Black Light: Valentine Roulette (Black Light Series Book 3)

by Livia Grant

  Klara put that famous Swedish snap in her voice. “I don’t want to work at Runway. I told you that.”

  “I am asking you as my best friend to trust me. Black Light means less hours for the same pay. You’ll have more time to spend with—” Maxine’s cell began to ring, the chirping ringtone signaling it was Noah calling from Runway. Stern, she popped her lips and changed gears. “I’ve got reps upstairs. We’ll have to talk later.”

  When Maxine pushed off to attend to business, Klara had a parting of her own. Her grumbles were in Swedish, and from their harsher edge, were definitely an unladylike string of curses.

  By the clink of heavy glass and the constant shuffle, Spencer figured Klara had chosen to take out her frustration by cleaning. He was right. Rounding the corner he found her wiping down bottles, making ticks on an inventory sheet, and just as ice cold as the day he’d met her.

  Even if her time was being used to benefit Black Light, Spencer wanted her to know she was not welcome to come and go as she pleased. “Your shift doesn’t start until eight.”

  He’d surprised her, Klara jumping a little before she glanced over her shoulder at the man in the dark grey suit. “Inventory has to be done so I can calculate spillage and prep tomorrow’s orders.”

  “Shandra is responsible for inventory.”

  “Well, she’s never done it right. Your liquor costs are three times what they should be.” Klara offered the stapled register and looked Spencer dead in the eye. “If I ordered according to these figures you’d end up with three cases of mezcal and no vodka—the base liquor in half of your cocktail list.”

  Her tone was not appreciated. Spencer narrowed his eyes, warning, “It’s your job to design a new cocktail list.”

  Klara brushed off his gruffness with a wave of the hand. “Another reason I am here now. Take a seat. I’ll whip up a few of my ideas and you can tell me what you like.”

  Lips curled in a contemptuous grin, Spencer growled, “I don’t drink on the job.”

  She froze, and in the mirror behind the bar, Spencer could see her unpainted lips thin. A heartbeat passed and Klara was right back in motion. Grabbing bottles, bitters, juices, syrups, she poured and stirred, finishing off the first silky creation by pouring the golden drink with flare into a coupe.

  He ignored the glass, his hand on the bar before it, his blue eyes locked on hers.

  His lengthy silences annoyed her, he could see by the slight flare of her nostrils no matter if her eyes remained flat. There was no sip, he wouldn’t even try it. That didn’t stop Klara from making another drink, and then another, until there was a line of beverages waiting to be sampled on the bar.

  Her cold façade was cracking. “I spent all morning making these syrups, squeezing these juices. Don’t you want to know what they taste like?”

  “No.”

  “I do!” A bubbly voice came from the entrance, Emma Fischer smiling. Behind her walked Chase, and he was not smiling at all. In fact he was staring... at Spencer.

  The smile Klara never bestowed on her boss was immediately set upon the pair. She even sighed under her breath, “Oh, thank God.”

  Spencer sat in stiff silence while the pair of Jaxson’s lovers went drink by drink through the alcoholic smorgasbord. After much laughing and a few noises of disgust, five were chosen to grace the new cocktail list. Three were rejected utterly.

  “I had an idea about making a second list of drinks, exotic mocktails. Fruity or creamy drinks, seasonal flavors, people could sip on all night without worrying about intoxication... or just if they needed a sugar boost.” Honey eyes went to where Spencer sat like a silent stone, Klara adding, “What do you think?”

  Emma opened her mouth to wholeheartedly agree, only to be silenced by Spencer’s immediate, “No.”

  “You’re right.” She might have verbally agreed with him, but Klara challenged his verdict by simply adding. “One thing at a time. We can discuss it again after the staff gets comfortable making these.”

  An hour later, Spencer caught Klara huddled over her compact in the corner, painting on her crimson lips. By the time they were open for business, the bar was clean, Klara was once again unflappable, and patrons were approaching, calling for her by name.

  Chapter 3

  It had been a week since Klara’s arrival at Black Light. Five whole nights where he’d been repeatedly distracted from his role of Dungeon Master to deal with some issue her presence inspired. By her third night she’d made two staff members cry. By her fifth she’d vocally reprimanded a senator who was trying to wrangle a third drink from one of the meeker cocktail waitresses.

  The ensuing argument, and her complete disregard for the scenes playing nearby, drew attention from more than just those near the bar.

  Spencer could not fault her for enforcing the two drink limit. He could fault her for her tone in dealing with a patron. In the privacy of his office, he’d dressed her down with great enthusiasm, and she’d stood there and took the entirety of his temper. He was sure he’d finally scared her off when just for a moment her mask slipped. It was not fear or anger peeking from the cracks in her icy stare, it was concern.

  Victory.

  And then she said, “Okay, boss. Tell me exactly what you want me to do.”

  His cock twitched. Spencer ran a hand through his silver hair and eyeballed her with distaste. “If a guest is causing you or anyone in the bar trouble, you come and get me. I’ll deal with them.”

  “You want me to leave my station and go out onto the floor?” Klara’s distaste with his mandate was not concealed. “What if you’re participating in something?”

  Oh, he’d be participating in something alright. When this meeting was over he planned to decompress and forget about the irritating blonde’s icy stares with some good, clean play at the stage nearest where she might see. “Do you have an issue with anything I may or may not be participating in?”

  “I have an issue abandoning the bar when there is no one competent on staff to pour more than a glass of water. Managing the bar is my job. If I have to run to daddy every time there is a hiccup, then I cannot do that effectively. Why hire me if you want to handle all the work yourself?”

  She had a point. Spencer trilled his fingers while he regarded the unsmiling woman. He took up a great deal of his chair, broad-shouldered and bulk no matter the tailored cut of his suit jacket, but it was Klara who took up the whole room. And she did it by doing nothing but standing there.

  Skintight black, always skintight black. No color save those ruby red lips.

  “Klara...”

  For a moment, just one single moment, she put a hint of pleading into her voice. “Just tell me what you want from me, Spencer.”

  What he wanted was her gone. “No more distractions. I want it to be as if you’re not even here.”

  It didn’t show on her face, but Spencer could sense his words had stung. With a voice lacking all inflection, Klara said, “I can do that.”

  But she couldn’t, and as the month passed Spencer saw her more, watched her more, and found fault with every last thing she did.

  February 7th

  It had been a busy night, complications having arisen in several scenes that either himself or his Dungeon Monitors had been busy attending to. But finally he’d had a break, standing beside the St. Andrew’s cross, training an eager dom in the art of the bullwhip.

  Owen, his shibarist Dungeon Monitor was waving for him to step down from the stage. Abandoning the scene, Spencer leaned forward so the man might whisper in his ear.

  Immediately he pulled back, snarling, “What do you mean Adele is crying in the bathroom? Can the guests see?” Catty bullshit was not something Spencer had time for. Another crying bartender, another issue since Klara had barged in. “What did Klara do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Klara was rushing back and forth to make drinks, oblivious to the Dungeon Master and his monitor’s weighty stares. He was on her in a minute, taking her by the
arm to pull her away from where guests might hear.

  He backed her into the wall, his body a shield from prying eyes.

  She’d bit her tongue until Spencer had set her arm free, ready to defend yet another ridiculous scenario. “Look, if this is about Adele crying in the bathroom, I snapped at her, it’s true, but she was trying to serve coconut rum to Miss Younge. Miss Younge is allergic to coconut and this point has been discussed in lineup many times. Adele could have sent one of your guests into anaphylactic shock. Not only does she suck at her job, but she endangers your clientele with her stupidity. I know you like to play with her, that she’s everyone’s favorite sub off the clock, but when she’s on the clock she needs to be focused on her JOB not incessantly making eyes at you.”

  That she would think to speak to him in such a tone made Spencer far blunter than he should have been. “Why must I deal with nightly tears and complaints of bullying from the staff, Klara? You’re a brat and I don’t have time to give you the constant attention you seem to think you deserve.”

  She wasn’t having any of his unfair criticism. “Most nights I work without so much as taking a bathroom break. Every night I split my tips with whoever you put on the schedule—the schedule that as head bartender I should be writing. My efforts go into the pockets of women who spend their time staring at the room without even a side glance towards their guests. Several of them have disappeared mid-shift, only to reappear... from some dark corner. Until you enforce it, they won’t differentiate work from play. Why should they?”

  There was an edge to his smirk. “You think I don’t punish them when I hear all your complaints? Each one of them has felt the consequences.”

  “Don’t twist my words into one of your kink things.” Klara had heard enough. “You know what’s hard? This job. If those girls don’t toughen up, they are never going to survive your shitshow rodeo down here. The Valentine Roulette party is in a week, and unless they get their asses in gear, they are going to be up to their elbows in weeds. For fuck’s sake, all they do is whine. Their quality control is laughable. Half of them make your signature drink and serve it in different glassware with different garnishes. Do you understand why that’s bad? The bar in your fancy perv club is a joke.”

  Face going red, Spencer felt a muscle tick in his jaw. Voice unnaturally level he said, “You did not just call me a pervert.”

  “It was a poor choice of words on my part. I’m sorry. It’s not like I haven’t been spanked during sex or tied up. Everyone has.” Speaking over him, Klara’s hasty apology was merged into her previous argument. “My point is—”

  He’d heard enough. He sliced his hand through the air between them, cutting her off with a growl. “Your mouth, your language, are one-hundred percent unacceptable.”

  Klara let out an extremely agitated breath and attempted more professional speech. “Adele has to go. She is only in the way and slowing the rest of us down. Move her to coat check, have her hand out condoms and lube, just get her the fuck out of my bar.”

  “She stays...”

  “I know you’re new to this business. I know you think I’m some horrible dragon, but this isn’t personal. She could have killed someone, Spencer. Any bartender worth their salt would say the same thing I’m saying to you right now.” Substituting the word perv for something her boss might find palatable, Klara continued. “Your clients might come here for the show, but they won’t stick around if the front of house service sucks. And just to be clear, I’m not talking about sucking coc—”

  “Stop!” He could see it, back behind that honey-eyed stare, she was purposefully trying to get a rise out of him. The busty mouthpiece was goading him on purpose because they both knew she believed she was right. Spencer had no issue turning the tables. “Every last girl working my bar lives the lifestyle to varying degrees and plays here on their off hours. Then you prance in, vanilla, condescending, and yes you’re good at your job. But I bet every last one of them is a lot better at sucking cock. Which do you think our paying guests prefer?”

  Murder was in her eyes. “What did you just say to me?”

  “You want to throw grownup taunts around, little girl, I will too.” Spencer lowered his voice, made it satin and growly, employing the exact tone that made his subs cream their panties. “A perk of staff’s compensation is free membership. We encourage everyone to play off the clock, but no one makes anyone do anything here that isn’t consensual. They love it. You, you just stand on your soapbox and judge.”

  “The only thing around here I judge,” she swept her gaze from his shined shoes to his immaculately combed grey hair, “is the quality of the team you have behind the bar. That’s the job you hired me for. I have ten girls with no experience and an inability to handle even an ounce of pressure. They also know that if they go running to you, if they muster up some tears, that I am the one who’s going to get in trouble. I’m doing my best.”

  Klara was disheveled, her hair mussed and her cheeks red. Spencer stared down, noting even as she was, her eyes never once wavered from his. She would never be a sub. There was not a single fucking submissive thing about her.

  He was raw and hungry, with no interest in furthering a confrontation with his head bartender where guests might hear. “Then get back to work.”

  Chapter 4

  She’d made it five weeks. Five weeks in a job she should never have taken. There was not enough liquor in Runway for Maxine to comp that would make it better.

  Klara had fucked up and she knew it. Cash came in hand over fist this time of year at Jack Varens’ club. She should never have taken this job, have risked her livelihood, or endangered her family’s wellbeing.

  Elias wanted to go to space camp; she’d promised him she’d find a way to make it work, and here she was, right on the cusp of ruin. His tuition alone cost almost as much as she made in a year. Without his good grades and the subsequent financial aid, her brother would never have been able to enjoy the opportunity of D.C.’s finest private high school. Unlike her, he was smart as a whip. And he was such a sweet boy.

  And none of the pressure or her personal condemnation was being let up no matter how many shots of vodka Klara had swallowed.

  “This is the first time I’ve managed to get you to come in. And you sit there sulking. It can’t really be all that bad.”

  Klara pushed her glass towards the handsome bartender, frowning and unwilling to talk. “Shut up, Noah.”

  Night after night she’d worked amidst the sound of screams, moans, and dirty talk so foul it would make her grandma roll over in the grave. Sitting up in Runway, Elixxir’s music pounding loud enough to drown out even the nearest small talk, Klara found she preferred the less abrasive noises down in the basement.

  Not that she would ever sit at that bar as a patron.

  Black Light had all the makings of a bartender’s dream job: gracious clientele she did not have to shout at so they could hear her, less mayhem since very few people managed to get drunk, but the last thing a wise bartender did was drink where they work. Pity, for it hadn’t been hard to chat with the BDSM crowd, meet their eyes, and pointedly ignore everything going on past her corner of the room. They were all pretty nice. Shift after shift she had run her ass off, she had talked her voice hoarse trying to explain for the thousandth fucking time the difference between a Collins and a rocks glass to her incompetent coworkers, and even with Spencer’s complaints, most nights hadn’t been too bad.

  At least at first. They had gotten progressively worse, and now it was only a matter of time before the ax dropped.

  Hand cold from the frosty martini shaker he’d used to chill her drink, Noah reached over the bar and gently slapped Klara’s cheek. When she stopped moping and looked up, he cupped the side of her face and smiled. “Wanna crash with me tonight? It would be like old times. I’ll even rub your feet.”

  When you worked all night, almost every night, the pool one socialized with was almost always industry folks. Everyone knew everyone.
Everyone slept with everyone else. It was an incredibly incestuous circle. Klara had hooked up with Noah many times over the years… he was gorgeous.

  Having a warm body next to hers didn’t sound like such a bad idea.

  Klara was tempted... except her eye was on someone else.

  There was another man at the bar who fit the bill better than sweet Noah might. Pointing with her honey gaze towards an actor known for his brooding both on and off screen, she let her friend figure out what just might tempt her to smile.

  Noah had known her long enough to get the point, even laughing impishly. “Well... aiming for the stars, are we? I’ll make the introduction, but first you might want to clean up your smeared mascara.”

  Swiping her thumbs under her eyes, Klara made quick work of turning the mess into a half-assed attempt at a smoky eye. “Any other pointers, kid?”

  “Smile. You look miserable.”

  Turning on the charm was instant. Shit, she’d been bartending for fifteen years. Charming the pants off strangers was her best well-honed talent.

  Within an hour she had the arms of the next James Bond around her waist. Klara smiling up at a man everyone knew and no one knew at all. Martin Goodchild, a special guest of Runway, hadn’t been nearly as unfriendly as he looked. In fact, his mouth was on hers by their second drink, and he kissed like an eager teenager, all tongue and teeth.

  There was no reason to explain herself, no reason at all that she should not sigh at his attention and enjoy it. But the elevator dinged and near the hall that led to Jaxson’s private suite, a silver-haired mountain of judgment appeared. Unlike when she’d pointedly ignored him doing freaky things to her worst bartender week after week, unlike when Klara had not blinked an eye, he got one look at her doing nothing but kissing, and Spencer Cook froze.

  When their eyes met, she even imagined he’d snorted like a bull.

  She dismissed the unwelcome voyeur, lowering her smudged lashes and reaching down to cup Martin Goodchild’s jeans right over his throbbing erection. One touch and she decided his cock was big enough, his fingers were smooth enough, and though he was a bit young for her taste, the famous actor would serve just fine as a one-night entertainment.