King of Depravity: Chapter 1

“Sweetheart,” some swinging dick from the corner booth waves a hand at me. He’s like most guys in this place with his slicked-back hair, expensive Italian loafers and a gut from too much pricey bourbon hanging over his equally expensive belt. “Another round.”

“Of course,” I smile and nod as I turn and hustle to the bar. Mike is working tonight and he’s one of my favorite bartenders because instead of also being a jerk, he’s funny. “Hey, Mike, two more Macallans, please.”

“Twelve?” He responds with a wink.

“Oh no, those guys only drink it if it’s been aged eighteen.” I smile back.

He shakes his head with a low whistle. “Good tips for you tonight.”

I hope so. I need them. While the spring semester is almost over, I’ve got one more to go in the fall before I graduate. I have to pay monthly in order to cover the costs my scholarship doesn’t, so it basically means I’m always making payments to the school and my next payment is due next week. And that’s the late deadline.

I set the snifters of bourbon on my tray, and straighten my fitted black oxford, smooth back my tight ponytail, before I plaster a smile on my face.

My black dress pants are painted on as I traverse the large room in my stilettos. They hurt like hell, but I get better tips when I wear them.

In the corner, the regular piano player stands, inviting one of the “guests” to play a song. I’ve heard the guy before.

A tatted-up Russian, one of the other girls told me that all the tattoos on his fingers are because he’s Bratva.

I don’t care what he is, his whole table tips well. I wait on them as often as I can even though they simmer with the kind of tension that makes me uneasy. But not enough that I’d quit being their waitress. That is until two weeks ago…

One of the Russians makes a habit of grabbing my ass, and he slipped me his number, so I’ve been hanging back, letting other girls serve the table their drinks. I’ll have to wait until he’s lost interest before I can start waiting on them again.

It’s hurt my bottom line, but I know better than to get mixed up with guys like that. Better to stay out of his orbit for now.

So instead, I serve the Macallan to the two middle-aged swinging dicks.

The music begins—the Russian who likes to play is truly special on the piano, his skill so far above any of our players.

I’d like to stop and listen, but instead I lean over the table, setting the first glass to the guy on the inside corner of the booth.

That’s when his friend places a definite hand on my ass.

I don’t react.

I don’t do anything but keep smiling.

I’m not above allowing a guy to cop a feel so that he leaves me a good tip. But that is where I draw the line. They can go home and screw their wives. I’m not for hire.

But as he gives my right cheek a big squeeze, I straighten, adjusting away, as I place his Macallan in front of him. “Here you go, sir.”

“Thank you, darlin’,” he drawls, his face already a bit ruddy from the liquor. “Tell me something,” he starts, leaning closer with a look of hunger in his eyes. “Are you looking for a good time?”

Crap. These situations have to be handled delicately so as not to make the customer feel bad and stiff me from my tip. “Serving you gentlemen drinks is plenty fun,” I say with a husky laugh, before I turn and go, leaving both of them also laughing in my wake.

I’ve got a mezzo soprano tone to my voice, and I know lots of guys dig it. My hair is a dark honey blonde, and my eyes are green, but my skin has a sun-kissed bronze to it, thanks to my mom’s Mediterranean heritage.

Coupled with a generous backside, I get my fair share of male attention. Not that I date. I don’t. Ever.

I’m too busy, and even if I wasn’t…

Shaking off these thoughts I keep working the room, serving drinks as the night grows later and the patrons more drunk.

I bring a round of vodka to the Russians when Callie has to serve a group in one of the private rooms. My stomach flutters but I push my nerves back down as I approach the table.

The one who asked me out, I think his name is Alexander, gives me a long, heavy stare, his tattooed fingers flexing around his glass, as I keep my smile as generic as possible.

That’s when the hair on the back of my neck stands up.

I straighten. My instincts are always dead on, and I can sense that danger is close. Scanning the room, I catch the shadowed gaze of a lone man in the dark corner of the room.

I hate that guy. I don’t know his name. I never wait on him, but he’s here nearly every night. Sometimes he only stays for a bit, sometimes all night.

The other waitresses say that he doesn’t drink much but he tips really well, as they giggle about how gorgeous he is.

I don’t give a crap about his looks, the guy still creeps me out, which is why I usually give his table to the next girl in the rotation. Even I’m not desperate enough to interact with him for good tips.

He looks at me now, his dark eyes empty and unreadable. I know that look.

It’s the look of a man who has no soul, who will hurt anyone or anything not out of malice, but out of joy.

That’s the scariest motherf’er of them all.

He raises his glass to his lips, and I catch the tattoos that cover his massive hands. He’s tattooed like the Russians?

Come to think of it, he only seems to stay when they are here. I shake my head, sure I don’t care. The less I know about that guy the better.

But that’s when Alexander slides out of the booth and stands next to me. I mean right next to me. Like there is barely an inch between us. He drops his head low, his hot breath against my neck and ear. “You didn’t call.”

My smile slips as I duck my head. I’m tempted to tell him that I lost his number, but that only pushes the problem down the road.

Instead, I shift the tray to my left hand, sliding away from him, and placing the little plastic disc between us. “I should have told you when you gave me your number, but I don’t date patrons of the bar. It’s…” I’m searching for the appropriate word. It’s not nepotism because I am in no way powerful.

But it’s not good for business either. “It’s against the bar’s policy,” I finally manage to come up with an excuse, looking up at him with an apologetic smile.

His eyes narrow as he reaches for my tray, moving it out of the way so he can step close again. “You need to understand, printsessa,” he says in his thick accent, “that I am a man who gets what he wants.”

I swallow down a lump. He needs to understand that this isn’t happening. Ever. “I can sense that about you,” I murmur and he gives a low, appreciative laugh. “But my boss would fire me.” And then I give him my most vulnerable eyes, the ones that ask for forgiveness as my lower lip juts out the smallest bit. “I really need this job.”

He eats it up. I can see him shifting to be both sympathetic and appeased. It’s not his lack of appeal, but my circumstances that kept me from calling.

My mom can make nearly any man do anything she chooses. It’s disgusting. She’s on husband number four, and this one is going to stick. Rich and drunk most of the time, she has unlimited access to his credit cards as she feeds him drink after drink.

I will never be like that. I’ve promised myself this a million times over.

But I do understand the principles of what she does, and I occasionally use her techniques to keep myself out of trouble. That’s it.

He eases back into the booth, and I start hustling away. That’s when dark and dangerous in the corner meets my eye again and raises his hand to beckon me over.

My heart stops for a second.

I’m normally way more careful about not meeting his eye, but the Russian has me flustered.

With a gulp, I make my way over to him. “Can I help you, sir?”

He leans over the table, out of the shadows and my breath catches. Holy shit, he’s even better looking up close.

It’s not that every feature is perfect. But every part of him works together to create this beautiful masculine man from the crook in his nose, to his cut jaw, to the bulging muscles highlighted by the fine cut of his dress shirt.

His dark hair waves back from his face and the straight line of his brow. Only his eyes give him away.

They do not sparkle with anything. They’re devoid of light, making him look almost…dead.

I take a half step back, swallowing down a lump, realizing he’s assessing me too and he hasn’t answered my greeting, so I repeat it. “What can I help you with, sir?”

“What did that man just ask you?” His voice is a low gravelly baritone with a rich English accent that doesn’t disguise that his words are not a request. They are a demand.

I bring drinks with a smile and without question. I do not gossip about patrons with other patrons. “Sir, I don’t think⁠—”

His hand shoots out to capture my wrist. His grip is just tight enough that I feel his power, know that he could hurt me whenever he chooses. “Tell me what he said.”

I hesitate for another second and he tightens the grip, my whole body tensing as I ready for the pain. “He asked me out.”

“And what did you say?”

I shake my head like this is crazy, because it is. Not that I don’t know crazy, or how to handle it. “I said what I always say, no thank you.”

His grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go as his thumb strokes along the inside of my wrist.

I’m so over stimulated from the whole interaction that my skin breaks out in goose pimples from his touch. “And if I asked you out? What would you say?”

“No thank you.” It’s out in a rush betraying my true feelings and not at all in keeping with my normal façade. But his touch is breaking past my surface calm.

He gives me a grin and it’s positively wicked. I cringe away. “And if I told you that I don’t take no for an answer?”

“That’s what he said too,” I whisper, knowing that I am doing a much worse job of handling this conversation than I did the last.

Maybe it’s been too much maneuvering through male attention, or maybe this guy unsettles me like no other.

But his lips thin over his teeth as he tugs me down closer, bringing my face right to his face.

His scent wraps around me, and I have to be honest, he smells delicious. It’s cedar and spice, with a hint of male musk that makes my heart beat a little faster. Or maybe that’s just the fact that he’s got me bent over the table. “And how did you answer?”

“My boss doesn’t allow me to date patrons.”

He finally lets me go. “Is that what you’re going to say to me too?”

I jerk my chin in the affirmative.

Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls his wallet out and lays three hundred-dollar bills onto the table. “You are waiting on me the rest of the night. Bring one whisky every hour, water in between.”

I pick up the bills, slipping them into my small apron as I turn to do as he bid.

“Chloe.”

That makes me stop dead in my tracks. How does he know my name? We don’t wear nametags.

I glance back over my shoulder, showing him my profile without making eyes contact. “Yes?” My voice is barely a whisper.

“You can try to deflect. You can run. You can even hide. But you will bend to my will, luv. I don’t take no for an answer.”

Fear steals my breath and for a moment I don’t move. Then, I unstick my feet from the floor and scurry toward the bar, trying not to break out into a full run.

My instincts are never wrong, and that guy is a psycho.