Page 7 of Shaken and Stirred (Bottle Service Boys #1)

“You do that.” Top Shelf didn’t open on Sundays. I pushed him down the hall, maybe a little harder than necessary.

He’d better forget this damn conversation in the morning. How dare he threaten to home in on my territory?

“And you know what?”

I sighed. Who knew he’d be such a chatty drunk? “What?”

“I’m gonna work here, and Imma do a better job than you.” He stumbled left, then chuckled as he tried to steady himself. “I’ll get more tips.”

Don’t punch him. Don’t punch him.

“The only thing you’re gonna get is a killer hangover.”

“I’m serious! First night, I’ll get more tips than you.”

The sad thing was, he probably would earn more in tips than I did.

Ryder was the kind of guy who went around turning everything in his life to gold with one touch.

The thought of him, a rich jackass who didn’t need the money earning more than I did, was enough to have me clenching my fists at my sides.

“Bathroom’s over there,” I said through clenched teeth as I pointed across the dance floor. “Go before you piss yourself.”

“Aww, don’t be grumpy, Alex.” He did something that was probably supposed to be a dance move but looked more like a spasm.

On anyone else, I’d be teasing them about their boozy state, but I just wanted him to get the hell out of my face before I did something to risk not only my tip but my whole job.

“I’m not grumpy. Just don’t want to get stuck cleaning your piss off the floor.”

“This is why I’ll earn more in tips. I’m charming, and you’re a grump.” He tried to bump my shoulder with his but missed and nearly fell on his face, which set off his hysterical laughter. It only lasted a few seconds before panic crossed his face. “Oh shit, I really gotta take a leak.”

“Over there.” I pointed again.

He wobbled his way around the outside of the dance floor.

After the first few steps, I forced myself to turn around.

What did I care if he knocked into people or spilled someone’s drink?

Sighing, I hustled over to clear the empties from his table.

The whole group of them were out on the dance floor, so I gathered the empty glasses and mopped up a few condensation rings from the marble table.

The music lowered, and ‘last call’ blared through the speakers.

Immediately, fatigue washed over me. It’d been a long day, as most were, but it would soon come to an end.

Cleaning up after the club closed never bothered me.

Trevor hated it, complaining that once the customers left, he wanted nothing more than to go home.

He called the thirty minutes spent cleaning pure torture.

I liked the quiet and the routine of wiping tables, stacking glasses, and mopping floors.

I didn’t have to act anymore. No one expected me to perform like a trained monkey for my tips.

Closing tasks were always the same, and my overstimulated brain took comfort in that.

Fifteen more minutes and the customers would disappear.

Ryder would disappear.

I’d be one step closer to going home and maybe catching a full five hours of sleep before my nine a.m. class.

“Alex!” Turko whacked me on the back with so much force I nearly sprawled across the table.

“Sorry, man,” he said with a laugh as he pulled me into a side hug as brutal as his back slap.

“Don’t know my own strength when I’ve been drinking.

This place rocks. Next time I’m in town, I’m bringing the whole damn team.

” He let me go, then staggered a few feet to Ryder, who’d returned from the restroom.

“You, too, Ry, you’ll be here too. I love you, man. ”

The sing-song way he said that had my lips quirking. If I were a shittier person, I’d record it. A clip of Turko drunkenly professing his love to his old frat brother would go viral in minutes. Maybe that would get me more than fifty followers, and I could make a buck that way.

“‘Course I’ll be here.” Ryder patted Turko’s cheek. “I’m getting a job here.”

“No shit?” Turk turned to me. “He is?”

“No.” Over my dead body.

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you aren’t.” The music cut off, and the lights came on to a soundtrack of groans from the remaining patrons. “Joke’s over. Go home, Ryder.”

Turk chuckled. “ Oooh , someone doesn’t like you very much, Ry.”

Ry. I’d never considered calling him that. To me, he was always the formal Ryder, the ultra-rich jerk who made me feel like shit and now wanted to insert himself in my life where he didn’t belong.

“Uber will be here in three mins,” Turk said. “Come on. Thanks for an awesome night, my man.”

“Great to meet you. See you next time.” I turned and hightailed it out of there before Ryder could spout more bullshit about working here. Before I could reach my goal for the stock room to grab some more rags, a strong hand clasped my bicep and spun me around.

“What the hell?”

“Why are you being such a dick about me working here?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why can’t you let this go?”

“Because you have a huge stick up your ass. What the fuck you acting like I can’t handle it? You don’t own this damn club. All you do is serve drinks in your fucking underwear. I could do that in my sleep. And better than you.”

Something exploded behind my eyes. I shoved him against the wall, holding him in place with my arm across his chest. No doubt, he could have gotten away without much effort.

Instead of fighting me, his eyes flared, and his breathing hitched. “Jesus, Alex, what the fuck?”

“You think I work here for fun?” I snarled as I pushed against his chest. “Because I’m bored?

Because I think it would be fun to hang in a club all night four times a week?

Fuck you, Ryder. I’m here so I can eat. So my brother can eat.

So we don’t have to sleep on the streets. I’m here so I can pay my mo—”

An icy wave of nausea washed over me, and I shoved away from him, raking a hand through my hair.

Jesus. What the hell was I doing?

No one, not a single person, knew how dire my family’s financial state was.

Not even Trevor, who’d picked me up from my house when my ancient car crapped out a few months ago.

I shielded my family’s privacy like a lioness protecting her cubs.

I sometimes wondered if shame kept my lips sealed instead of protective instincts, but that was something to work out with the therapist I couldn’t afford.

Ryder laughed, and I had to clench my fist to keep from punching him in his smug face. At least the alcohol kept my words from fully registering in his brain.

“Touchy, touchy. Such a grumpy bear.” His eyes lit up. “Oh my God—”

“No,” I barked. “That is not going to be my new nickname.”

“It so is.”

All I could do was shake my head. “Your Uber has to be here by now. Go home, Ryder. And don’t come back.”

I walked away to the sound of his annoyed gasp.

Was I rude? Yep.

Had I blown my tip? Probably.

Did I care? Nope.

Mostly.

Okay, I cared about the tip a lot, but that ship had most likely sailed.

I left him to fend for his drunken self as I rummaged through the supply closet for rags and cleaning spray. By the time I made it back to my section, Trevor’s was already sparkling clean. He’d gone behind the bar to help stack the clean glasses.

An envelope rested dead center on the table Ryder and his friends had abandoned.

It had my name in a typical male chicken scratch.

Their bill had been astronomical, but I bet I’d get a hundred bucks max.

It’s what I deserved for running my mouth, but I’d been hoping for at least eight hundred from this table.

Being that I’d copped a major attitude to a paying customer, I’d probably end up needing to hand over the entire measly tip to the bartender and bussers instead of the standard thirty percent Top Shelf required.

I grabbed the envelope with a frown.

Huh, it was thicker than I’d expected.

As I opened it, my heart slammed against my ribcage.

“Holy shit,” I muttered. “There has to be…” I did a quick count and nearly swallowed my tongue.

“Three thousand dollars?” Even giving away thirty percent, I’d still clear two thousand on this table alone.

That would cover all my books and groceries and leave some money for new medical-grade compression stockings for my mom.

Were Ryder and his friends always that generous? Had he really left me this much money even though I’d been a dick to him all night? I groaned as a hot feeling of shame washed over me.

He’d always struck me as the type to leave a small tip. Maybe his friends had talked him into it. Turko definitely acted pleased with the service.

Hell, maybe Ryder left such a big tip because he felt sorry for me. Oh shit.

I froze, staring down at the money.

Was this pity money?