Page 17 of Blood and Bonbons

My feet wanted me to collapse in a chair, but rather than giving in, I cleared my tables downstairs then went up to clean my VIP table. Sierra’s tables were already cleared. She sat at one, counting her tips.

“A lousy thirty more for all the ass-kissing I had to do up here,” she said, flicking her blonde hair over her shoulder. “What did you get from that table?”

“Nothing crazy. It turned over three times. About fifteen from each.”

“Figures,” she said under her breath.

I wasn’t sure why she was still employed here. Shepard wasn’t the type to put up with crappy workers. And while Sierra did her job, she was one of those passive-aggressive types who oozed negativity whenever she opened her mouth. He could have easily found someone equally as good at serving drinks, who could manage a friendly smile without eye-daggers.

She stood and handed over ten percent of her total to Detroit, the VIP bartender. “I swear I have given more money to bartenders over the month I’ve worked here than anywhere else.”

“That means you’re making more money,” I said. “It’s a good thing. And the bartenders bust their butts to get us our drink orders plus theirs. Be thankful.”

She glared at me with her hazel eyes. As soon as she went downstairs, I sat at the bar and gave Detroit a weary smile. He smiled back, and there was none of the weariness. There was a reason Shepard kept Detroit up in the VIP lounge. He had a carefree, rugged look with a body of steel, the stamina of a centaur, and a flair for mixing drinks.

“Don’t mind Sierra,” he said. “She’s still new. She’ll come around or leave quickly. You’ve only been here about six months, so you’ve only seen some of the employees who have come through here. Chalk it up to free entertainment.”

“I’d rather have less toxic entertainment. Can I bother you for a glass of water?”

“Sure thing. Did you cash out your card tips already?” he asked, filling a glass for me.

“Yeah, why?”

“Just curious.”

I counted out my tips and handed over my ten percent. “Does ten percent add up to much when you split it with the other bartenders?”

He shrugged. “Along with the tips we get from the people who prefer to drink at the bar, it’s decent.”

“Are you telling me I should be a bartender?”

“Are you telling me you’re tall enough to see over the bar?”

“Ouch. Of course I can see over the bar. And as I demonstrated, I can reach over it to pass your tip money, too.”

“From your chair.”

“I’m taking my impressively average sixty-four-inch height home now. Enjoy the rest of your night from your freakishly skyscraping height.”

His chuckle followed me down the stairs.

Anchor called goodnight to me as I headed toward the back. Shepard was in the kitchen, helping with the cleanup. He looked up when I came in.

“Heading out?” he asked.

“Yes. Unless you need something else.”

He shook his head. “I’ll walk you out.”

I paused. “Why? Am I in trouble?” I couldn’t remember doing anything that would land me on Shepard’s shit list, but he had an extensive menu of pet peeves. Heaven help the person who came across as a know-it-all or habitually interrupted conversations. Or worse, the unfortunate employee who loved wearing heavily scented perfume or cologne. Shepard’s death glare if he ever caught someone on their phone during a shift was completely spine-melting. I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of any of his looks.

Shepard’s gaze flicked to my cheek briefly. “You’re not in trouble. I’m just not taking chances on your safety.”

I fought not to roll my eyes.

“There is nothing to worry about, Shepard. No abusive boyfriend is waiting by my car.”

“Then humor me.”

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