Maelstrom

Chapter 13: A Timely Intervention

I could honestly say that I hadn't thought about Red Shirt again in a couple of hours. The pace at Asylum, added to the brain-scrambling effect that Alkaev's presence had on me, left me incapable of thinking about anything but getting my next order filled. So I was genuinely shocked when the asshole stumbled up to my station again and leaned onto the bar.

"Remember me?" he slurred. Holy shit. His hunting had apparently not gone well, unless he had simply changed his quarry from tail to booze, in which case, he'd been spectacularly successful. His eyes roamed leisurely over my curves; I was pretty sure my skin was visibly crawling. "I've been waiting for you."

Wow. If that didn't set off alarms ... "At a different bar, I see," I observed cautiously.

He waved a drunken arm behind him, nearly slapping another patron in the head. "Up there," he said, gesturing to the chill loft. "They have a lot of whiskey up there." Great, he'd switched to the hard stuff. "And they're much nicer up there, but not as hot." He leaned further onto the bar. "Don't you want to be nice to me? I promise I'll make it worth it."

I wasn't sure if he was propositioning me with money or merely bragging about his sexual prowess, but it made no difference. As much as I hated doing it, I decided to give him a graceful out, instead of just insulting him.

"Sorry. My boyfriend's the jealous type, and definitely not into threesomes." The mention of a fictitious, protective, potentially violent boyfriend was usually enough to put off most interested suitors. I turned my attention to a pair of young women who looked increasingly uncomfortable standing next to Red Shirt. "What can I get you?" I asked them with what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

Red Shirt slapped his hand down on the bar. "I'm talking to you!" he yelled. Shari looked over in concern, and my new female customers scampered away to find a safer watering hole. I gritted my teeth and turned my full attention to the menace in front of me.

"Sir," I began, barely keeping the reins on my anger. "You've clearly had enough whiskey for tonight. I'm not serving you anything else, and neither will any other bartender in this club." I glanced through the corners of my eyes at Shari, who was watching the scene like the impending train wreck that it was, and held my breath. She was a pro, and knew when to back a sister up. She tapped Sterling, the bartender next to her, on the arm, then pointed to Red Shirt and shouted something I couldn't catch in his ear. He nodded and in turn tapped the bartender next to him, pointing at my inebriated Lothario and waving his rigid hand sharply back and forth across his neck, passing the message silently down the bar.

The asshole was dumbfounded. "What does that mean?" he demanded, waving at the other bartenders. "What did I do?" He leaned in, turning his ear slightly as though to better catch my words.

Like the freshest rookie, I fell for it. As I leaned in to explain, my words were choked off as he lunged forward and grabbed my throat. I heard some of the patrons at the bar start screaming, and Shari calling for security, but mostly I just felt the thick fingers on Red Shirt's other hand fumbling for a better grip on my neck. I dug my fingernails into his arm with one hand and desperately grabbed at a bottleneck from my well with the other.

Before I could swing and break the bottle of whatever-I'd-grabbed over his ugly head, my assailant was yanked away from the bar, then suddenly slammed back onto it by Alkaev's personal security guard. The thud of the skull pounding the polished wood carried even over the throbbing music. The bodyguard twisted Red Shirt's arm high up behind his back, eliciting howls of pain and protest, then gripped the drunk's other wrist and half-walked, half-carried him to the front door. The guard's actions garnered some enthusiastic applause from nearby witnesses, which quickly blended into the club's all-consuming soundtrack.

I leaned back against my till and gulped deep breaths into my bruised throat.

"Holy shit, are you okay?" Shari asked.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak yet. Shari looked back over her shoulder where the crowd was still swirling around the departing drunkard. "Damn, that guy moved fast."

I shook my head. "He wasn't that fast," I argued. "I was just being stupid and complacent."

"No, I meant the bouncer," Shari clarified, straining her neck to keep watching the show. "He was on that asshole like that," she said, snapping her fingers.

"Yeah, lucky for me." I saw Stefano pushing through the gabbling, titillated crowd to come behind the bar. I held out a hand to reassure him. "I'm okay, I'm okay."

"Are you sure?" he asked, ducking his head a bit to get a better look at my face. "I'm going to have a talk with the cocktail waitresses. They're usually better about not over-serving a guest. Lex, I swear, this is not the kind of place where stuff like that happens," he assured me.

"Guess it's just me, then," I joked.

Stefano jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Take ten to pull yourself together." I started to protest. "That wasn't a suggestion. Go."

I nodded and started toward the end of the bar, then realized I was still holding the bottle of rum I'd grabbed to smash into Red Shirt's thick scalp. I handed it back to my manager with an apologetic half-grin and worked my way towards the employee break room in the back of the club.

I passed the balcony staircase on my way, where Alkaev stood on the bottom step, radiating pure fury. I was impressed; the only real indication of his internal battle was his tightly clenched jaw. With a surge of alarm, I realized I was as much attracted to as terrified by that heated rage; it whipped across my frayed nerves like a lash. My feet paused next to him for a moment, and for the first time, I looked him full in the eyes. It was, by far, the closest I'd ever been to him, and the effect on me was liquifying.

His perfectly sculpted mouth twitched, and for a petrifying moment, I thought he would speak, but he said nothing, just stood looking at me, his hand resting perilously close to my bare arm on the polished black rail.

I dropped my gaze, forced myself not to reach my fingers out to run them lightly along that strong, delicately-tapered hand, and sought refuge in the dim recesses of the club's back rooms.