Page 2 of Ruined By Protection
"I'll be there," I promise, watching as she shakes a cocktail, her body moving in a rhythm that makes me think of other, more primal shaking. I wonder if she'd be vocal in bed or the quiettype. Something tells me there's fire beneath that composed exterior.
"Don't get distracted," Damiano warns, somehow sensing my attention is divided.
I almost laugh. If he could see what I'm looking at he'd understand completely. "Never on the job."
When she bends to retrieve something from a lower shelf I get a perfect view of her ass through the open passthrough, and my mind fills with images of taking her from behind, my hands gripping those hips, her back arching as I drive into her. Christ, I need to get a grip.
"Call me when you've reviewed the numbers," Damiano says.
"Will do." I end the call and pocket the phone, never once taking my eyes off her.
My cock hardens at the thought of her legs wrapped around my waist.
I drain my scotch and decide to order another. Not because I need the drink but because I want to hear her voice, see if it matches the fantasy building in my head.
Hazel
I mix another overpriced cocktail for the balding businessman who's been eye-fucking me for the past hour. His wedding ring catches the light as he slides his credit card across the bar, flashing what he thinks is a charming smile.
"You're new here, aren't you?" he asks, leaning forward to invade my space. His cologne—too much of it—stings my nostrils.
"Just started last week," I answer, keeping my voice professional as I run his card. I don't mention that I'vebeen bartending for years. Men like him don't care about my experience—just my measurements.
I return his card with a forced smile that never reaches my eyes. "Enjoy your drink, sir."
He lingers, clearly hoping for more conversation, but I'm already moving to the next customer. The dismissal stings his ego—I can tell by the way his smile hardens before he retreats.
The Remington pays better than any bar I've worked before but the dress code is brutal—tight pants and heels that make my calves burn by the end of the night. Worth it for the tips, I remind myself. Worth it for the money I can send home.
I glance at the clock. Two more hours until I can kick off these torture devices and collapse into bed.
This wasn't the plan. None of this was the plan.
Three years ago I was supposed to be graduating college, not dropping out to support my family after Dad's accident. Not working three jobs while Mom juggled medical bills that crippled us. Not watching my siblings give up their own dreams because there simply wasn't enough money.
I grab a bottle of top-shelf whiskey and pour a double for a man in a custom suit. He doesn't look up from his phone, just slides cash across the bar like I'm a vending machine.
At least he doesn't leer. Small mercies.
The bar at The Remington is different from the dive bars I've worked before—quieter, more expensive, filled with men who think their wealth entitles them to whatever—and whoever—they want. The money is better but the customers are worse in their own way. Their entitlement comes wrapped in designer suits instead of cheap cologne, but there's the same hunger in their eyes.
I feel it now—someone watching me. The prickle of awareness crawls up my spine as I prepare a gin and tonic. Idon't need to look up to know I'm being observed. After years of bartending I've developed a sixth sense for it.
When I finally glance over I catch him—a dark-haired man in a booth, watching me over the rim of his glass. Unlike the others he doesn't look away when caught. He holds my gaze, unashamed of his interest.
Something about him makes my skin bloom with heat. Maybe it's the confidence in his posture or the intensity in his eyes. He's dangerous—I can tell from across the room. Not the obvious kind of dangerous like the drunk frat boys who get handsy, but the quiet kind that runs deeper.
I look away first, intent on mixing a mojito.
I focus on muddling mint leaves, trying to ignore the weight of his stare.
The mojito customer leaves a decent tip and I'm wiping down the bar when the doors swing open. A group of six men in expensive suits pours in, talking loudly about quarterly projections and market share. Corporate types who think they're masters of the universe.
"Miss? We'll need a table," one calls out, barely glancing at me.
I gesture toward the hostess. "Angela will seat you."
The hostess leads them to a large round table near the bar. Great. Just what I need—a corporate happy hour to manage alone. My co-bartender called in sick, leaving me to handle the entire bar section.
