Cold Hearted Bastard (Underworld Kings)

I looked over my shoulder at Boris, a big, hulking shadow behind us. I faced forward quickly, no doubt in my mind that this man was the furthest thing from “not dangerous” as you got.

The anteroom and hallway opened into a larger room, where a handful of girls looked through racks of clothing.

Laura stopped and turned to face me so suddenly that I stumbled back. “What?” I looked around, thinking I’d made some faux pas and hadn’t realized. She didn’t speak right away and started biting her lip. “Laura, just say it.”

“So you have the waitressing job, but the owner of the bar wants to meet you to decide which room to put you in for the night.”

I furrowed my brow. “Which room to put me in for the night?”

“Yeah.” She kept biting her lip. “It’s how it works. The way this bar is set up, there are several rooms, kind of like tiers on where the clientele lands. The higher the tier, the more important the patrons.”

I nodded slowly. “Okay. So if you’re not up to the owner’s physical standard, you’re shit out of luck and get a bottom level?”

At least she had the decency to flush as she nodded. “I know how it seems, but no matter what, the waitresses still bring home good money, even at the lowest level.”

“So we might not even be working in the same room?”

She shook her head and looked apologetic. Not that it mattered if we were in the same room, but I would have preferred a familiar face. Not to mention she’d acted like we would be together because she didn’t want to do it alone.

It seemed a little bit strange to me, but I wasn’t going to complain about how a business was. This made me feel like, if I was given a lower-end room, clearly the owner didn’t like the way I looked. I told myself it really didn’t matter in the long run.

Money was money, and I desperately needed it.

Laura gave me a reassuring smile, then eyed me up and down. “Let’s get you changed first and do your hair and makeup.”

Hair and makeup?

Before I could complain about needing to be dolled up to sling drinks, I told myself getting prettied up would help with tips. Rich old men, especially ones who were drinking copious amounts of booze, tended to throw money at women who caught their eye. Not that I liked it, but it was a fact in the world, and I’d use it to my advantage.

I was just going through the motions as I stood there and let Laura pick out a dress for me. It was white and slinky, covering up the important parts but showing enough that it didn’t leave much to the imagination.

“Seriously?” I asked as she handed it to me. “And white?”

She shrugged but smiled. “Trust me, the whole white-young-and-innocent thing will help with tips. This is old rich men we are talking about.”

I was already regretting this.

Ten minutes later I was dressed, my hair styled in a soft updo, little wisps framing my face, and a light layer of makeup put on. I stared at myself in the mirror, and although I recognized the woman looking back at me, she also seemed like a stranger. This wasn’t who I was. This is for the endgame. Save money and get the hell out of here.

I exhaled and was handed a pair of stilettos, which I grudgingly took and slipped on. I looked down at my feet, praying I could not only walk but carry drinks at the same time.

“Gorgeous,” Laura said, and I glanced at her reflection in the mirror. “Ready?”

I turned to look at her. She was beautiful as well, with a bloodred dress that ended midthigh and had a slit up the side. She was well-endowed in the chest department—unlike me—and the dress accentuated her breasts.

We left the dressing room and walked down a short hallway before she stopped in front of a closed door. I didn’t miss how Boris followed us, an uncomfortable shadow right behind me. After three heavy knocks, a deep voice called out in another language from the other side of the door.

Boris moved in front of Laura and opened the door before stepping aside and letting us in. Laura went in first, me following behind and feeling awfully bare all of a sudden, which had nothing to do with what I wore. The room wasn’t overly large, but it was exquisitely decorated. Black leather, sleek dark woods, and very obvious Russian-themed decor.

There was a massive, intimidating desk that sat across from the door, and the man perched behind and the look on his face instantly had warning bells going crazy in my head. My throat tightened at the dark power that clearly surrounded him.

To his right there was a large fireplace, the flames flickering over the faux logs. A black leather couch was situated in front of it and taken up by two men who looked about my age. They were similar in appearance and build, so I was safe to assume they were related to not only each other, but the man behind the desk as well. One of the men, the older of the two, brought a square-cut glass to his mouth, his eyes locked on me as he took a slow sip. A shiver moved up my spine, and I tried to suppress it before turning my attention to the man behind the desk.