Page 2 of Boss Daddy

He nods slowly. “That’s right. Bottom shelf.”

I find what he’s talking about. Without thinking, I bend over to grab the bottle, my butt sticking into the air.

“There you go,that’sthe good stuff.”

I shudder with disgust, realizing what I just fell for. It takes all the restraint I have to not call him a disgusting pervert. I bite my tongue, stand up, and pour his drink. If I’m going to get on his bad side, I want to do it when I’m far away from him.

“That good, boss?” I hand the drink over.

Misha takes it, greedily slurping the whiskey then setting the glass on his desk. “Is Amber working?” he asks, ignoring my question.

“Sure is.”

“Good. Tell her to come to my office. I need her to pick up the slack. No doubt my customers are getting very impatient.”

“Will do.”

I hurry from the office and rush down the back hall, my heart racing. I have to leave. I can’t stay here. I can no longer work at a place where my boss is trying to pimp me out. I may need a job, but I cannot,willnot, trade my dignity for a paycheck.

When I reach the main floor of the club, neon lights and EDM sparks are pulsing along to the beat of the music, a few girls dancing on the stage.

“Hey, Erin!” Amber calls out. She’s barely out of high school and currently works as my bar back. “What’d the boss want?”

I don’t respond. I walk straight past the bar, blasting through the front doors and stepping out into the cool, fall air. The sky’s slate-gray, the pavement shiny with rain.

I quit.

A voice slices through my thoughts, yanking me back to reality.

“Hey, you want something to drink while you wait?”

The bartender is in his mid-thirties with a neatly trimmed beard and sharp eyes that notice everything. His nametag reads Ben.

“Just water, please,” I reply, forcing a small smile. “I’ve got an interview with the boss.”

Ben nods knowingly and grabs a glass. As he fills it, I let my eyes drift around the empty club. The gleaming bar top shines under the low lights, the shelves lined with premium liquor that would make Misha weep with envy. The sleek leather booths and art deco scream luxury.

This place is a different universe from the grimy nightmare I left behind.

Please let this work out.

The thought claws at my chest. I need this. I need a clean slate.

A glass clinks on the counter in front of me, and I smile. “Thanks, Ben.”

“Good luck,” he says.

I take a sip. As the cool water slides down my throat, the knot in my chest loosens just a bit.

Down at the other end of the bar, I notice a kid—barely out of his teens, by the looks of it—trying to make what appears to be a Manhattan. He’s going about it all wrong. The proportions are off, and he’s putting way too much ice into the mixer.

I can’t help myself; my fingers itch to fix it. I glance at Ben, arching an eyebrow. “Hey, you mind if I help him out before he accidentally poisons someone?”

Ben chuckles. “Go for it. Kid’s new, could use the help.”

Grinning, I slip off the bar stool and walk around to the other side of the bar. The kid looks at me in surprise. His eyes are wide, his hands trembling around the mixing glass. “Uh, hi,” he stammers. “I’m, uh, trying to make a Manhattan.”

“I can see that. Let me show you how it’s done.” I grab a chilled glass. “Okay, the first rule of a good Manhattan is balance. You’re making a classic cocktail, so respect the ingredients. You need two ounces of good rye whiskey, a dash of bitters, and a sweet vermouth that doesn’t taste like it’s been sitting in the sun.”

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