by Dylann Crush
Please, Luke, tell us again how we need to capitalize on the Power Play.
She must know I’m a step behind because I catch her looking at me out of the corner of her eye. But she doesn’t stop or give me a second glance.
I love a challenge. It’s been awhile since I used my primal impulse to hunt.
“Are you lost?” she asks, as she rounds the corner of a long bar. She grabs a ticket printing from the machine behind her and scans it before scooping ice into a stainless-steel tumbler, then adding vodka and cranberry juice.
“Yes. Lost in thoughts of you.” I place an elbow on the bar and lean towards her.
“Oh my gosh!” She rolls her eyes while screwing the cap on the vodka bottle.
“It’s true. I can’t get you out of my head, Lexie. I’ve been thinking about you since the first time we met. You realize that by now, right?”
“Really?” Her lips curve into a playful smile as she shakes the liquids and ice in a stainless-steel tumbler. “I didn’t realize you had any recollection of the night we met.”
“Well.” I scratch the back of my neck while twisting my lips. “I mean, I think I do.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, toying with me. “You remember the night you got to the Beaver already so drunk that I wouldn’t serve you and had to pay for your ride home?”
Her words spark a memory, but not everything comes back to me. I rub the back of my neck and laugh. “I wondered how I got to my apartment.”
“You didn’t know how you got home?” She lifts her gaze to mine quickly while straining the drink into two frosted martini glasses.
“Nope.” I chuckle. I always thought one of the boys got me home. Never even questioned it. “Sounds like I owe you a ride.”
We both pause, realizing the sexual double entendre in my comment. Her cheeks heat up with a rosy tone as her gaze burns into me, lust seeping out like molten lava. She wants me just as much as I want her.
The question isn’t if we’ll have sex, but when.
“Come on! You’ve got to let me repay you. How about tonight?” I persist.
“No, thanks.” Just then, a server reaches over me and grabs the drinks she just finished preparing while Lexie tends to the machine that keeps spewing paper. “Not trying to be a jerk, but,”—She nods to the printer.—“I’m kinda busy here.”
“You’re working, I get it.” I tap my hand on the bar. “I’ll have a vodka neat.”
2
Lexie
He can’t be serious.
“There are other people here who need drinks. First come, first serve.” I shrug and grab a Heineken from the cooler under the bar and pop the top with a bottle opener.
“I’ll definitely let you come first, love. I’ll let you come as many times as you want.”
Viktor Kravtsov is a walking one-night stand. Sex and sophistication ooze from his pores. Porn music plays with every stride. (In my imagination.) And my mind keeps flashing back to the way his muscles rippled through the tight, black T-shirt he had on last time he was at The Beaver.
Maybe I have the attention span of a child, immediately drawn to the shiny, new toy. Viktor is definitely new and different, especially at a place like The Flying Beaver. The hockey players usually fit right in with the regulars, but a guy like Viktor doesn’t fit in anywhere in Charlotte. He’s suave and stylish with a face chiseled out of marble, and he’s always meticulously put together. He belongs on the cover of a magazine or waving glow sticks at a rave in Ibiza.
But I can’t let him get to me. I’m far too busy to daydream about him or counter his flirty banter.
“Oh, Viktor.” I sigh and shake my head. “Can you please let me get back to work? Contrary to what you might believe, I’m not your personal server tonight.”
“Yet, you keep walking by me.”
I glare at him. “You’re literally standing right next to the bar. I have no choice but to pass you.”
He continues without a beat. “How fun would it be to have you as my own personal server? At my command.” His eyes sparkle with mischief. I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t hit me straight in the core.
But he’s a professional hockey player—emphasis on “player.”
“I like that fantasy,” I answer in a hushed tone, taking a beat to stop and whisper. “Let me know how that plays out when you’re jerking yourself off tonight.” I rasp, then inch past him.
“Come on!” He laughs.
“Why the hard push? I never would have guessed you were desperate.”
“It’s not desperation. It’s determination. When I want something, I don’t stop until I get it.”
“I think that’s called harassment when it comes to pursuing women.”
“Whoa!” He takes a step back and holds up his hands. “That’s not who I am at all. I honestly thought there was a spark between us. I was playing on the chemistry, not trying to be a scumbag. If I made you feel uncomfortable, I’m really sorry, Lexie.”
He shoots me a half smile and turns around, striding back to his teammates.
Well dammit, that’s not what I meant. But I don’t have time to rectify the situation right now.
An hour later, my stomach still swirls with guilt, reminding me that I should apologize to Viktor. I didn’t mean to accuse the infuriating, hot, jerky, muscular, arrogant, sexy man of sexual harassment. I didn’t consider it his flirting harassment at all; I was just trying to knock his big ego down a notch.
I chant in my head as I take three deep calming breaths. It’s the only form of mediation I have time for right now.
You know what would be more calming? Getting dick from Viktor Kravtsov. It’s been awhile since I got a good, old-fashioned fu—
“Lexie!”
My head snaps up, breaking me out of the fog of X-rated thoughts. How long had Dawn been calling me?
“Yeah. Sorry. What?” I can’t get the right words out.
Get it together, girl. It’s too busy to be thinking about Viktor’s quivering member.
“Did you make that Bloody Mary for table thirty-three?” Dawn asks.
“Table thirty-three?” I glance at Viktor, who just happens to be looking my way. I shake my head and move to the tiny printer on the end of the bar, buzzing as it spews orders.
Damn. A Bloody Mary for table thirty-three. Four beers, two merlots, and a chardonnay for various other tables.
Time to get my head back in the game, especially since the printer isn’t going to stop. I’ve worked Commons family events before and the party-goers can throw back some drinks.
I chastise myself. No more thinking about the hot hockey player—though I will apologize if I have the chance.
Men hit on me nightly at the Beaver and I’ve never found it difficult to turn them down. But there’s something about Viktor Kravtsov. Sure, he was so drunk he could barely stand the first time I met him, but even in his inebriated state, he was respectful and made me laugh.
I’m used to angry drunks. Annoying drunks. Barfing drunks. But Viktor was a different drunk.
Too bad I don’t date athletes. They’re fun to look at—and watch play—but to fall for? Hell-to-the-no.
As expected, the orders never slow, so I return my focus to churning out as many drinks as possible. This is not how events usually run. Normally, there’s a bar or two set up and guests walk up to it to order—like at a wedding.
But Harris Commons won’t allow his guests to wait in a line. Every server on the floor punches in what the guest wants on a smart phone and the order goes to the bar where Kwame and I are working our asses off.
Tending bar at one of the biggest events of the year thrown by one of the oldest, wealthiest families in Charlotte is a completely different animal than manning the taps at a local dive bar. There should have been a third bartender helping with the madness, but he didn’t show up. With three of us, we’d be fine with me having to make rounds with champagne. But two is a shit-show. Hopefully, we’re holding it down well enough Mr. Com
mons doesn’t notice.
I don’t know how the staffing disaster happened. The woman who coordinates the events here is usually always at the top of her game. But I haven’t seen her all night—which might explain the clusterfuck. If the Commons notice, I can’t imagine they’ll be happy. They are perfectionists in every sense of the word, which is why I high-tailed it to the ladies’ room after Viktor called out my loose hair. I’ve seen people get sent home on the spot for less.
I’m just glad I didn’t have to don one of those slutty Santa suits to hop on the floor with the bubbly. I don’t know who approved that tacky costume, but I have a feeling it has to do with tonight’s lack of leadership.
This is my third year working this event and I know for a fact neither Harris nor Cookie Commons would have ever approved something so tasteless. I wish I could have seen their faces when they walked in.
“Hey, Lexie!” Kwame calls. “Can I get some limes over here?”
“On it!”
I turn around and grab four limes out of a box behind me. Then I quickly cut them into wedges and sail the tray to Kwame.
He’s my favorite bartender to work with, so much so that when I’m called to work an event, I ask if he’ll be manning the bar with me. Since you never know how the night will unfold or what kind of hiccups that may take place, it’s reassuring to work with someone you know will have your back.
I’ve been so busy filling orders that I haven’t even had a chance to run champagne or apologize to Viktor. So, it’s not too much of a surprise when I look up to find him standing at the bar—again.
Guess he wasn’t too offended by my harassment comment.
“Did you scare off your teammates?” I ask, looking back to the area where I’d greeted them and served them drinks earlier. It’s now occupied by a gaggle of gray-hairs.
“They went to check on their girls.” Viktor takes a sip of water. “Are you gonna throw sarcastic comments at me all night or talk to me?”
“What do you want to talk about?” There’s a hint of sarcasm to my tone, but I don’t think he notices—and if he does, he doesn’t care.
Because this is definetly the time to talk. I’m not overwhelmed with work or anything.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
Not a question I’d expected. “How is that your business?”
“It’s not. I just wanted to see if I had competition.” He shrugs. “Not that it matters.”
“What does that mean?” I glance at the bar where Kwame sweats, stressing about the sheer number of drinks he has to crank out by himself while I make rounds with champagne again. Am I really one of the only ones who can carry a tray of full flutes?
“Why’d you skip the boyfriend question?”
“Because it’s not your business.”
Viktor leans in, his voice low. “It is if I want to fuck you.”
At least he gets straight to the point. I don’t mess around with guys who play games—well, emotional games.
“I’m good.” I readjust my grip on the tray, making sure my sweaty palms don’t cause it to slide. That would be disastrous.
“I think we should hang out.” Viktor bites his bottom lip and leans toward me, lowering his voice when he says, “Naked.”
“How can we hang out when you don’t even know if you’ll be in Charlotte next week?”
It’s not meant to come across as a slam, but I understand how he could take it that way since Viktor has been up and down between Detroit and Charlotte a few times over the last two seasons.
“Truer words have never been spoken.” He laughs. “Which means we shouldn’t wait until next week. I’m here now.”
I shake my head and walk away, carrying the tray of flutes I’d filled to the brim. It only takes three or four minutes before the drinks are gone. When I get back to the bar, Viktor is still there, nursing a drink.
“Come on, Lexie!” he asks, not missing a beat. “One night. That’s all I ask.”
My heart pounds inside my chest, both flattered and frustrated by his persistence. “You expect me to say yes, don’t you?”
“It’s obvious that you want me.” The skin around his eyes crinkles when he smiles.
“Of course it is. Who wouldn’t?” I ask.
“Ah! So I cracked you?”
“Look. I’m not trying to be a jerk—”
“You said that once already tonight, which leads me to believe, maybe you are trying to be a jerk.”
Maybe it was the sparkling chandeliers above or the moonlight streaming in from the windows—but I swear I catch his cobalt eyes twinkle.
A minute ago, a dozen warnings about hooking up with him peppered my mind, giving me the ammunition I needed to shut him down.
But who can resist twinkling eyes on a living god?
Tomorrow, I’ll blame it on the stress of being short-staffed or the holiday music that got me feeling sentimental. Maybe I’ll blame it on the week of monotony at my 8-5 job at the bank or closing shifts with our wonderful—but boisterous—regulars at the Beaver.
But tonight, I’m throwing caution to the wind.
One night with hockey’s most eligible bachelor is exactly what I need. An excellent way to blow off some steam before the holiday rush of depression.
I’ll consider it an early Christmas present to myself.
“Meet me outside the bathrooms in the hallway near the lobby in twenty minutes.”
Viktor’s eyes light up and he leans back as if he’s in disbelief. I shoo him away with a wave of my hand. I’ve spent too much time talking to him instead of focusing on drinks.
“Kwame!”
“Yup?” He answers without looking up.
“Take ten.”
“You sure?” His gaze catches mine before turning back to the drink he’s garnishing with a pineapple.
“Absolutely.”
While Kwame’s gone, I tear through the orders, going as fast as I can while still looking professional and poised—and getting them right. The word “sloppy” is not in the Commons vocabulary.
It might seem like I’m overthinking the Commons family. The party is in full swing. Everyone seems to be having a wonderful time. Why would they even notice what the bartenders are doing?
Believe me, they do.
They’re always watching. Even if it’s not them, they have quality control people who walk around making sure every single part of the event goes off without a hitch. I’ve never known people so focused on making sure they don’t have any bad publicity.
When Kwame gets back from his break, I’ve already filled a tray with champagne. It’s part of my plan to have a few minutes with Viktor.
“I’m going to take these out,” I tell him, as I balance the tray. “Then I’m running to the ladies’ room. But I won’t be gone for a full ten.”
“Got it.”
Thankfully, the champagne goes fast again, and I rush to the bathrooms I told Viktor to meet me at.
When I arrive, he’s leaning against the wall, looking like a high-fashion model as his thumbs tap against his phone screen.
“No videos,” I tease to get his attention.
He looks up and flashes me a sexy smile. “Not this time.”
When he looks at me like he can’t wait to devour me, it sends flames through my core. I need to have my lips on his.
But bathrooms are too high traffic, so I grab his hand and lead him further down the hallway where there’s a utility closet. Twisting the knob, I crack the door and let him slip in first.
“Lexie!” A server in a Santa suit runs toward me. I shut the door quickly without waiting to see if Viktor had made it inside. I feel the resistance as I jam the door closed, then hear a groan and the loud sound of something crashing.
We both look at the door, and I laugh nervously. “I asked one of the janitors to get me a mop. The floor at the bar is a mess.”
“Oh, yeah. I bet.” She bites her lip as she nods, as if contemplating something. “Hey, do you smoke?�
�
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“I don’t mean cigarettes,” she says in conspiratorial voice.
There’s another crash from behind the door, and I wonder what the hell Viktor is doing in there. Is it so hard to be still for a few minutes?
“Sorry.” I shake my head and again, keeping my shoulder propped against the door and my hand glued to the knob.
“Oh, thanks.” She leans against the wall. “It’s so freaking stressful in there! I need to calm down.”
“Yeah, I get it, but I wouldn’t smoke weed even if you get the chance. The Commons will smell it on you.”
She straightens up. “Shit. I didn’t even think of that.”
“Yeah, well, I gotta see what this guy is up to.” I nod to the closet. “How hard is it to find a mop, right?”
“Seriously.” She gives the closet a bizarre glance. “I’ll see you back in there!” She waves and trots off.
Before entering the room, I check the hallway to make sure no one else is coming, then I slip in.
“What the hell?” I whisper loudly.
As soon as I close the door, Viktor grabs my hips and pulls me toward him, replacing my annoyance with lust. Without missing a beat, I wrap my arms around his neck, twist my fingers in his hair, and press my lips onto his. He encircles me in his arms and deepens the kiss. He smells like sophistication and tastes like lime—an intoxicating combination.
I cry out when he slams my back against the door, then turns the lock quickly. The muscles of his chest are smooth and unyielding as I slide my hands over them. He parts my lips with his tongue then holds my lower lip in his teeth, tugging before he releases me and pulls away.
“God, you’re fucking gorgeous,” he whispers, holding me at arm’s length as he scans me from head to toe, eyes swirling with lust and intensity.
“You’re pretty fucking gorgeous yourself,” I respond, my voice thick and raspy. My palms slide from his hair to the back of his head.
While I love the compliments, but we don’t have much time. It was ridiculous of me to take a break in the first place—let alone a break to screw a hockey player in a utility closet of the Grand Resort. If anyone catches us, I’ll never be able to work here—or any well-paying, high-society event—again.