could bank more working four nights a week here than a full-time job elsewhere. And make no mistake, for me, this was all about the money. As much as I could rack up in as little time as possible, this job allowed me to balance classes, studying, and covering the bills.

Mostly.

“Thanks, Luke. Find me if anything changes.” Occasionally, a last-minute reservation would fill the empty slot, or a walk-in would be willing to drop big bucks for some privacy in the VIP section.

He nodded and waved without tearing his gaze from the computer.

Though it was only nine thirty, the dance floor was filling fast. Most guys still wore their shirts, but that would change in the next hour or so.

We maxed out capacity every Saturday night.

Hell, the doors were open Wednesday through Saturday nights, and we hit max capacity often.

Wednesday tended to be the slowest, but it was never empty.

Thursday was a go-go night with some of the staff, Trevor included, dancing on raised platforms. Friday always had a theme, and Saturday was Golden Night.

We slathered ourselves in glitter until we looked like walking disco balls.

Customers got a free shot if they wore gold.

VIPs, the section where I worked, received a complimentary golden bottle of Dom Pérignon.

Of course, free was a bit of a misnomer.

A table in the VIP section cost two grand for a two-hour reservation, and that bumped to twenty-eight hundred on Saturdays.

Each table could accommodate up to eight people.

The reservation came with snacks, bottled water, and me.

The friendly neighborhood grad student who’d deliver the ridiculously priced alcohol while shaking my ass, waving sparklers, and providing the luxury experience these rich assholes thought they deserved.

It wasn’t uncommon for a VIP’s tab to hit over ten thousand dollars on a given night.

The thought of spending that much money on a single night out boggled my mind, yet I witnessed men drop that much cash every week. And then there was me, the guy who felt guilty for spending three dollars on a coffee at the campus café a few times each week.

“Alex, you good?” Trevor called out as he walked by with an armload of bottled water. “You’re standing there with lost puppy eyes.”

Shit. I gave myself a mental slap across the face. This was not the time to bemoan my station in life, not if I wanted to earn enough tips to pay for this semester’s books. “All good. Just went offline for a second.”

Trevor’s grin turned sympathetic. “You work too hard, Ally. Maybe you should take a week off.”

I snorted. “School’s not gonna pay for itself, Trev.

” Like me, he’d graduated last year but with a degree in political science.

He is assisting at his mother’s fabric shop a few days a week.

Must be nice to have the luxury to dick around for a while.

I started at twelve, out of necessity, not desire.

Back when my mother could still work, I was able to take the occasional day off.

Now, not so much. Every day I missed work hurt my family’s ability to get by.

Ugh, why was I so maudlin tonight?

I cracked my neck and shook off the mopey feelings, then headed to grab water for my tables.

The first few hours of the night flew by in the familiar dance of fetching, presenting, and pouring copious amounts of alcohol for my two full tables.

Table seven was a group of coworkers from a prestigious local law firm.

They were in their late thirties and forties, polite, refined, and a joy to have at my table.

Table eight wasn’t rough either. A bachelor party with both grooms present and a whole lot of Patrón leaving the bottles.

I smiled, flirted, and did whatever the hell I had to for my tips when working, but damn, I’d rather be home reading or working on my school assignments. At least it would be quiet, and I wouldn’t have to act like I gave a shit about customers.

By midnight, my calves ached, and my head throbbed.

The loud music might keep me awake, but it got old after a while.

I only had five minutes to turn over table eight, so I wiped it down as quickly as I could, then ran from the staff room to the bar to chug a bottle of water.

By the time I downed all sixteen ounces, Luke had guided a group of six guys to my table.

This group looked like they came straight from the frat house to the club, slapping each other on the back and pointing out guys that caught their eye.

They looked about my age, give or take a few years, with slick hair and slicker grins.

Diamonds glittered from a few Rolexes, and an earring or two winked at me beneath the club lights.

If I dragged my feet a little, no one had to know.

Luke seemed fine, entertaining them for a moment while I slow-walked my way there.

These were my least favorite tables. I didn’t mind bachelor parties, couple groups, or men in their thirties and up, but single rich guys my age sucked.

They were loud, rude, and entitled, and many acted like they’d never heard the word ‘no.’ Probably because they hadn’t.

“Ah, and here is your bottle service boy, Alex. I leave you gentlemen in his capable hands,” Luke said with a smile so fake I almost laughed. “Good luck,” he whispered as he walked by. “If they get out of hand, I’ll send Raphael your way.”

“Thanks, Luke.”

As he left, I turned to the table and smiled. “Hey, boys,” I said with the same flirty tone I used with all my tables. “As Luke said, I’m Alex, and I will be at your beck and call for the next few hours. So, are we celebrating anything special tonight?”

I scanned the faces around the table, looking for the ringleader. Typically, one guy ran the show in a group like this. I played a little game with myself I called Guess the Alpha Douche. I had a ninety-five percent success rate.

Not the first two guys—they seemed laid back. It could be the third, maybe. He had a bit of self-important energy, but— oh, shit . The only thing that kept my jaw from hitting the floor was two years of practice schooling my expression in front of customers.

There’s no way he was here. No way. I’d survived a summer program with him, made it through the same undergrad school, and finally found my freedom. What the fuck was he doing here now? He’d left the damn state for graduate school.

I blinked. Maybe I was seeing things.

Nope. The smug grin aimed my way belonged to the one person I truly hated.

My stomach sank.

Ryder smirked. “We’re celebrating all kinds of things tonight, Alex.”