Chapter 5 What The Actual Fuck?!
KADEN'S POV
The alarm blares like it’s auditioning for a death metal band. I hate the damn thing. Hate it so much I’ve replaced it three times because apparently, my reflexes are more violent than my patience.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. Doubts are swirling around my skull....my life choices, my career, my inability to exist for five consecutive minutes without existential dread. Finally, I wrench myself upright, throw on yesterday’s hoodie, brush my teeth, and drag myself downstairs.
Josie, my best friend slash roommate, is already in the kitchen, dancing to whatever pop anthem is currently declaring independence from mediocre men.
I grab a stool at the counter and watch her move. Josie’s good....really good. A couple years ago, she blew up online, designing and creating outfits. I still choose to believe the algorithm only cared because she used me as a model for half her posts. Horny, chronically online girls slurped it all up. Two years later, I’m still modeling for her. Honestly, it’s the only consistent modeling gig I’ve ever had in this city.
The thing about LA? Everyone wants in. Everyone’s crawling, climbing, posing, pretending. Aspiring models, actors, influencers, wannabes with perfect teeth and too much confidence. You can be good-looking, talented, disciplined, and it doesn’t matter...there’s always someone younger, taller, blonder, more viral. LA swarms like that, relentless, merciless. You either get lucky, get noticed, or get eaten alive.
“Why,” Josie says, dragging out the word, “are you awake before noon after working until actual sunrise?”
I glance at the clock on the stove. 10:07 a.m.
“Because I’m a responsible adult.” I say, reaching for a fork and stealing a piece of whatever she’s sautéing,
She snorts. “Try again.”
“I’ve gotta get my car serviced,” I reply, grabbing a glass of water. “Oil change, weird noise when I brake. I’d rather get it over with early than sit in some grimy waiting room at four p.m. questioning my entire existence.”
I lean against the counter, watching her move. She cooks the way she designs.....confident, colorful and a little dramatic. She's Haitian, currently has on these loose paint-splattered shorts and an oversized tee she probably thrifted and altered at 2 a.m. and braids with a streak of neon.
I tuck my hands into my hoodie pockets and press my forehead lightly to the cool stone countertop. Just for a second to shut my brain up.
That’s when I feel it....Paper.
I blink, lifting my head. My fingers hook around the edge of a folded stack buried in the pocket.
Right.
The tips.
I’d meant to stash them in the tin with the rest. Instead, I face-planted onto my bed and died for five uninterrupted hours. I pull the stack out slowly and Josie notices immediately.
Her eyebrows shoot toward her hairline. “Okay, Rockefeller,” she says, turning down the stove. “Why are you holding rent money like it's radioactive?”
I flip through the bills. Hundreds. Not a couple, not mixed with tens and twenties.
Mostly hundreds. I can’t remember the last time I made this much from tips. And when I did, it was a collection effort. A generous regular here. A birthday party there. This was mostly from one guy. One nameless guy.
Josie leans her hip against the counter, eyes gleaming. “You didn’t rob someone, did you? Because I support you emotionally, but I cannot support you legally.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Relax. It was a customer.”
“Oh?” Her tone sharpens with interest. “A ‘customer-customer’ or a customer?”
I run a hand through my hair and look down at the cash again.
“He came in alone,” I say casually. “Sat at the bar. Ordered that overhyped and overpriced drink I told you about.”
Her eyes flicker. “And?”
“And he tipped like he was trying to buy stock in me.”
She lets out a low whistle. “Was he hot?”
I hesitate, which is answer enough.
Her grin turns feral. “Oh, he was definitely hot.”
I shrug, but it’s not convincing. “Yeah, I mean. Sure.”
Because he was.
Seated at the bar like he’d been carved into it. Watching the room without looking like he was watching the room. I noticed him immediately I walked in. And I’d intentionally avoided his gaze. Because I have a documented track record of sprinting toward red flags like they’re limited-edition sneakers. My very recent ex is ‘Exhibit A.’ Charming, emotionally unavailable, and about as stable as a folding chair in a hurricane.
Josie crosses her arms. “You’re hoping he becomes a regular.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m hoping he keeps tipping like that. If he does, I’ll personally name a drink after him and pretend it’s coincidence.”
“Wow,” she says, mock-serious. “Love is dead.”
I pocket the cash again, but my mind drifts back. At some point last night, I could’ve sworn he was checking me out. Not the casual glance, definitely not drunk curiosity either.
The slow and intentional kind.
The kind that lingers.
It had been hungry, like a predator sizing up its prey....and I had felt it straight in my cock. I’d had to step away, heart hammering, just to get a grip on myself.
But then there were moments I wasn’t sure. His face would go unreadable and controlled. Like he’d shut a door mid-thought. He was really fucking hot, though.
Maybe he was one of those “straight” guys who didn’t know what they wanted. LA has plenty of those. Experimentally curious. Selectively confused.
Either way, he tipped well. And at the end of the day, I’m a bartender. I know how to flirt without promising anything. How to lean in just enough to make someone feel chosen without actually choosing them. How to hold eye contact half a second longer than necessary and still keep it professional. It’s a balance.
You give people a little spark but you don’t let them set you on fire. Josie studies me for a moment, softer now. “You’re thinking about him.”
I grab a fork and point it at her. “I’m thinking about financial stability.”
She hums knowingly. But as I head toward the coffee machine, I can’t help it. I replay the way he said my name like he was committing it to memory.
I shake all those thoughts off and start pouring my coffee. Then my phone buzzes. I barely register it at first. Probably a spam call about my car’s extended warranty or some casting agency telling me I’m “not quite the look” they’re going for.
I pull it out absentmindedly to confirm.
“So,” I say, leaning against the counter again, “did you finish designing that set you were working on? Because if we’re filming this weekend, you need to step it up. The internet deserves quality thirst traps.”
Josie starts talking, something about lighting and textured backdrops, but her voice starts to blur into background noise. Because I’m staring at my phone.
At an email.
Subject line:
Eclipse Distilling Co. — Umbra Campaign Inquiry
My heart does this weird, hollow thud, I blink and open it.
From: Angela Morris
Title: Director of Brand Strategy
My throat goes dry.
Eclipse Distilling Co.... The makers of the bottle I pulled down last night. The exact whiskey I’d built that cocktail around. And not just any distillery either, they’re the biggest name in the industry right now. Half the backlit bottles behind my bar carry their label. A good chunk of the club’s best-selling drinks are theirs.
My eyes skim the email once, then again. Then slower...because what the actual fuck?!