Page 3 of The Contract

“Who the hell is that guy?” I grumble, forgetting that I’ve been trying to give off an easygoing, confident vibe.

She raises a dark eyebrow. “Dante? He’s an old friend of Rafael’s.”

“I didn’t see him come in.”

“Oh, he never uses the main entrance. He’s intense, I know. I can take this to him.”

“No, he—I can do it,” I say, not wanting to admit that heorderedme to do it.

Balancing the wine on my tray, I return to his table. I can tell he’s watching me, but this time I don’t let myself focus on it. I plan to just set the wine on his table with my usual club-chic mannerisms and leave. I’ll blend back into the atmosphere and he’ll forget me.

He fucking stands up when I reach his table.

He’s several inches taller than my 5’11”, which makes all that muscle pretty fucking intimidating. When he tugs down his vest to straighten it, his black shirt pulls tight over muscular arms. The open top of his shirt parts a little to hint at his pecs.

“Hold my place,” he says as I set his wine down, completely forgetting my usual bartender’s flair.

“I …” I trail off as he walks away.

I’m staring at him, so that’s probably why I notice the way his pants hug his ass. But come on, how could anyonenotnotice that? It doesn’t mean anything though, does it?

I’m not gay. Not because I have a problem with it. This is New York, for fuck’s sake. But I’m just … not.

I tear my eyes away from him to look across the room to Saylor. She’s working the cocktail shaker, pretending to flirt with some guy leaning on the bar, and watching me. She shrugs at my predicament.

So. I guess I’ll be staying. Holding his place. Honestly, in a nightclub like Lush, the wineglass would be enough to do it. And yet … here I am.

I feel like an idiot standing here with my tray, but I’m pretty sure I’d feel even stupider if I sat, so I just keep standing. When I developed my catalogue of mannerisms, I somehow missed the category of hovering awkwardly beside a banquette while some intense, demanding asshole takes a piss.

He’s not gone all that long, but it feels like forever. I’m so relieved to see him walk around the corner that I sag a little. But I straighten right the fuck up when I catch the satisfied look on his face.

He’s toying with me. I have no idea why, but I’m damn sure of it.

It pisses me off so much that I don’t trust myself to speak to him. He’s a friend of my boss, and I cannot get myself fired, not on my first Friday night. But I also can’t stop myself frommaking an obnoxiously grand gesture toward his table as though presenting it to him. Then I snap my tray under my arm and leave.

As I make a circuit of the room, collecting a few empties and taking fresh orders, I can practically feel his eyes on me. When I get to the bar and glance his way, however, he’s watching Carmen, not me.

Oh.

Now I feel dumb. I also feel … disappointed?

What the hell. How did he mess with my head that much? We barely spoke and he was pretty much a dick. I should be relieved.

I shake it off. I keep busy. I mix a Negroni for some guy too young to be spending money that isn’t daddy’s. He’s very drunk and annoyingly chatty, but I play along like I give a shit about the history lesson he’s giving me on this drink. It doesn’t take much to satisfy him.

Oh, cool, I didn’t know that.

Huh.

Wow.

The guy feels so good about himself right now.

This is why—well, one reason why—I don’t like people. Nothing is real.

Sometimes, I feel like my body is a car and I’m a passenger inside it. I turn the wheel and it turns. I step on the brakes and it stops. I can drive around. I can see through the windshield. But I’m removed. Not really there.

Then, other times, I get angry. I almost prefer that because it’s like things are real for a second. But then it passes and I feel even worse. When no one sees that you’re angry, when no one cares, you’re even more alone.

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