Good Girl Complex(Avalon Bay #1)(2)

“Let’s see it,” I dare him.

The clone slaps down a Benjamin. So proud of himself. I pour a single shot of whiskey because I don’t remember what he asked for and slide it to him. He releases the bill to take the glass. I snatch it up and pocket it.

“I ordered six shots,” he says, smug.

“Put down another five hundred and I’ll pour ’em.”

I expect him to whine, throw a fit. Instead he laughs, shaking his finger at me. To him, this is some of that charming local color they come slumming it down here to find. Rich kids love getting rolled.

To my absolute amazement, this knucklehead flicks out five more bills from a wad of cash and lays them on the bar. “The best you got,” he says.

The best this bar keeps in stock is some Johnnie Walker Blue and a tequila I can’t pronounce. Neither is more than five hundred dollars retail for a bottle. So I act impressed and get up on a stool to pull the dusty bottle of tequila from the top shelf because, okay, I did remember what he asked for, and pour them their overpriced shots.

At that, Richie Rich is satisfied and wanders off to a table.

My fellow bartender Lenny gives me the side-eye. I know I shouldn’t encourage this behavior. It only reinforces the idea that we’re for sale, that they own this town. But screw it, I’m not about to be slinging drinks till I’m dead. I’ve got bigger plans.

“What time do you get off?” a female voice purrs from my left side.

I turn slowly, waiting for the punch line. Traditionally, that question is followed by one of two options:

“Because I want you to get me off.”

Or, “Because I can’t wait to get you off.”

The follow-up is an easy way to determine whether you’re ending up with a woman who’s selfish in the sack or one who loves doling out BJs.

Neither is a particularly original pickup line, but nobody said the clones who swarm the Bay every year were original.

“Well?” the blonde presses, and I realize there’s no cheesy line in store for me.

“Bar closes at two,” I answer easily.

“Hang out with us after you get off,” she urges. She and her friend both have shiny hair, perfect bodies, and skin glowing from a day spent in the sun. They’re cute, but I’m not in the mood for what they’re offering.

“Sorry. Can’t,” I answer. “But you should keep an eye out for someone who looks exactly like me. My twin brother is around here somewhere.” I wave a hand toward the throng of bodies packing the place like sardines in a tin. “I’m sure he’d love to entertain you.”

I say it mostly because I know it’ll annoy Evan. Though on the other hand, maybe he’ll thank me. He might despise the clones, but he doesn’t seem to mind the rich princesses when they’re naked. I swear the dude’s trying to sleep his way through this town. He claims he’s “bored.” I let him believe that I believe him.

“Omigod, there’s two of you?” Almost immediately, both girls become starry-eyed.

I grab a glass and shovel some ice cubes into it. “Yup. His name’s Evan,” I add helpfully. “If you find him, tell him Cooper sent you.”

When they finally wander off, fruity cocktails in hand, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Bartending is such a crap gig.

I push a whiskey on the rocks toward the skinny dude who ordered it, take the cash he hands me. I run a hand through my hair and draw a breath before going to the next customer. For most of the night, the drunken masses manage to keep their shit together. Daryl, the doorman, kicks out anyone he suspects might projectile vomit, while Lenny and I smack away any idiots who get it into their heads to reach behind the bar.

I keep an eye on Steph and the other female servers as they work the crowd. Steph’s got a table full of Garnet dudes salivating over her. She’s smiling, but I know that look. When she tries to walk away, one of them grabs her around the waist.

My eyes narrow. It’s the same guy I took for six bills.

I’m damn near over the bar when her eyes find mine. As if she knows what’s about to happen, she shakes her head. Then she slyly disentwines herself from the handsy prick and comes back to the waitress stand.

“Want me to toss ’em?” I ask her.

“Nah. I can handle them.”

“I know. But you don’t have to. I pulled six hundred from those dumbasses. I’ll split it with you. Let me get rid of them.”

“It’s all good. Just get me three Coronas and two J?g—”

“Do not even say it.” My whole body winces at the word. If I never have to smell that vile black shit ever again, it’ll be too soon. “I gotta get some nose plugs.”

“It’s like you’ve got shellshock,” she laughs, watching me suffer through these pours.

“I should be getting hazard pay.” I finish up and push the drinks to her. “Seriously, though, if those guys can’t keep their hands to themselves, I’m coming over there.”

“I’m fine. But, man, I wish they’d just leave. I don’t know who’s worse tonight—Mr. Grabby Hands, or that senior on the patio who’s crying about his daddy reneging on his promise to buy him a yacht for graduation.”

I snicker.

Steph waltzes off with a sigh and a full tray of drinks.