Page 3 of Lust

Chapter 2

Clarissa

Theear-piercingshriekfromthe sound system feels like someone is slashing at a spot behind my eyes with a nail file. If the sound check goes on for a minute longer, my brain might actually explode.

"Ms. Masters?"

I shake my head at the sound of my name and scowl at my head bartender, half-annoyed, half embarrassed that I'd been caught not paying attention to what he was saying.

"What?" I snap.

A look of confusion flashes over his face at my tone, but he doesn't say anything about it, just holds out the clipboard to me. "Erm, I was just saying, I think we're going to need to up our ice shipment. I think another five twenty-pound bags should do it. We can store them in the cool room and then bring them out when we need them. But we were out almost an hour before we closed last night. Had to hit the kitchen up for some."

In the background, the speakers let out another screech, and I use every ounce of presence to plaster a neutral look on my face. "Sure, whatever you think is right, James. Update me in a week."

"Sure thing, Ms. Masters." He pauses, then asks the question on his lips. "Are you okay?"

No.

No, I'm not.

And nothing makes it worse than being asked that question for the tenth fucking time of the day.

I wave my hand. "I'm fine. Just go back to work, I have things to do," I hastily say, in a voice almost as shrill as the sound coming out of the speakers.

Before he can ask any follow-up questions, or the facade fades, I walk to my office, slamming the door closed behind me, and lean against it. My eyes flicker erratically back and forth, and fall on my reflection on the mirror across from the door. I almost find myself without breath again when I see what I look like - messy bun, face still bare, eyes circled by dark, purple rings.

I haven't slept properly in a week.

More like six months, a niggling voice in my head insists. I push it back as far as I can because it doesn’t matter how long it’s been. Last night was opening night of my whisky club, Malt, so it’s no wonder that I’ve barely slept a wink wanting to make sure everything was ready.

Opening night had gone about as well as expected, with a few inevitable and unavoidable hiccups that come with opening night.

The few friends who are still talking to me after I moved to New York City showed up. I’d been touched to see them. It’s easy to take friends for granted, even casual acquaintances. Maybe after that last few months here with nothing but unanswered phone calls and indefinitely postponed lunches has taught me to not rely on promises from the people who I used to call friends.

Last night’s entertainment, Georgana Best, a local blues singer, had turned out to be quite the draw card. And high priced as she was, I've made sure to book her for the coming three Saturdays. The half-price drinks for opening night had also proven to be incredibly popular, and we still managed to break even despite the Mt. Everest-high stacks of empty bottles of high-end liqueur currently clogging up the alley behind the club.

And while it was only the first night, the early success gives me a little hope that I can make a success of this.

Which is exactly the lift I need.

Since moving out of my family’s apartment three months ago, I’ve been living in the upstairs storage space of the club. Dusty. Roach infested. And only an abandoned couch as my bed. But it’s free and my commute is the forty-five seconds it takes me to go downstairs. Which is convenient considering I will regularly be finishing work after two a.m.

Not that anyone knows. Not that anyone can ever know.

Closing my eyes, I do some quick additions in my head about the upcoming costs that are going to have to come out of my quickly depleting savings. Building rent, wages, promotions, finishing the renovations…This place is going to have to start bringing in regular money and fast.

The thought makes my lung suddenly unable to inflate, and my blood starts to pound in my ears. A sweat breaks out all over my body.

Fuck.

Not again.

I stagger over to my desk, grabbing the little pill bottle from the drawer and tip four little white pills into my hand and swallow them, wishing the drugs could be delivered to me in the form of an IV instead.

Why, just why?

The desk chair creaks under me as I sink into it, my head falling into my hands, the sweat from my forehead dripping down my forearms as I drag air into my chest.

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