Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(65)

Took all of thirty seconds.

I slide into a chair at their table, slouching, folding my hands together against my chest. I’m not interested in partaking so much as observing, but damn if I couldn’t use a drink.

“Rum,” I say loudly, interrupting Five’s conversation with the waitress. “A whole bottle would be nice, but I’ll settle for the biggest glass you’ve got in this place. Straight up, no bullshit... the rougher, the better.”

Three mumbles some cliché that’s what she said joke, which makes the brunette throw her head back and cackle.

I wonder how much he pays her to pretend he’s funny.

The waitress stalks off, over to the bar, and returns with a glass of clear liquid, handing it straight to me before diving back into her conversation.

The glass is barely four fingers tall, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Or more like patrons shouldn’t kill waitresses.

Same difference.

I take a swig from the glass, grimacing, before interrupting them again. “This isn’t rum.”

The waitress looks at me. “What?”

“It’s vodka,” I say, setting the glass on the table, some of the liquor sloshing out as I shove it her way. “I asked for rum.”

“Are you sure?” She picks up the glass. “I mean, it’s clear.”

“So is water, but that doesn’t mean it’s what I f*cking asked for, is it?”

“Uh, no, I guess not.”

“Rum. R-U-M. Say it with me. Rum.”

“Rum,” she says quietly, her voice trembling as her eyes widen a second before she averts them, looking at the floor. She seems pretty damn terrified all of a sudden as she scurries away, her reaction confusing until my men glance over, looking at me.

No, looking behind me...

“A man who knows what he likes and accepts nothing less,” a strong voice says, the words twinned with a deep Russian accent. “Cannot fault a man for that, can we?”

“No,” I say, “sure can’t.”

He walks around the table, past us, strolling over to the bar. Kassian Aristov. He slides in beside the waitress just as the bartender hands her a new glass. Before she can walk away, Aristov’s arm slips around her slim waist, securing her at his side, one hand on her hip as the other snatches the glass out of her grasp. Bringing it to his lips, he drinks every last drop, setting the glass down on the bar as he leans over, whispering something to her.

Her eyes are on the floor again, every inch of her rigid.

She’s terrified.

His expression is relaxed, casual, a slight smile on his lips, like her fear amuses him. No idea what he could be saying. He’s not yelling, but the longer this goes on, the more the woman looks like she might collapse under the weight of his words.

After a moment, Aristov flicks the woman’s cheek so hard she winces, her head tilting up, her eyes meeting his. He says something else, and she nods, before he turns, motioning for the bartender to give him a golden-colored bottle from behind the bar.

Appleton Estates. Jamaica Rum. I can see the label as Aristov approaches, dragging the waitress along with him. He stops beside the table, in my line of sight, his hand shifting from the waitress’s waist to clutch the back of her neck.

“I’m sorry,” she says, forcing a smile, although tears brim her eyes. “I hope you can forgive me. It’ll never happen again. I promise.”

Promises. I hate promises.

People break them all the goddamn time.

I nod, because I’m not sure what to say to that. What I want to say will probably only make everything worse for her, and it seems like she’s having a rough enough time without my help.

“Rum,” Aristov says, holding the bottle out to me. The outside of it is dusty, the bottle still sealed. “I must confess, we do not sell much here. We specialize in vodka, only the best, straight from Russia.”

I take the bottle from him.

Aristov leans over, pressing a kiss to the waitress’s temple before whispering, “Go to my office, suka.”

Her head lowers, and as soon as Aristov lets go of her neck, she scurries through the club, out of sight. Aristov lingers, his eyes on me as I crack open the bottle, bringing it to my lips.

“On the house, everything,” Aristov says. “All of you. Enjoy.”

My guys, they celebrate, but I just sit here, still sipping rum while they scatter, wasting no time now that it’s free. Cheapskates.

“Join me for a drink in my office?” Aristov asks, raising his eyebrows.

I shrug as I stand up. What the hell? “Lead the way.”

His office is toward the back of the club, a small room behind a two-way mirror. He can see out, watching everything, but nobody can see in. The waitress stands inside, in the center of the room, hands clasped together in front of her.

It’s not an office in the traditional sense of the word. It looks more like a typical studio apartment in New York. Leather couches surround a square table, a small private bar opposite the door with liquor bottles on it. Vodka. Above that is a loft, a white ladder leading up to it. I don’t even have to take a guess why there’s a bed in his office.

The lighting is soft, the walls white, with a red Persian rug covering part of the marble floor.

After shutting the office door, Aristov snatches up one of the bottles. He guzzles some of the liquor as he approaches the waitress, eyes meticulously scanning her before looking at me. His free hand grasps the back of her neck again, yanking her by it, turning her my direction. She whimpers, closing her eyes. “She is stupid, this one, but she is pretty, and there is nothing she cannot handle, if you would like to try her.”