Page 39 of Dangerous Boss (Bratva Brothers 5)

My cock stirs, and I hate pulling away, but I have to before I embarrass both of us.

“Have a good evening,Malishka.”

SEVEN

Sadie

My heart slams against my ribcage as I shut the apartment door. I lean back against the wood, letting it hold me up. My legs are like rubber from that kiss with Dmitri.

Why did I think kissing him out front on the porch would be a good idea?

Allie is on the sofa, the television on, ignoring me. It’s for the best. I need a minute to cool off since a cold shower would be too obvious.

I head for the fridge, the cold air helping just a little as I reach for a bottle of wine. Dmitri hadn’t ordered us alcohol during dinner. He hadn’t even offered. Was it because it wasn’t a real date? Or maybe it had more to do with Allie being at dinner?

Allie has seen me drink a glass or two of wine. I haven’t gotten drunk around my kid. I know better than to let her see me trashed after a night out with my friends. That’s when I have her spend the night with a friend or over at the neighbor’s so I can unwind.

Which only made things worse.

I slip out of my heels, leave my phone on the counter, and pour a glass of red. The taste is sweet and juicy. Delicious.

Tomorrow, I need to buckle down on finding a new job. I’ve spent the past few days applying and tidying up my resume, but I will need money to pay the bills soon.

I place my glass of wine on the dining room table and grab the laptop, bringing it with me to sit. I tap at the computer, open a web browser and glance at job openings. Allie is enthralled in whatever romance reality show is on.

There are a couple of listings for clerical work, a bar, and a strip club. I’ll pass on the strip club, but I could work at a bar. I bartended years ago. Not one of my favorite jobs, but it paid the bills.

I jot down the information on a scrap of paper. The listing says to apply at the location, and they aren’t taking online resumes.

How old-school is this bar?

“I’m going to run out for a bit,” I say, shutting the computer and pouring the rest of the wine glass out. I don’t want to be inebriated when I show up and ask for an application, but it’s not like they’re going to interview me.

“Sneaking out to be with your boyfriend?” Allie snickers.

“I don’t have to sneak out. I’m an adult.”

“Whatever. I’m watching my show.” She waves me off, her gaze on the television.

It’s Saturday night. The bar has to be crawling with guests. I type the address into my phone and grab a paper copy of my resume, slipping it into a leather folder. I’m still in my black dress, which is presentable enough for an application. It’s not interviewee attire, but at least I’m not in jeans and a t-shirt. I grab a blazer to help with the ensemble.

“Okay, bye,” I say. It’s a relief that she’s not asking any more questions because, at some point, I will have to tell her I changed jobs, which is fine once I find another gig.

I hurry out of the building and to the subway, taking the train across town. It’s a couple of blocks and getting dark, but the roads are well lit. There’s enough foot traffic at this hour that I don’t feel isolated.

It’s relatively safe.

I double-check my phone for the bar’s address before glancing ahead and seeing it. I hurry inside, past the bouncer. He doesn’t bother to check my ID. I’m not sure whether to be offended or flattered. The music is loud, pulsating through the club. There’s a crowd at the bar, and I don’t want to interrupt the bartender while he’s busy.

I glance back at the bouncer. “Hey, I wanted to fill out an application. I saw your listing online that you’re hiring.”

He glances me over from head to toe and doesn’t give so much as a hint of what’s running through his mind. “We’re busy.” His accent is thick. Italian.

“I know. That’s why I think I can help,” I say. “I’ve bartended and waited tables. I’ve also worked at a hotel and handled customer issues. I’m a fast learner and quick on my feet. I’m just looking for an application.”

He pulls a walkie-talkie from his belt loop. I hadn’t even noticed there’d been one secured to his hip. “Boss, a girl is looking for a job here.”

“Send her back to my office,” an Italian voice answers through the walkie-talkie.

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