A Jade's Trick (Lilly Black's Jaded Series Book 1) (2 page)

I know he did not just say that to me!
I stand frozen, not sure what to do next as my mind rages and my body struggles to expel the ghost of his sweet, gin-laced breath against my neck.  Part of me wants to shove him in the reflecting pool, but another part wants to take him home and tie him to my bed - a thought that has never crossed my mind before.

As he disappears into the crowd, I return to the bar to set up the other three drinks and get my shit together because I don't want him to see the slightest glimmer of what he has stirred inside me.  I just can't get him out of my head - his voice, his scent, his eyes...even in his arms, I couldn't tell if they were blue or green, but they're so pale and hypnotic, so beautiful.

When I catch Nicole watching me with amusement, my defenses kick in, and I become myself again.  I take the shots to the table to find Playboy back in his seat, and though I glare at him, pissed about his comment - mommy's shoes! - I still find myself hoping he isn't planning on taking any of these girls home.  The one next to him is trying like hell to get his attention, batting her eyes up at him like she's starstruck, but he doesn't seem interested in the least as he leans back in his seat, one leg squared atop the other, watching me like I'm auditioning for him.

I arrange the shot glasses to stream the fire into them, release the rum, and touch the spark to the headwaters.  The flaming liquor rolls into the first set of three, and I let it trail across the sealed pumice table to ignite the other.  As is typical, everyone at the table vocalizes their approval, the tramp beside Playboy perking up and clapping like a schoolgirl.  He shifts his eyes to her then rolls them back to me with a smirk before he throws the flaming shot back, swallowing without even wincing as a fleeting, purple flame dances on his lips, eliciting an atypical response beneath my apron.  It's time to get the hell away from this table.

For the remainder of the night, Playboy doesn't return to the bar, and though Steph does, he only comes for the two bottles of beer.  It makes for a heavy tip night, but I really can't stand the sight of him as his attempts to get my phone number have become more persistent.  Playboy probably made a bet with him to punish me for not falling all over myself for him.

Oh, well. 
At least I'll walk out of here several hundred dollars closer to saving the money I need for graduate school.  Taking courses online for my bachelor's degree, I have my future mapped out, and the last thing I need is a man complicating my life.

I don't notice Playboy again until he and his friends are leaving.  It's almost closing time when I look up and see him standing by the elevator in the corner of the rooftop, scanning the bar until his eyes find mine.  Our gazes locked, he mouths something to me, punctuating it with a satisfied smile, but I suck at reading lips.  It isn't until later when everyone is gone and Nicole and I are cleaning up that I remember it and ask her if she caught what he said.

"Yes," she says, always helpful in that regard.  Her little sister was born deaf, and Nicole's proficient at signing and lip reading as a result.  "He said 'You are mine.'" 

Excuse me?

I know one sign - the one I flip at Nicole because she's just now getting around to telling me.  If I had known at the time, I might have followed that cocky son-of-a-bitch into the parking lot to set him straight...assuming she read it right.  I hope she got it wrong.  Well, at least I choose to try to convince myself that I hope she got it wrong.

Things at work are back to normal on Tuesday until I look up and see Playboy standing there with his smug grin.  My mind flashes back to his mouthed words at the door last night.  Even though Nicole probably misread it, part of me is a little excited at the prospect of it being true.  This man is impossibly sexy, and though I try to pretend not to notice him, when I smell his cologne delicately in the air as I breeze by him, I think vaguely that it must be what the air smells like in heaven.

"When you have a chance..." he says, and I acknowledge him with a dismissive wave of my hand, trying to pretend he's no different than any other customer.

"What'll it be, Playboy?" I ask when I'm finished making him wait.  He's wearing a suit again, light grey with no tie and a navy shirt that brings out more blue in his eyes.  Dozens of men come through here in tailored suits every night, but I have never undressed a single one of them with my eyes before.  I know it would be an exercise in futility, but I can't stop thinking about it.

"Same round as last night," he says as if I would remember what he and his friends drank out of hundreds of other customers.  I do.  I just don't want him to know it.

"Remind me again what beer Steph drinks," I say.

"So you call Steph by name, but I'm still just Playboy?"

"Steph tips me sixty dollars a round.  Playboy's the best you get for thirteen bucks," I snip, immediately regretting it.  His tips are already more than generous, and I certainly don't mean for him to tip me like his asshole friend, whose excessive tips are a degrading, thinly-veiled attempt to get me into bed.

"I see," Playboy says with mock indignation as I walk away to fill his drink order.  When I return, he has his hand over a stack of bills on the bar.  He pushes them toward me.

"Keep the change," he whispers and walks away.  There are over ten bills here, and the top one is a $5.  Nice.  He has probably cleaned the small bills out of his wallet.

At the cash register, I count it and find that the second bill is a twenty, then a ten, then two ones for the whole $37 total, and...

If he and Steph have a bet, he just really upped the ante
, I think as I count the crisp, new one hundred dollar bills.  There are ten, and on the top one in the marker I use to redline the drinks on the waitresses' order pads is the word
Mine
.  A dreamy smile spreads across my face as I examine the other bills for more writing, wondering what it would be like to be his...to hold him...to kiss him...to...

What the fuck are you doing?
  I snap myself out of it.  This was no valentine!  "Be mine" is not the message a $1,000 tip is meant to convey, and I get the message loud and clear:  "Name your price, Evan."

Furious, I stalk out from behind the bar to return his offensive tip along with a piece of my mind, but I can't find him or his friends anywhere.  Then I notice the drinks he bought sitting on a table near the elevator untouched.

How dare he do that and just leave!
I think as I return to the bar in a rage, but a few seconds later, Nicole brings a tray of empties to the waitress station, handing me a disposable coaster that changes my mood entirely.

"From the gorgeous guy in the Tom Ford suit," she announces, knowing that name means nothing to me.  "You know, the hot, blonde guy you're so in love with."  I scowl at her as I read the note on the coaster.  It says "My name is Cain," and I laugh because pissing me off was all part of his plan.

"I think he likes you, too," Nicole says.

"I think he's a rich asshole."  A
really hot
, rich asshole.

Wednesday is my first day off this week, and when Syndi from work picks Nicole up around 5:00 pm, I have the house to myself.  I settle in for a long, hot bath with a book, but I can't stay focused enough to read.  My mind keeps wandering back to work...to last night...to Cain.  He's so infuriating with his smug grin, his cocky attitude, his hair too long for nine-to-five
with that damn strand of lighter blonde just a bit too short to stay tucked behind his ear, his eyes that look blue and green at the same time, his intoxicating cologne, his grin that curves a little more on one side, his confident attitude, his gorgeous dark blonde hair with that sexy strand that won't stay...

Oh my God, Evan!  Stop it!
  I scold myself.  The only thing that man has in mind for me is a starring role in the backseat of his Porsche, or fucking Lamborghini, or whatever pretentious-assed car he drives, and even if I wasn't certain he only wants me for his momentary sex toy, what's the point?  There is no reason to believe that he would be any different than all the other guys I've ever been with, and none of them could ever make it worth my effort.  Hell, maybe it's all me.  Maybe I really am frigid like I tell guys in bars to get them leave me alone, but if I am, then there is just no point in dragging myself through the motions with someone like Cain.  I'd be better off to stay celibate until I can figure out how to fix myself.  I do get aroused....well, sometimes I get a little bit aroused, and though I am loath to admit it, the thought of being with Cain excites me more than anything has in a very long time, maybe ever. But my problem is not so much the journey as the destination.

Feeling sorry for myself, I pull the plug, and as I'm wrapping the towel around my long, dark hair, I hear my cell phone alert me to a new message.

Your friend is here asking about you,
Nicole texts, and I feel a jolt of excitement.

Tell him I am offended by his garish tip, I will absolutely not keep it, and I'm sure whomever is tending bar tonight is perfectly capable of mixing a suitable Asgård and tonic. 
There.  I send it.

As I towel-dry my hair, I catch myself looking expectantly at the phone, waiting for his reply, and finally, when I have already relented and turned on the hair dryer, it comes through.

He said to tell you to buy yourself something pretty
.

God, he's exasperating!
I think as I grab my phone and begin furiously tapping out a response.

Tell him that I hope to see him there tomorrow night so I can return his money as I do not intend to render whatever service would call for a tip of that obscene amount.
I hit send, and go back to blow drying my hair as I await his response, watching the phone as time ticks away.  It usually takes me about half an hour to get it completely dry, but when I finish, there is still no response.  I text again.

Everything ok? 
I ask, and about a minute later, Nicole responds.

Yeah.  Got busy.  Cain left before I got a chance to deliver your last message.  Sorry.  :-(
 

Oh, he would do that, wouldn't he?

Thursday at 6:00 pm, I clock in at Prometheus.  It's our busiest week night, and I'm thankful because I need the distraction.  Nicole is already convinced that I am interested in Cain, and I don't want the hassle of having to argue the point with her when I know I barely have a leg to stand on.

About an hour into my shift, I look up from the cash register to see him stepping out of the elevator.  I have been keeping my anger well-stoked as I waited for him, and how dare he come in here looking so hot!  He's wearing a black dress shirt and suit jacket, and when he rests his arms on the bar, platinum cuff links with the initial B catch the light.  He's too perfect, like he stepped out of an ad or off the cover of a magazine...or out of the sexual fantasies of the collective female consciousness.

"There you are," I snap, fishing an envelope out of my apron pocket as I stalk toward him.  It contains the same ten $100 dollar bills he gave me.  I thrust it into his hand, feeling raw electricity as his fingers graze mine in passing.

"What's this?" he asks.

"You marked it 'mine,'" I say.  "If it's yours, you should keep it."

"It isn't mine.  It's yours," Cain says.

"That is not open for discussion."

"As you wish," he says with no hint at how he's taking this beyond his clear amusement with his ability to piss me off.

"Good," I say, thinking that we have come to an understanding.  "Can I get you a drink?"

"No, thank you.  I won't be staying.  It was...interesting to meet you."  Cain turns away from me and disappears into the growing Thursday crowd.

Well, Evan, I guess you got what you wanted - certainly what you deserved,
I think as he walks out of my life.

Though I know it's for the best, I'm still hopeful every time the elevator doors open for the rest of the night, but Cain does not return.  At closing time when everything has been cleaned, counted and put away, Nicole and I head down to the parking lot, and as I dig for the keys to my ten-year-old black Honda, I find something unexpected at the bottom of my purse.

You've got to be fucking kidding me!
I think as I pull out the same white #10 envelope I gave Cain earlier.  I don't know how he managed this, but here it is.  Warily, I peel back the tape, and inside I find ten $100 bills with "Yours"
written on the top one.  It makes me laugh at first, but then I remember the way he left things between us.  He made it sound like I will never see him again to have another chance to give it back.  "It was
interesting
to meet you?"
 
That sure sounds like a goodbye to me, and in spite of everything, the thought of never seeing him again is profoundly bleak.