"You're late," Cillian grumbled from behind the bar.
"We don't open for another thirty minutes, Kill." Jamie pleaded, "and you know it." I smiled at Jamie, walking briskly past her to clock in before the system recorded me as late. As long as I made it in within the five-minute window, I was golden. Cillian was just a grump who enjoyed teasing us, but with his broad Irish accent and perfected poker face; it was hard to tell if he was scolding us or being playful. I'd learned that it was the latter majority of the time.
Jamie opened up this morning's newspaper while I unfolded my apron and tidied my hair in the mirrors that lined the bar's back wall. My soft strawberry-blond hair, pale complexion, and the band of freckles across the ridge of my nose were tell-tale signs of my Irish heritage, but that was the only identifier--other than perhaps that I had found a home working at Cillian's.
"Did you see this?" Jamie snapped the paper and folded the front page to get a better view. She read the headline aloud. "Estranged Son Returns to Claim Throne to Hayes Tech Empire."
I huffed. "That's exactly what we need--another spoiled rich kid spending daddy's money."
Cillian stared at me, shocked, one of the few times I'd seen him with any emotion on his face at all.
"Tell me what you really think." Jamie looked over her shoulder, fighting back the grin.
"Okay," I back peddled, "I realize how that sounds, but think about it. This son probably knows nothing about how to run a company or what a work ethic is. He's probably never even had a job in the first place, let alone with technology. So, when the company tanks--because it will--what about all those employees? Where to they go?"
"Damn girl, I was being sarcastic."
I don't know why I got so worked up, but I did. In reality, I shouldn't be bothered by it. I didn't work there, I didn't know anyone who did, but in my experience, people tend to look down on you if you're not at the top. People were quick to make assumptions about me and where I came from without even getting to know the real me. So, for that very reason, I was content serving the general tables instead of the VIP room.
"You have to admit," Jamie said, ogling over the front-page photo. "He's pretty hot."
"Yeah, yeah." I didn't even look. Leaning into Cillian, I whispered, "I'll be in the cooler," which was code for 'I need to space.'
I busied myself with tedious tasks until we opened and quickly fell into the perpetual pattern of serving tables, pouring beers, and helping out behind the bar when I could. All of it was mindless to me; I was in my head most of my shift thinking about the tuition needed for college. I was recently accepted to Columbia--a dream of mine--but didn't have enough for tuition. Even with financial aid, I'd have to pay out of pocket considerably.
I functioned on autopilot until Cillian's voice broke through the fog.
"Roisin," the way he said my name, rich with his accent, reminded me of home. Pronounced, Ro-sheen, it was unique to most of those in New York. My eyes found him from behind the bar as he waved me over.
"Caitlyn called in sick." Before he even finished, my stomach dropped. I knew what that meant.
"Please Kill, I'm begging you. Can't Jamie do it?" I also knew what he was going to say. He didn't like putting the new girls in the VIP suite, but it was more of a pit than a luxurious suite. A pit filled will vipers waiting to strike.
"It's just for a few hours." He said sternly, which in Kill-speak meant I didn't have much of a choice. "I'll give you overtime," he sweetened the deal.
"Overtime, and I want next Monday off." I haggled, having forgotten to reserve the day so that I could visit the campus and start orientation. He owed me this.
"You drive a hard bargain." He thought about it, and finally, he said, "Done." He nudged his chin in the direction of the VIP lounge. "Oh, and take these." He handed me two buckets full of ice and chilled champagne. Someone was celebrating.
Braving the trek across the bar, I managed my most convincing smile before passing Aiden, one of the bouncers, and into the pit. The atmosphere was instantly different than the rest of the bar. The walls were smoothed and painted a soft grey instead of the exposed brick that encompassed most of the other spaces.
The seating was far more lavish, but one of my favorite features was the late eighteen-century style lights and pully fans that lined the ceiling. The soft glow of the Edison bulbs created a calming and relaxing environment adding a bit of character and charm.
There was an arched stone wall that separated some of the booths to provide privacy. I ran my hands across the stone as I walked by, my fingertips finding the smoothed corner stone that I had rubbed down in my anxiety. Off to one side of the stone wall was a narrow opening that helped slow the foot traffic. Guests didn't often use it, but it was great for avoiding the bustling crowds for the servers.
I introduced myself to the few men who'd already arrived; half were in suits, and the other half were in more casual attire but still professional. The high-end watches, designer clothes, and Italian leather shoes were a stark indicator that these men would likely clash with the rest of the bar patrons. I suppose that was why Cillian insisted on two separate entrances, one for the VIP lounge and one for the common folk.
"Oh, darlin, we've been waiting for you." One greeted me with a grin and a wink. I smiled back automatically.
"Hmm..." Another looked at me greedily.
This was why I called it the pit; I didn't particularly appreciate being gawked at like a piece of meat. I also had never felt more objectified.
"Where would you like the champagne?" My smile was harder to fake this time. One of the guys pointed. "Right there." He stared at me like a lion stalking its prey. Eyes following every subtle movement until something else caught his attention. A woman not much older than me walked by in a tight red dress, her heels clicking along the way.
Setting the bottles down, I grimaced. "I'll just be right back." I quickly let my mind retreat as I returned to the bar for champagne flutes.
As I walked back to the pit, I noticed a man sitting at a booth in the back corner. He looked like he had been there a while, but no one had greeted him. Glancing around the bar, I found Jamie flustered, trying to carry seven pints at once, and none of the other girls were anywhere remotely close to this section.
Clad in a dark pair of jeans, a black cotton shirt, and a neat charcoal jacket, he seemed like the sulk in silence type. Sighing, I set the flutes down just inside the VIP lounge and circled back to the man. From his table, I could see most of the pit--at least, when Aiden's huge biceps weren't blocking my view.
A shattered glass pulled my attention back to the rowdy young table; they had multiplied in my short absence. Growing louder and more obnoxious with each passing second, I found myself hoping the other gentleman wasn't bothered by the volume the group was causing.
At first glance, I would have guessed the man didn't belong in a place like this. Holding his head high, he almost demanded all of the attention but didn't relish in it, whereas the others were quick to boast and brag.
