Page 3 of King of Depravity

I set the snifters of bourbon on my tray, and straighten my fitted black oxford, smooth back my tight ponytail, before I plaster a smile on my face.

My black dress pants are painted on as I traverse the large room in my stilettos. They hurt like hell, but I get better tips when I wear them.

In the corner, the regular piano player stands, inviting one of the “guests” to play a song. I’ve heard the guy before.

A tatted-up Russian, one of the other girls told me that all the tattoos on his fingers are because he’s Bratva.

I don’t care what he is, his whole table tips well. I wait on them as often as I can even though they simmer with the kind of tension that makes me uneasy. But not enough that I’d quit being their waitress. That is until two weeks ago…

One of the Russians makes a habit of grabbing my ass, and he slipped me his number, so I’ve been hanging back, letting other girls serve the table their drinks. I’ll have to wait until he’s lost interest before I can start waiting on them again.

It’s hurt my bottom line, but I know better than to get mixed up with guys like that. Better to stay out of his orbit for now.

So instead, I serve the Macallan to the two middle-aged swinging dicks.

The music begins—the Russian who likes to play is truly special on the piano, his skill so far above any of our players.

I’d like to stop and listen, but instead I lean over the table, setting the first glass to the guy on the inside corner of the booth.

That’s when his friend places a definite hand on my ass.

I don’t react.

I don’t do anything but keep smiling.

I’m not above allowing a guy to cop a feel so that he leaves me a good tip. But that is where I draw the line. They can go home and screw their wives. I’m not for hire.

But as he gives my right cheek a big squeeze, I straighten, adjusting away, as I place his Macallan in front of him. “Here you go, sir.”

“Thank you, darlin’,” he drawls, his face already a bit ruddy from the liquor. “Tell me something,” he starts, leaning closer with a look of hunger in his eyes. “Are you looking for a good time?”

Crap. These situations have to be handled delicately so as not to make the customer feel bad and stiff me from my tip. “Serving you gentlemen drinks is plenty fun,” I say with a husky laugh, before I turn and go, leaving both of them also laughing in my wake.

I’ve got a mezzo soprano tone to my voice, and I know lots of guys dig it. My hair is a dark honey blonde, and my eyes are green, but my skin has a sun-kissed bronze to it, thanks to my mom’s Mediterranean heritage.

Coupled with a generous backside, I get my fair share of male attention. Not that I date. I don’t. Ever.

I’m too busy, and even if I wasn’t…

Shaking off these thoughts I keep working the room, serving drinks as the night grows later and the patrons more drunk.

I bring a round of vodka to the Russians when Callie has to serve a group in one of the private rooms. My stomach flutters but I push my nerves back down as I approach the table.

The one who asked me out, I think his name is Alexander, gives me a long, heavy stare, his tattooed fingers flexing around his glass, as I keep my smile as generic as possible.

That’s when the hair on the back of my neck stands up.

I straighten. My instincts are always dead on, and I can sense that danger is close. Scanning the room, I catch the shadowed gaze of a lone man in the dark corner of the room.

I hate that guy. I don’t know his name. I never wait on him, but he’s here nearly every night. Sometimes he only stays for a bit, sometimes all night.

The other waitresses say that he doesn’t drink much but he tips really well, as they giggle about how gorgeous he is.

I don’t give a crap about his looks, the guy still creeps me out, which is why I usually give his table to the next girl in the rotation. Even I’m not desperate enough to interact with him for good tips.

He looks at me now, his dark eyes empty and unreadable. I know that look.

It’s the look of a man who has no soul, who will hurt anyone or anything not out of malice, but out of joy.

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