ocean eyes || c.evans

ii.

The second time you met Chris, it was while you were at work. You were a cocktail waitress at a relatively posh, incredibly elite, uptown bar. The kind that charges you way too much for a drink so little, and probably sells diamond infused vodka. This was the night spot of everyone who was anyone – gods that sipped golden champagne from fine, polished Baccarat flutes that were probably worth your house.

You had no problem with rich people. You just had a problem with the way some treated you – and that was to say, not very well.

"Hey." A male voice startled you out of your near robotic drink making. They were a bit understaffed that night, so you had taken the liberty of helping out behind the bar while the tables in your section remained vacant. You were somewhat of an expert cocktail maker – you could even safely say you could do it blindfolded (an exceptionally wild bachelor's party provided proof enough). So it wasn't uncommon for your mind to drift elsewhere while you mixed a drink. You tilted your head slightly in the direction of your co-worker, letting him know you were listening, while still pretending to be way more immersed in your task than you really were. It was that anti-social kind of night, where you'd rather be curled up at home with Netflix and a mug of tea rather than be there (despite being fully aware of how many girls would kill to have entry to the most exclusive club in Los Angeles). But the pay was good – excellent, actually – and you did get some really nice patrons at times. And your co-workers? They weren't half bad, either. "There's a table that just sat down in your station."

You swore under your breath, finished mixing the drink with a sped efficiency, and handed it off to the patron. "Your station" was the VIP section, and was rarely very busy so early in the evening. You knew club routine well enough by now: pre-drinks before the party were often done at home, in the limos, or in a relatively tame bar somewhere nearby. This was for the pleasantries, the catching up, the conversations that would inevitably be drowned out by the pounding music if done anywhere else. That usually occurred around this time. This club – and many like it – the kind that was where everyone who was anyone had to be seen at – was the second phase. The party phase. The phase where most of the time, drama, and scandal, took place. This was often from 10pm till 4am, depending on the stamina of the party goers. And then the wind down: after parties, often held at someone's house. This was the natural order of the night world, and you respected people who respected that. You modelled your entire schedule around that.

That's why you had assumed that your station would've been empty until much later – until after pre-drinks and conversations. Whoever just sat down in VIP – they were disturbing the natural fucking order, and you were not having it. Well, you were silently not having it; you still needed, like, money.

Your job didn't come without it's perks, though. A murder of stunning people were sat on the plush leather couches surrounding black marble topped tables behind the velvet chain that separated them from the masses. Some you recognised instantly from the big screen, and others from the tabloids. And one from a personal encounter... Your breath caught and you damn near choked.

There he was, reclined on the couch, so at ease with his arms spread over the back, grinning and laughing at something someone had said. He wasn't looking at you. Yet. That changed abruptly, as soon as you (after having gathered your confidence) introduced yourself to them.

He faltered slightly in his laugh, but his grin remained – growing even wider, as slowly, he tilted his head to look over at you.

Immediately his eyes brightened. If there was any doubt in your mind as to whether or not it was really him, it dissipated with that single nod of recognition he gave you.

You cleared your throat as a small diversion to clear your head. "Are you ready to order?"

They rattled off their orders, almost all of them barely paying any attention to your silent exchange with Chris. Almost.