Dirty Bet Page 17

  1

  Liam

  I slam a hand onto James’ shoulder and smile wide. “Ditch the ring,” I say. “Pawn it, do whatever. I don’t want to look at it.”

  “But, there’s still twelve hours until--”

  “I’m celebrating early, James,” I say. “I’m done living in Cynthia’s cold shadow.”

  James sighs. “Fine.”

  He’s the best assistant I’ve ever had, maybe even too good. “Relax, I’m clear. I get to stay a bachelor forever. No one to tie me down.”

  “Gabriela is still scheduled to be here tonight,” he says.

  “Tell her she’s done. She’s off the hook.”

  “But--”

  “James,” I snap. “Come on, she’s dealt with this for long enough.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll call her.”

  I paid Gabriela to stay close by--to pretend to be my fiancée, if needed. But Cynthia must really be dead.

  I laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” James asks.

  “I shouldn’t laugh,” I say. “I’m not actually glad that Cynthia is dead…”

  James shoots me a skeptical look.

  “I’m not!” I say. “Really. I’m just laughing at how paranoid I was.”

  “You can’t be too careful in this business,” James says.

  “You really think she’d have faked her own death?” I ask. “Just to lock me into the contract?”

  James nods.

  I scoff. “You need a beer, man. Or five.”

  “I don’t drink on the job,” James says.

  “Tonight, you do! I want everyone to let loose for my thirtieth. You’re not working for me tonight, man, so hook up with someone. You’re celebrating.”

  “I’ll celebrate when the clock strikes midnight,” he says.

  “Where are we with the bartenders? We have enough?”

  “Twenty,” James says.

  “Make it thirty,” I say. “Thirty for my thirtieth.”

  James sighs. “Do you still want male bartenders?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Or plain-looking women. I don’t want all the women here to feel like they have to compete with the damn bartenders.”

  “I’m gay, Liam,” James says.

  “So? You seriously mean to say you can’t tell if a woman is attractive or not?”

  James crosses his arms across his chest.

  I mimic squeezing my breasts. “Big breasts, tight waist, long legs. Something special in her eyes and full, juicy lips. Nice silky hair.... Come on, man, you get the idea, just don’t hire any women like the one I just described and you’re good.”

  2

  Amber

  “You’ll be perfect,” James says, smiling.

  “Really?” I ask. “Me?”

  I never get hired for these billionaire birthday parties. Hell, the millionaires don’t even hire me. I never in a million years thought the richest man on the West Coast would hire me to work his party. Liam Lions.

  “Of course,” James says. “You’re very experienced.”

  I bite my lip. “Great, well, should I wear a cocktail dress, or--”

  He shakes his head and interrupts me before I finish my sentence. “We will provide a uniform.”

  “It’s not--uh--like--kinky, right, ‘cause I don’t usually do--”

  “No,” James says. “The uniform is…it’s very…baggy.”

  James has a pretty thick British accent, so maybe I didn’t hear him right, or maybe he’s using some British slang.

  “Baggy?” I ask. “Like...a bag?” I hold my hands several inches out away from my body to demonstrate, pretending as if I’m wearing a garbage bag.

  “Yes,” he says. “Quite plain. Not the least bit kinky.”

  Liam Lions has a notorious reputation as a playboy. I never would have taken him for someone who would hire an experienced bartender over a bimbo who lets guests do jello shots off her tits.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll see you tonight then.”

  “Brilliant,” James says.

  I arrive at the Lions’ mansion twenty minutes early. I thank and tip the cab driver, and then walk up toward the impressive wrought-iron gate, which is wide open.

  Shortly after I walk through, a man in a suit with a thick, muscular neck stops me.

  “I’m bartending the Lions’ party this evening,” I say. “I’m supposed to meet with James.”

  He nods and points ahead of us. “Follow this path and it will take you directly to the back entrance.”

  The back entrance. Keep me out of sight of the nobility. I’m like a poor servant girl in Downton Abbey. I’m only allowed upstairs to pour drinks and bow and scrape.

  I follow the cobblestone path as instructed, and it takes me wide around the mansion. In the distance, I can see black limos and bright red Ferraris pulling right up to the front entranceway The path keeps me well away from anyone important, and when I see the guests leaving their expensive rides and entering the mansion, they look like little more than distant silhouettes.

  The path continues winding, wrapping around the side of the mansion, and I have to open a small gate that enters into a garden. The garden is full of flowers in bloom, and I find myself straying off the path to literally stop and smell the roses. I’m still over ten minutes early anyway, so it’s not like I don’t have some time to kill.

  I come across another path. This one circles and snakes around the flowers, and I follow it as it leads me through all kinds of colorful blooms and gorgeous sights and scents. There are all kinds of flowers in the expansive garden, all perfectly manicured, and I proceed deeper and deeper down the path. Eventually I hit the water: Lake Washington. The mansion is built on a hill, and there are benches placed strategically throughout the garden, the perfect place to sit down and admire the lake. I check the time and am excited to see that I still have five minutes before I need to report to James.

  I take a seat on the closest bench and relax, enjoying the view and breathing in the fragrant aroma of flowers lacing the air.

  3

  Liam

  I cut through the garden. The party is about to start, but I like to arrive late--even when it’s my own party. Especially when it’s my own party.

  My jacket is draped over my shoulder, and my tie is hanging around my neck and beneath the jacket. A button or two are undone, and I can feel the cool Seattle spring air on my chest. I’ll wait for a while by the lake, then I’ll go in.

  When I get in view of the bench, I see there’s someone already sitting there. It’s a woman, and her dirty-brown hair is draped softly over her shoulders. The light breeze ruffles her hair just enough so that she doesn’t look like a statue. She’s wearing an old t-shirt and jeans, as if she just wandered in from the lake and had nothing to do with my party.

  I walk right up behind her, but she doesn’t turn toward me. She must not hear me, perhaps lost in thought.

  When I sit down right next to her, she startles.

  “Shit!” she says, her slim hand instinctively flinging to her heart in shock.

  Her chocolate-brown eyes, still gaping wide in astonishment, lock on mine. She looks...not beautiful exactly. At least not in the traditional sense of the word. Freckles dot her nose, which makes her look almost girlish.

  She notices my jacket and tie and smiles. “Oh, you’re a bartender for this party, too? So that’s the uniform the guys get to wear?” She nods towards my jacket.

  Her smile reveals a slightly crooked front tooth that juts out a bit more than the others, but her brilliant smile really lights up her eyes. The calm that washes over her when she realizes that I’m just a bartender, makes her somehow even more intriguing. Has she really never seen a photo of me before? I can’t count the number of times I’ve graced the covers of magazines or been the focus of the latest celebrity gossip rumors. Dusk is falling and it’s getting dark, but she should still recognize me.

  “Yeah,” I lie, pointing to her t-shirt. “Where’s you
r uniform?”

  I don’t know why I’m lying to her about who I am, but coming right out and saying, “No, actually, I’m Liam Lions,” would probably scare her off, and I--for whatever reason--want to keep talking to her.

  “Oh, I’m just killing a few more minutes before I need to report,” she says. “Just chilling out here in this absolutely gorgeous garden and pretending like it’s my own backyard.”

  I chuckle “That would be something, yeah?”

  “Hell, yeah,” she says. “Can you imagine? You come out here with a $100 bottle of wine like it’s nothing, look out over the lake without a care in the world...even if you totally messed up everything and lost, like, $100 million that afternoon, you’re still rich at the end of the day. Not a care in the world.”

  I stifle a laugh. She thinks $100 is a lot to pay for a bottle of wine? “That would be something,” I say in agreement.

  People who aren’t rich never understand that it’s not as care-free of an existence as they think. I have a lot more to lose than most people do, and not just money.

  “I heard Liam Lions is a jackass,” I say pointedly, grinning.

  “Of course he is,” she says, without hesitation. “Imagine having a birthday party and hiring an assistant to hire people to pour drinks for you. How far removed can you get from the common man?”

  “I suppose,” I say, pretending to ponder her comment, “that you could hire an assistant to manage the assistant...to hire a head bartender, who would then hire the other bartenders--”

  She laughs. “Okay, fine, you got me there. My point still stands.”

  Why would I hire each individual bartender when James is perfectly capable of doing it? I’m a successful businessman precisely because I make efficient use of my time and resources. Do I really care if the bartenders think I’m a jackass or not?

  I glance down at my watch without moving my wrist, and I realize that she’s at least five minutes late now. I decide not to say anything. I want to see her reaction when she realizes it.

  “Would you get a yacht?” I ask.

  “What?” she says.

  “If you were a billionaire, would you buy a yacht?”

  She shrugs. “It’s pointless to think about it. If I was the Queen of England, would I abolish the monarchy?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Me becoming the Queen of England and needing to decide whether or not to abolish the monarchy is equally as unlikely to happen as my needing to think about whether or not I’d buy a yacht,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “All right,” I say. “Let’s bring it down a notch then. If you were handed a million bucks, what would you do with it?”

  A big smile lights up her face. I can’t help but notice she looks really pretty when she smiles. Despite her flawed features. “Okay,” she says. “Now we are talking. It’s not like that would ever happen either, but I can at least dream about this what-if.”

  “With only a million dollars, the yacht is off the table,” I say.

  “I don’t care about yachts,” she says, with a swipe of her hand. “If I had a million dollars...I think the smartest thing for me to do would be to invest it.”

  I yawn.

  “Come on!” she says. “It’s true.”

  “Agreed,” I say. “But we’re dreaming here, not being smart.”

  “Then I’d buy a really nice apartment,” she says. “Close to downtown, splurge on a two-bedroom or something roomy...”

  Jesus, she really is poor.

  “Nothing like this place,” she says, looking back and pointing to my house. “It would be way out of my millionaire price range. Anyway, the apartment would use up most of my cash, but I’d never have to pay rent again.”

  “You’d have to pay a bunch of fees, though” I say. “It would be similar to paying rent.”

  “I thought we were dreaming,” she says, shoving me by the shoulder.

  She looks over at me. “Damn, you’re strong.”

  I smile. “I work out.”

  “Don’t know where you get time for that,” she says sarcastically. “I’m always busting my ass bartending, clawing for tips so I can pay my damn rent. That’s why I want to own the place. Even if I have a slow month, I can just eat ramen noodles, but at least I’ve still got a roof over my head.”

  I glance at my watch again. She’s fifteen minutes late now. If I let her go any longer, James will probably fire her.

  I bring my wrist up, and suddenly I worry she’s going to see how expensive my watch is. But then I realize she probably couldn’t tell a LeCoultre from a Rolex. Hell, she probably even thinks a Rolex is expensive.

  “Shit!” she says. “What time is it?”

  “It’s 9:15,” I say.

  “Shit!” She jumps up off the bench like it was on fire. “We are so late!”

  I pop up my collar and start to wrap my tie around it. “I’m not,” I say, smiling. “I’m already checked in with James and dressed. You’re late.”

  She races down the path and disappears into the garden. I laugh as I finish doing my tie and put on my jacket.

  I’ll have to call James to make sure he goes easy on her. Especially since I’m going to have a fun time going up to her later and ordering a drink--after she realizes who I am. I’m not a total asshole, though; I’ll tip generously to make up for my dishonesty.

  4

  Amber

  Crap! I’m late.

  And crap, I forgot to ask that insanely hot bartender what his name was. I didn’t even give him my name! I’m such an idiot! He was gorgeous. Razor-sharp cheekbones, luxurious blonde hair that I’d just love to run my fingers through, striking blue eyes as deep as the sea--I could go on--but I’m late as hell.

  When I reach the side door, I see it’s open, so I just rush right in.

  “James,” I say out of breath. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry--”

  We’re in a kitchen--not the kitchen, but a kitchen--and James is counting bottles of wine. He turns toward me.

  “You are rather late,” he says, frowning.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say. “I got lost in the garden, the flowers are distracting...you can relate, right?”

  “How’s that?” he asks, his frowning deepening.

  “Uhh…” I stammer. Crap, I’m digging this hole even deeper.

  “Is it because I’m gay?” James asks, emphasizing the last word. “You think just because I’m gay that I like flowers?”

  “I’m sorry, I--”

  “It’s true,” he says. “I love the flowers.”

  He grabs a bag off the counter and tosses it at me. “Your uniform. Get it on, and get to the party.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, saluting.

  I look down at the uniform in my hand, then up at him. “Uh, where can I…”

  He points to my left. “There’s a pantry over there. It’s empty.”

  I step into the pantry, which is larger than my apartment, and rush to change into the uniform. It definitely is baggy. The shirt is at least a size too big for me, and the slacks in no way accentuate my feminine curves. I frown. The hot bartender guy is not going to be impressed by this outfit.

  His image is burned into my mind. I want to see him again, even if I have to make a fool out of myself on the job and walk right over to him. I can’t risk that the night ends and he just disappears and I never see him again. I suppose I could ask James for his number, but that would be a breach of his privacy, and he’d think I was desperate. I have to make it look natural, like I just happen to bump into him. Again. Tonight.

  I step out of the pantry, and James points to a tray of wine bottles. “Take these with you, and pop open a few of each kind. These bottles cost over $1,000 each, so be careful.”

  One thousand dollars? For a fucking bottle of wine? I’ve been bartending for two years now, and I’ve never served something so stupidly expensive. I’m tempted to sneak a sip from one of the bottles, just to see if I can taste the difference between a $25 bot
tle and a $1,000 bottle. Could anything really taste $975 better? Doubtful.

  I head down the hallway leading away from the kitchen. I notice other uniformed bartenders heading in the same direction, so I follow them. I’m keeping my eye out for my mystery man, but I’m not seeing any sign of him. He was really tall, so I should be able to pick him easily out of the crowd.

  The hallway opens out to a huge room. Rich people don’t have regular rooms in their houses like middle-class or poor people do. They don’t just have a “living room” or a “dining room,” and it’s hard to know for sure what exactly this room would be called. Maybe the “entertaining room” or “the parlour”--spelled with a ‘u’ for extra pretentiousness--or something equally snooty.

  This room is huge. It has high ceilings, and one wall consists of floor-to-ceiling doors, which open onto a terrace overlooking the lake and the garden. My guess is that I could see the bench I had been sitting on from the terrace, but I don’t have time to sightsee right now. There are a number of little bar stations set up all around the parlour, and I see three bartenders positioned behind each station.

  James comes up behind me. “Amber, pick a station that isn’t already full.”

  I turn to him, and I feel my face burning red. “I know this is a bit unprofessional, James, but--”

  “Don’t ask then,” he snaps.

  “There was this really hot bartender that I met earlier tonight,” I say. “Tall, blonde hair, blue eyes…”

  “Just because I’m gay, you think I’ll have the same definition of ‘really hot’ as you do?”

  “James, come on,” I say, looking at him with a serious expression. “I don’t want to miss out on seeing this guy again. This is important to me.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Everyone who is working this evening is here already. Do you see him?”

  I glance quickly around the room, taking a few extra moments to scope out each bar station.