“Kat!”
I turn to find a willowy blonde in fishnet stockings and sky-high stilettos staring at me. I don’t recognize her — she must be new.
“Vince told me to replace you down here. He wants you to go up and work the VIP section.” She scans the crowd around the bar with wary eyes. The throng is three-deep, many waiting impatiently with credit cards extended into the air, hoping the promise of shiny limitless plastic will entice a bartender to serve them next.
“You’ll be fine,” I tell her, making eye contact with one of the bouncers who’s come to clear a path for me upstairs. When the club gets this jammed, men on the dance floor tend to get aggressive if a lingerie-clad girl walks past. It helps to have a six-foot-five shadow. I shove a vodka bottle into the girl’s hands as I move toward him.
“First night?”
“Yes,” she squeaks.
“Just keep your head up, your eyes down, and your hands steady.”
I see her nod nervously.
“That guy needs a gin and ginger, his girlfriend is waiting on a rum and diet, and there’s a bachelorette party in the corner who want six blow-job shots. You know where we keep the whipped cream?”
“Th-the fridge?”
I sigh and give her a slight push toward the crowd. “Breathe. It helps with the nausea. Ask Holly for help if you get confused.”
Holly shoots me a death glare as the new girl turns toward her, eyes full of hope, like she’s just spotted a rescue helicopter after a month on a deserted island.
“Thanks a lot,” Holly hisses. “Now she’ll be stalking me like my landlord on the first of the month.”
I laugh as I hop over the bar, grabbing the bouncer’s hand for balance as I slide down on the other side.
“Lead on, Hercules.”
“My name is Mark,” he says, grinning as his eyes sweep me head to toe. “You should remember that for later, when you’re calling it out in my bed, babe.”
“The only thing I’ll be calling you is unemployed if you keep hitting on me.” I smile sweetly. “The longer you stand here flirting, the longer the VIP section is understaffed, the more pissed off Vince is gonna be.” My voice drops lower. “You ever seen Vince pissed off? Not a pretty sight.”
The bouncer’s grin drops away and without another word, he turns and starts pushing a path through the crowd. When we reach the velvet-roped spiral staircase that leads upstairs, I step around him. Two guys in suits are blocking the club’s exclusive upper level, but they move aside to let me pass. The line of attractive girls waiting nearby look up hopefully, but the velvet rope clicks closed behind me without letting any of them enter. Either there’s someone important in the VIP section, who doesn’t want to mix with the plebeians, or we’re already at capacity.
There’s a dull ache in the balls of my feet as I ascend, the high heels pinching my toes like some kind of torture device. It’s somewhat quieter up here, away from the massive speakers that flood the dance floor, but the air still seems to vibrate all around me as I step onto the balcony. Low-slung black couches litter the floor. Red sconces light the walls, where gold-gilded wallpaper gleams dully in the dim light. Massive candles drip wax into piles on every free surface, like some kind of strange pagan alter. The entire space has a gothic vibe — something you’d sooner expect to find in New Orleans than posh, whitewashed downtown LA.
Perhaps that’s why Balthazar is so popular. There’s nowhere else quite like it in the city.
I eye the crowd as I make my way to the bar. It’s much less dense than the one downstairs, to my everlasting relief. Lacey and Cher, the identical twin blondes Vince hired for sheer novelty, are busy serving drinks and appetizers to the patrons on barstools. Their massive breasts are barely contained in matching bustiers — every male eye in the room is fixed on them as they shake cocktails with enthusiasm. I can’t fathom the amount they rake in from tips each night.
Stepping back behind the bar, I nod to Kylie in greeting. With the twins covering the front, the two of us are left to serve the lounge, where the true VIPs tend to congregate. Kyle is lining up frosted champagne flutes on a tray and looks even more badass than usual with a section of hair shaved short by her temple, a long black pony-tail teased high on her head, and a pissed-off expression contorting her delicate features.
“Who’s here?” I ask, not spotting anyone particularly famous among the dozen or so people scattered on the couches and clustered around high-top tables.
“Some washed-up rockstar and his posse. Woody something or other.”
“Where?”
“Back corner. On the right.”
I crane my neck and catch sight of them — a few men are on the couches, surrounded by a flock of beautiful women. I can’t make out most of their faces, but I recognize the man in the center from the tabloids I see in line at the grocery store around the corner from my condo.
“Ryder Woods,” I murmur, staring at the former frontman for the band Wildwood. He’s been on a year-long bender since his career fell apart and, from the looks of the lines of cocaine on the table in front of him, tonight won’t be the night he turns sober.
Kylie sighs disgustedly. “There’s someone else with him, too — some hotshot actor, apparently. I have no fucking clue. All I know is, the girls with them ordered about ten bottles of Dom, then complained that their glasses weren’t frosted. Swear to god, if I have to make one more trip over there I’m going to pop a champagne cork right up their perfectly-toned asses.”
I snort. “Vince will love that.”
“Fuck Vince. And fuck all these damn poser celebrities, with their bottle service and their bimbos.”
“You stay here. I’ll take them over for you,” I say, grabbing the tray of frosted glasses from her. “But you owe me.”
“You’re a saint.”
“I’d rather be a sinner than a saint.”
She swats me on the butt as I pass. “Then go get ‘em, Lucifer”
As quickly as I can manage without tripping over my own feet, I cut across the room toward the corner where our resident rockstars have made camp for the night. Tray poised in front of me like a shield, I come to a stop beside the group and gently clear my throat to get their attention. No one so much as blinks at my arrival — the group of women clustered around the couch are fully focused on the men occupying its cushions.
“Excuse me,” I say, somewhat impatiently. “Someone requested frosted flutes.”
“Make some room,” a slurred male voice commands. “Let the girl through.”
With small huffs of inconvenience, the women clear a path for me so I can set the tray down on the low coffee table in front of the couch. I step forward and feel them instantly close ranks at my back, unwilling to lose their spots when they’ve finally gotten up close and personal with a real, honest-to-god A-lister.
I bend to deposit the tray and my eyes meet the bleak, bleary stare of Ryder Woods. He’s got mismatched irises — one blue, one brown — and they’re so empty of anything resembling life, I feel like I’ve been socked in the stomach. There’s no truth in the carefree grin plastered on his lips. One glance tells me this man harbors a deep, unsettling sense of misery.
“Thank you, darling,” he says, smiling that empty smile as I straighten back to full height. “What’s your name?”
“Kat.” I reach for the bottle of champagne in the closest ice bucket and begin working the cork. Months of practice enable me to pop it with only the slightest shower of foam. My hands are steady as I begin filling glasses, eager to escape back behind the bar with Kylie.
“Pleasure to meet you, Kat,” Ryder drawls, that faint southern twang that made his first record go platinum still alluring despite his obvious inebriation.
I pop another bottle and fill more glasses as the girls lean closer to grab them off my tray. Ryder drains the remnants of his whiskey in a single gulp and pushes up from the cushion, dislodging the two girls tucked on either side, before hunching close over the table t
op, and snorting a line of cocaine off the mirrored surface.
“Fuck, that’s good.” His head shakes like a dog emerging from a bath. The girls pull him back between them, giggling like he’s said something exceptionally witty.
“Do you need anything else? Another whiskey?” I ask, stacking the empty champagne bottles on my tray and lifting it into the air. Ryder’s eyes are even less focused when they land back on me.
“I’m good, for the moment.” His stare wanders to the far end of the couch, where another man sits silently in shadows, his features entirely hidden from view. “How ‘bout you, Dunn? You need a refill? What are you drinking?”
I feel my heart drop into my stomach like a cannonball as my gaze flies to the corner, just in time to see Grayson Dunn lean forward, his chiseled features startlingly attractive in low light. There’s a sardonic, almost seductive twist to his mouth as he takes in the sight of me in my corset and mini-skirt. My fingers clench so hard around the tray in my hands, I damn near lose circulation.
“Oh,” he says lowly, eyes locking on mine. “I think Kat knows exactly what I’d like.”
Five
“ I ’m , like, totally cool with the casual thing.”
- A girl who’s been planning her wedding day since she was six years old.
I turn on a heel and try to leave, but my path is blocked by the line of eager bimbos. Before I can shove my way through them, Grayson’s up off the couch and looming at my side, his large hand closing around my forearm like a warm set of shackles. I grit my teeth but don’t struggle as he pulls the tray from my hands, sets it down on the table, and begins to steer me away from the group. Vince will be infinitely pissed if I cause a scene with his biggest VIP.
Ryder’s groupies make small sounds of disappointment as we walk out of earshot toward a secluded corner of the balcony where a drunken couple is making out against a circular, matte-black column. Grayson shoots them a severe look and they scurry away without a word, leaving us alone.
He leads me into an alcove behind the column, where the candles burn low and the music is muted by velvet wall-hangings. The crowded club suddenly feels a world away as I stare up into his eyes, daring him to speak first. He doesn’t; he just stands there, lips twisting in that infuriating half-grin of his.
“Can I get you a beverage?” I finally ask through clenched teeth, yanking my arm from his grip. “Or perhaps a car-service, so you can get the hell out of this club and away from my immediate proximity?”
His lips twitch. “You really don’t like me, huh?”
“What gave me away?” I gasp. “Was it my open hostility? My clear contempt? My unbridled anger at your very presence?”
“Hard to pick just one,” he says cheerfully. “What were the choices, again? Hostility, contempt, and attraction?”
“I said anger, not attraction.”
“Maybe.” His eyes gleam. “But you definitely meant attraction.”
I cross my arms over my chest and ignore the way my heart is thudding inside my chest. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m only a little drunk,” he informs me, swaying on his feet. It makes him look blurry and boyish — his dark hair somewhat mussed, his eyes glittering with humor. Like this, he’s not a mega movie star trailing a posse of half-naked girls and paparazzi; he’s the boy I remember from his early teen years. Carefree and unguarded.
And dangerous .
“Did you come here just to piss me off?” I force myself to say in a cold tone.
“I didn’t even know you worked here. Ryder dragged me out tonight.” He smirks. “Guess it’s just fate throwing us into each other’s paths again.”
“I really need to get back to work.”
“Why are you even working? You just landed a movie deal. You should be here doing shots, not serving them.”
“That’s none of your business.”
He stares at me for a long moment and I see thoughts working in his eyes. “You don’t believe it yet.”
“Excuse me?”
“You still think this whole thing is going to fall through,” he murmurs, watching me carefully.
I do my best to keep my expression blank.
His eyes narrow. “You’re scared.”
“That’s not true.”
He takes a step closer; I immediately move backward. My bare shoulders brush the velvet tapestry, sending a shiver of sensation down my spine. His voice is quiet but intense.
“You’re so used to having the rug ripped out from under you, you haven’t let yourself believe this is for real.”
“You don’t know me.” I feel a flush of red stain my cheeks. “Don’t pretend to understand anything that goes on inside my head.”
His mouth opens then abruptly closes, as if he’s changed his mind about whatever he was about to say.
“Fine.” He holds his hands up. “Maybe I’m totally off base.”
“You are.”
“Uh huh.” His eyes drop to scan my body and my corset suddenly feels even tighter than normal, compressing my lungs until it’s a struggle to draw proper breath. “I like the outfit, by the way. You’ve got a real Catwoman vibe going.” He chuckles. “Kat -woman. Is that leather?”
He reaches out a finger toward my corset; I smack his hand down before it makes contact.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Oh, kitty has claws.” His grin broadens, but he makes no move to touch me again. “I wonder… do you use them in the bedroom, kitten?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I bet you’d scratch my back to all hell.”
“The only part of your anatomy I’ll be scratching are your eyes, when I tear them out of their sockets if you put a hand on me without permission ever again.”
“You’ve got fire, Firestone, I’ll give you that.” His eyes drop to my lips. “And I must say, the fact that you’d like to break every bone in my body just makes me want to do unspeakable things to yours.”
I scoff. “God, are you always like this?”
“Stunningly handsome in a roguish yet cavalier fashion?” he asks.
“An outrageous flirt who acts like women were put on this earth for the sole reason of falling at his feet, just because he happens to be good looking.”
“You think I’m good looking?”
“No.”
“Liar.” His eyes are still locked on my lips.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“I hate to break this to you, but you’ll have to get used to me looking at you, Kat.” He moves a bit closer and I feel my mouth go dry. “Touching you.” His head tilts down and his voice drops to a whisper. “Kissing you.”
“Back off,” I hiss, pushing his chest with both hands. He barely budges. “I’m serious, Dunn. Did you learn nothing from the Helena situation?”
My words hit him like a bucket of ice water. His eyes clear of the lustful haze and he takes an abrupt step out of my space, so I can breathe again.
“I was just messing around.” His gaze scans my face, suddenly serious. “I just wanted…”
“What? What exactly did you want that required you to drag me away from work into a dark corner like some kind of fraternity boy at a keg party?”
He pauses. “I wanted to try to clear the air between us before Monday. Believe it or not, this role is important to me. I already fucked it up once with Helena — I realize that. But you don’t know the full story. Maybe you should learn the facts before you go making snap judgments about shit you don’t understand.”
“Fine. Whatever.” I toss my hands up. “Air is clear, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Great,” he growls. “Glad to hear it.”
“We about done here, then?”
“Yeah. We’re done.” His expression darkens. “Screw me for trying to be a nice guy and fix things.”
“That’s the thing though, isn’t it? You aren’t a nice guy, Grayson. You never were.”
“There she goes again, making snap judgment
s.”
“It’s not a snap judgment. It’s the truth.”
“You don’t know what my life is like.”
“Yeah, it seems like a real struggle.” My eyes drift over to the table where his posse waits. “The drugs, the booze, the women, the fame… Gosh, I’d rather be cooked slowly over hot coals than contend with those horrors!”
He smiles, but it’s joyless and bitter. “You’d think that. But you have no idea what it’s like — not yet, anyway. Soon you will.”
“Enlighten me, then.”
There’s a brief pause before he speaks, as if he’s weighing his words carefully. “I’m constantly surrounded — fans, friends, agents, directors, paparazzi… There’s never a moment of peace. Never a moment where I’m really able to be myself, because the cameras never stop rolling, even when I’m off set. I can’t buy a damn latte without making headlines in the tabloids.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I can’t do anything, can’t even breathe, without it being documented and photographed and catalogued for all eternity.”
“Oh, the injustice .” I roll my eyes. “People adore you so much, you can’t buy a four-dollar coffee without making them swoon. How hard your life must be!” I cross my arms over my chest. “Do you even hear yourself? How entitled you sound?”
“I’m not trying to be a prick. I’m not trying to be cocky. I’m trying to be honest with you.” I see a flare of anger in his gaze. “I thought maybe if I explained a little bit about my life, you might stop looking at me the way you’re constantly looking at me.”
“And how exactly do I look at you?”
“Like I’m nothing but a spoiled rich boy who’s been handed the world on a sterling silver plate and is squandering it.”
“Well, if the Prada shoe fits…” I stare pointedly at his feet.
“The clothes, the girls, the booze… that’s not who I am.” A note of frustration creeps into his tone, along with something else. Something almost desperate. “I don’t want you to see me that way.”
“Actually, that’s not how I see you at all.”
The Monday Girl (The Girl Duet #1) Page 7