In the Beginning (Volkov Bratva #1)(15)

For the first time since she had begun working here, she felt awkward, not just because she was stalling to walk over there, but because anyone could see that the girl was obviously into him, but he seemed rather cool and detached.

Deciding that she didn’t have anymore time to waste, Lauren forced a smile and walked over to the table. “Hello, I’m—”

“Lauren, always a pleasure.” Mishca seemed to draw further away from the girl at his side, turning until he faced her. Before she could protest, he lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles, a habit, it seemed, that he reserved for when they ran into each other. She couldn’t help but wonder if he did the same thing to every girl he came across.

She couldn’t fight the blush if she tried. “Mishca, hey.”

The girl to his right cleared her throat dramatically and Lauren winced, knowing that if she was on a date with a guy and he had done this, she would be upset as well.

“You know her?” The girl asked waving a dainty hand in Lauren’s general direction though her eyes were solely on Mishca.

And just like that, Lauren’s guilt vanished at her snide tone. The way she made it sound, Lauren wasn’t up to par. Though, with one glance at her, Lauren could see why she thought she was God’s gift to all men.

She had dark hair, twisted up into a bun. Her eyes were outlined with smoky black eye shadow, and her boobs—were those fake?—were threatening to spill over the almost immodest cut of her top.

“Of course,” he went on easily, shooting her a frown, but didn’t offer her an explanation. He turned back to Lauren. “This is Jonathan, my business parter and close friend, and his girlfriend Tiffany Montgomery, and I believe this is her good friend, Rebecca Turner.”

Maybe it was a jab at Rebecca, but even Jonathan tried to hide a smile by running a hand over his mouth at the way Mishca had introduced her. From the way Rebecca was now glaring daggers at Mishca, she thought there was more to them than just friend of a friend.

“If you’re ready,” Rebecca said coldly. “I’d like to order.”

Lauren pulled out her pad and pen. Still. Smiling. “What can I start you off with to drink?”

This time, it was Mishca who spoke up.“Can we get a bottle of ’93 Merlot?”

Lauren hid her surprise, knowing the menu well enough to know that that particular bottle of wine cost one of her paychecks. “We only sell that by the bottle.”

“That’s fine.”

She cleared her throat, hoping this wasn’t going to get any more awkward. “Can I see your, um, id?”

“For what?” Rebecca asked as though Lauren was the dimmest person she had ever met.

Lauren took a deep breath, looking to Mishca for help. “We do not serve minors here. I can lose my job if I don’t ask.”

“No doubt you need it,” Rebecca murmured.

Lauren didn’t know how to react to Rebecca’s obvious attitude since she had never been put in a similar situation. The girls at her old school just avoided her altogether, choosing to make a target of others. She knew she would eventually run into someone like Rebecca—New York was known for people like that—but she at least expected them to have a reason—no matter how skewed it might be—to look down their nose at someone.

“Here.” Mishca pulled out his wallet, flashing her his license.

She smiled gratefully at him before peering down and reading it. Born April 10, 1988. Twenty-four years old, right around the age she had guessed.

The others followed suit. Both girls twenty-two, and Jonathan the same age as Mishca. With the way Rebecca had been acting, Lauren thought she would be below the drinking age. Now, she realized she was just being catty.

“I’ll be right back with your order .”

As Lauren was walking away, Rebecca cleared her throat again, the sound already grating on Lauren’s nerves. “Also, could I have a glass of sparkling water, light ice?”

“Absolutely.”

With a tight smile, Lauren walked as fast as her feet would carry her towards the bar where Diego was polishing glasses, whistling a soft tune below his breath.

Diego was a rather intimidating looking man at first glance. He was in his mid thirties, with a mohawk he kept shaped and sticking up. He treated most of the staff like his kid siblings, especially the waitresses since they were all at least a decade younger than him besides the two chefs.

“What can I get ya, darlin’?” He asked with his trademark grin, holding a hand up to the man at the end of the bar that was trying to get his attention.

“They want a bottle of ’93 Merlot.”

He gave her a look.

“Yes, I asked for id, and yes they know you only sell that by the bottle.”

She swatted his hand as he ruffled her hair playfully. “Good girl.”

He reached beneath the bar, opening the small case to retrieve her order. As he did this, she grabbed a tray from the stock behind thee bar, crouching down to get a bottle of Perrier from the mini fridge, and filling a glass with ice.

“You know how to pop the cork out?” Diego asked placing the bottle and a gleaming silver corkscrew on the tray.

“I can manage.” At least she thought she could. It always looked easy enough.

“Don’t let them get to you,” he whispered seeming to read her mind. “Just ignore them and be pleasant. They’re normally good tippers.”