His voice breaks me out of my thoughts.
“So you cool with that?”
“Cool with what?” I’m busy running a mental inventory of the places I need to be today, and what I need to collect from the store before I go visit my pops.
He shakes his head at me. “Setting up the auditions for Friday morning?”
“Yeah sure, whatever you think,” I agree, taking another pull on my beer. “Wait, Friday doesn’t work. I have appointments.”
“I can take care of it; you don’t have to be here unless you want to be. It’s not like you don’t get to see enough half-naked women every day anyway. I know what we need,” he says, tossing his empty bottle as he begins to unpack the crates. It’s quiet except for the clincking of bottles being unpacked. I scan the room, taking a second to enjoy the quiet; it’s a rarity in this place.
“You’re right, I don’t need to be here. Just don’t get excited and start hiring every piece of ass that walks in. We need a replacement for Rae, and an extra server, that’s it.”
“Yes, boss.” He mock salutes and I shake my head. There’s no fucking doubt in my mind that if a pretty face strolls in here with zero talent or credentials but has a nice rack, she’s getting a job.
Reveal has a high staff turnover rate. The girls are typically single when we hire them; it’s by no means a requirement, just how it is. As is life, they go on to start relationships, which generally means they won’t be here very much longer. As soon as any of them begin to get serious, their profession suddenly becomes an issue with their partners. I’ve seen it a million times over the years, always the same pattern.
I had one barman, Chris, who began dating one of the girls. They worked here, knew the score, knew that the dancers are here to dance, and that’s it. We’re a high-end establishment, not a titty bar. There’s no back room, no private dances, and no extras. Regrettably, it didn’t stop the green-eyed monster from rearing its ugly head in Chris. Some customer who’d had a few too many drinks heckled Chloe on stage. Chris snapped and punched him. It was a mess, and one that’ll never be repeated. I have a strict policy: staff members aren’t allowed to date each other, and it’s the number one rule.
“Hey gorgeous, sit down and take a load off!” Zane shouts at Annie as she walks into the club.
“Fuck off, Zane.” She flips him the bird, smiles at me, and then heads into the back to change. He clutches his chest like he’s wounded and pouts. Annie and Zane have a love-hate relationship: he loves her, and she hates him. There’s so much pent-up sexual tension between them, I almost want to tell them to forget the rules for one night, fuck, get it out of their systems and then we can all carry on with our lives without the constant bickering. It’s entertaining at times, but it’s damn distracting, too.
Annie walks back into the room. “I gave a mutual friend the number here; she’s looking for work, is willing to do anything and from what Lu tells me, she’s a professional dancer and a damn good one. Has she called?”
I look at Zane for confirmation, and he shrugs. “I haven’t taken a call.”
“Me either,” I add.
“Oh, okay,” she says looking confused. As if on cue the phone rings and I lean over and answer it. I need to pause mid conversation and shoo the two squabbling idiots away so I can hear the caller. Annie at least has the decency to look sorry…Zane just looks amused.
“Okay, you’ve got your first lamb to the slaughter coming by Friday morning at 10:00 am to audition. She seems keen. Oh and Annie, she mentioned your name, so I guess she’s the friend.” I round the bar.
“Cal, you’ve got to be kidding me, right? I have eight girls lined up already,” Zane answers.
I look up in surprise. “Okay, well, maybe you should have one of our girls—Rae or Lauren—come in and show them a routine, and you can audition them together?”
“That’s a good idea, saves on time. I’ll get it organized.”
“Good, I’m out, I have stuff to do. And Annie?”
“Yeah?”
“Do me a favor and try not to kill him while I’m gone!”
She rolls her eyes so far back into her head she looks like she’s about to pass out. “I don’t make promises I know I can’t keep.”
“You know, this would be so much easier if you would only admit your affections for me, sweetheart,” Zane croons.
Her scowl is instant. “Don’t let my cool demeanor fool you, asshole. I’d slap you to sleep if I knew I wouldn’t lose my job!”
“You know you want me, Annie, just admit it.”
I look at Annie then back to Zane. “I’m kind of impressed you’re still standing. Be good, kids.” I make my way up to my apartment to the sound of a dishrag being whipped and Zane screaming sorry.
I’VE REVERTED TO adolescence in my attempts to forge another meeting with the elusive coffee-spilling beauty that is Robyn. I haven’t been able to dislodge her image from my mind since she branded it there the second I witnessed her pouty rose lips sucking the burn on her wrist. I barely exchanged more than a couple of fumbled sentences with the girl and yet she’s starred in no fewer than three of my dreams, each one more vivid than its predecessor.
Considering that today is only the fourth day since our encounter, you might say she’s left an impression, and one that’s a welcomed distraction. I’ve walked across the street every day at the same time on my pseudo-coffee run, hoping to accidently cross paths with her—to no avail. I’ve also pre-paid for her next five coffees and left my number with, Andrew the barista. The same gangly aspiring lothario that flirted with her. It cost me twenty bucks to have him write a message to call me on her take-out cup. There’s been no call¸ and I’m starting to think that the staff in the coffee shop have all begun to regard me as desperate, which in itself is bad enough, or a complete fucking psycho. Either way it’s cut, I’m not exactly painting myself in a favorable light.
“The usual, Cole?” Andrew, who I’m now on first-name terms with, asks as I near the counter.
“Yeah, thanks.” I want to ask if she’s been in, but if she has that means she hasn’t called, and that would mean admitting I’ve been knocked back in front of Andrew, which shouldn’t bother me but it does. He notices my hesitation and senses the unasked question.
“She’s not been in this week on any of my shifts, like usual.”
I nod, handing him the cash for my coffee. I steel my resolve in an attempt to appear indifferent in light of his news, but it would be a lie to say that I didn’t feel a little lighter knowing she hasn’t flat-out rejected me.
I collect my coffee at the end of the counter and make my way back over to my office. I take a sip and let the strong, rich aroma work its magic as I board the elevator to the nineteenth floor, hoping against hope that the caffeine kicks in quickly. It’s been a long week and I’m silently thanking God that it’s Friday, I have a date with my bed this weekend, and it’s one I intend to stretch out for as long as possible. If tired were a country, I’d be the president. My workload, despite my best efforts, is growing rather than decreasing and this case is turning out to be the bane of my now meager, lonely existence. My closest relationship, and the only person I’ve had any real contact with for the past week outside of work, is Andrew. That realization is the most depressing thought on the goddamn planet.
The elevator pings and I exit and stride purposefully to my office, avoiding Janet. The woman is a shark, a fearless predator that stalks her prey without trepidation. I deflect her advances on a regular basis and still she’s unwavering in her pursuit. Her persistence is admirable, if somewhat annoying. Steven from litigation, who is possibly the only person in the building I would refer to as a friend rather than a colleague, is running a wager with half the office. They’re betting on how long it’s going to take for me to crack and sleep with Janet to get her off my back. She’s good looking, has a great body, is intelligent, articulate and everything that I should want in a woman. I don’t want her, though; she’s too brash and lacks the softness most women seem to exude naturally. It sounds ridiculous, but she’s basically me with an extra X chromosome. Unless I’m chemically impaired by a truckload of whiskey, that ship’s never setting sail.