Resisting Mr. Kane (London Mister #2)(2)

“Fine,” I mutter, launching into a lacklustre sales pitch to the couple. I’m a few unsold boat tickets away from getting us fired. I couldn’t sell whiskey to an alcoholic.

***

Megan is eating her words five hours later.

“Bounce?” I stare at the neon sign above the bar. “Are you sure this is the place?”

In front, two guys lie on the pavement. One is heaving beside a discarded kebab and his friend is attempting to light the wrong end of a cigarette. It’s only 7:30, for Christ’s sake.

“It’s probably much better on the inside.” Megan laughs but looks less sure of herself.

I observe the outside clientele engaged in drunken mating rituals and can guarantee that’s it not. There’s not a local in sight. I’ve passed loads of elegant upmarket bars on the island, and this is most certainly not one of them.

“Nice tits, love!” the guy smoking shouts at Megan, and she shows him the middle finger.

“No way. I’d prefer to spend my night sitting in a public toilet.” I turn on my heel, but she catches my arm.

“Ah, come on! The guy said we’d be raking in the cash,” she coaxes me. “We can work one night and if we don’t like it, we never come back.”

“That’s what they all say.” I groan. “Dimitris practically sold it to us that we would be millionaires.”

She uses the pouty expression she knows works on me. “Let’s just see what it’s like on the inside.”

Begrudgingly, I trail after her as she approaches the bouncer.

“Yiasoo.” She beams, and he doesn’t return the smile. “I was told to ask for Jonas.”

Grunting, he nods toward the door. “Inside. Left hand corner.”

We squeeze into the neon-lit bar, where dozens of inebriated teenage lads compete for the prize of biggest wanker on the island.

“Not a chance,” I hiss, but she can’t hear me over the banging house music.

We weave through the drunken crowd to the other side of the bar.

A Greek guy wearing a white top with a deep V exposing most of his chest beckons us over. He must be Jonas. “Are you the girls Nikos sent?”

“Yiasoo.” It’s the only word Megan knows. “I’m Megan, and this is Elly.”

He grunts and sizes up our assets. “Tonight’s a trial. You do okay, you have the job.” He nods towards a door. “Go in there to get changed. Uniforms are hanging up. Come back, and I’ll explain the rules.”

I do a double take as I clock the bartenders’ dress code. “I think there’s been a mistake,” I explain firmly to him. “I am not wearing a bikini.” This guy is on another planet if he thinks he can get me into those red shorts and yellow bikini top. Hell will freeze over sooner.

A well-endowed female bartender walks past us. She gets in the path of the strobe lights and I see the full outline of her nipples through her bikini. I haven’t even been this exposed at the beach.

Jonas laughs in my face. “You want to work here then you wear the bikini, lady. No negotiation.”

“I don’t have a price for wearing a bikini,” I retort indignantly. The nerve of this guy. “No, thank you.”

He laughs again. “Everyone has a price, lady. Up to you, I don’t have all night. Trial. Two hours. If you want to earn 150 euros a night, then hurry up and get changed.”

Say what? How much? We’ve been earning twenty euros a day max at the boat tour stall.

Maybe I do have a price. If we work here for a week, we have enough to go island hopping. How bad can it be? I eye him suspiciously. “What do you have to do for 150 euros?”

He smirks at how quickly I abandon my morals. “Serve the drinks, talk to the punters. You’ve worked in a bar before, yes?”

Last summer I worked in the village local, The Wee Donkey. The closest I got to making cocktails was a Jack and Coke. Does that count?

Behind the bar, a bartender slams down eight shot glasses at lightning speed. He fires two bottles in the air then simultaneously pours all eight shots and sets them on fire.

I’m not sure the skills I gained at The Wee Donkey are transferable.

“You know how to smile, sweetheart?”

I bare my teeth, curling my lips upwards. ‘Smile for salary’ is the name of the game here.

He looks us up and down. “You.” He points to Megan, asset number one. “You start behind the bar. “You,” he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like lips and legs under his breath in Greek. “Let’s try you out front, pulling in the crowd.”

He wants to put me outside to pull in the crowd? Megan should be showcased outside first. Flirting is her forte. I’ve watched her hone her skills for a decade and she is top of her game. She’s the dick whisperer.

“What does that entail?” I ask. “Do I have a promotion sign or something?”

“Yes.” He points between my breasts. “These are your promotion signs. Do whatever it takes to get them into the bar. Then it’s up to the bar staff to keep them here. Be back here in five minutes changed otherwise stop wasting my time. The trial has started so you’re losing money by the minute.”

***

“It’s humiliating, Megan,” I wail.

We’re standing in front of a half-length mirror. Unfortunately, I can't see my bottom half, but I can feel a draft around my bum where a half-moon has formed in my Lycra shorts. I pull the shorts down for a fuller coverage but give myself a plumber’s crack at the top. It’s a trade-off. “Nudists wear more clothing than this.”