Page 5 of The Contract

“Shit. Sorry.” I hand her the martini glasses.

I get busy. It’s Friday night at Lush. The rich have money to burn and gossip to spill. I have three more hours of performing my sophisticated bartender act.

I’ve kind of been enjoying it. The fact that this is basically a private Latin pop concert doesn’t hurt. Carmen is fucking spectacular.

And yet, something’s missing. I didn’t realize how some part of me had woken up, come alive … until a certain, disturbinglyalluring asshole walked out the door and left me suddenly awake, but alone.

TWO

Dante

I don’t know what draws me to Lush, given that it’s not really my kind of place. Rafael probably. We have a strange and difficult relationship. We know too much about each other because of our shared past. So seeing him is some kind of … compulsion—and not exactly a pleasant one.

But Rafael isn’t what drew me here tonight.

This is a new compulsion. A new obsession.

I already staked my claim with Rafael, but the new bartender—Tristan—isn’t his type anyway.

Rafael doesn’t like to work that hard, and Tristan is definitely going to be work.

But that’s what I want.

Because that defiance in his eyes? The way he fights his own obvious desire to submit? It makes my dick so fucking hard.

He’s attracted to me and doesn’t know what to do about it. He doesn’t like it.

I’m usually very patient when I hunt prey, but I’m struggling tonight. I’m sitting in my preferred banquette, the one that offers the best view of all the doors. My Chianti sits untouched. I usually manage to sip, but tonight I’m too much on edge. I may not look it, but I am.

I’m worried he’ll refuse my offer—because I’m worried about what I’ll do if that happens.

My moral compass is broken. I have almost no empathy. So I need rules instead. A contract will give me that, but I can’t offer him one yet. I need a better feel for him first. The real him.

I doubt many know the real Tristan Marshall. Very few people look deeply, and he is a consummate fucking actor.

But his mask slipped last night. I got a glimpse of an entirely different person. Someone angry and defiant, but also completely lost. Unanchored.

Last night, he circulated, delivering drinks and taking orders. Tonight, he’s sticking to the bar with Saylor, letting one of the other male bartenders work the floor. I know it’s because of me. His gaze regularly sweeps every section of the room except the one I’m in. He’s avoiding me.

I could go to the bar again, but I’d rather let him think he’s safe.

I watch him work a cocktail shaker in one hand and snag a bottle of vodka with the other. He passes the vodka to Saylor with one of his little flourishes. Not to be one-upped, she twirls the bottle like a pro and pours. He tips an imaginary hat at her. She loves it.

Yeah, he’s good.

The lights are low and cool tonight for the jazz-blues fusion rolling out from the stage. Tristan is matching the vibe with a little extra edge to his mannerisms. He’s wearing a black bowtie and suspenders with his light blue shirt. I can’t see his pants or shoes, but I’m sure they’re as expensive and well-chosen as the rest.

I’ve seen where he lives. He can’t afford those clothes. With anyone else, I’d assume credit card debt, but with his smoothness and mimicry? Those clothes are stolen.

Christ, I can’t wait to peel back the layers of him.

He’s starting to relax. He thinks I’m not going to fuck with him.

When Saylor pours the last of a gin bottle, she says something to Tristan. He nods, snags a set of keys, and heads for the private stairway.

I slip out of the banquette and follow.

I’m quiet on the stairs, used to sneaking around. I hang back until I hear the door unlock. After he enters the cellar, unwisely leaving the door open, I prowl in behind.

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