Chapter 11 Eyes On Me
Bastian disappeared with Tony about fifteen minutes ago to "discuss details."
Long enough for the club to open.
Long enough for my brain to decide this whole situation is a waking nightmare.
I move through my tasks on autopilot, wiping the bar down, stacking glasses, restocking bottles. My hands know what they’re doing even if my brain has completely disassociated. This has to be a fever dream. Because every time I try to picture my future in this place, the image glitches. The scenes never settle. They warp....distort.
And every version ends with those cold blue eyes looking at me like I’m something he’s already decided belongs to him.
Yeah. Not loving that.
I’ve already hauled the first crate of liquor out of the walk-in. Ava’s supposed to be bar-back tonight, but she texted saying she’s running a few minutes late, so I’m doing double duty for now.
Two early customers sit at the bar. I’ve just served both of them when I turn toward the back again, ready to grab the last crate.
That’s when Bastian reappears.
People are trickling in, voices low, the music soft and lazy under the dim lights. Zeke doesn't start the real assault on the eardrums until ten. Which means everything feels slower right now.
Quieter.
And to the slow, sultry beat of the chill-out track playing, the guy looks like a literal personification of sin. And something about the way he steps back into the room.... moving through the soft amber light like he owns the air itself, makes me pause, just for a second.
The music seems to drift around him, low and smooth. I shake the thought off immediately.
Absolutely not.
My eyes stay pinned on him, glaring, as he saunters toward the bar. This time he doesn’t walk to my side, instead, he sits on one of the stools at the far edge. Kimmy and Connor, two of the floor servers, immediately gravitate toward him like moths to a very expensive flame. I watch them scramble to introduce themselves, all bright smiles and desperate "welcome to the team" energy.
“Mr. Steele,” Kimmy says warmly. “Welcome to Orphic. We’re really glad to have you here. I’m Kimmy, I’ve been here two years—"
Bastian glances at the offered hands.
Then at their faces.
He doesn’t shake them. Doesn’t even move. Just gives a small nod like he’s acknowledging the weather. Connor’s hand hangs there for a moment....Kimmy’s smile falters. Slowly, very slowly, they both pull their hands back.
Awkward doesn’t even begin to cover it.
They linger for a second, waiting for a scrap of acknowledgement, before he finally checks his watch.
"The club is open for business," Bastian says, his voice a cool rasp that cuts through the space. "Yet I can see a visible layer of dust on the molding behind the VIP booth speakers. I assume that’s not part of the aesthetic?"
The two blink, looking toward a corner of the ceiling no one has looked at since the place was built. They don't wait for a second reprimand, they practically trip over each other as they rush off to find a rag.
Bastian turns back toward me. Those blue eyes settling on mine like they’ve been waiting all night to get there.
“A bottle of Umbra,” he says, “I trust you remember how I like it.”
I hold his gaze, my pulse jumping despite my best efforts to play it cool. I turn around, snatching a bottle of his whiskey from the shelf and grab a rocks glass. I scoop the ice, pour a generous double, and turn back to set it in front of him. The amber liquid catches the light as it settles. I reach back to put the bottle on the shelf.
“Uh-uh.”
His voice stops me mid-motion. I glance over.
“I ordered the bottle, Kaden. Let's leave it on the wood.” His knuckles tap the mahogany in a slow, measured knock, his eyes pinned on me with quiet expectation.
I stiffen, but I set the heavy glass bottle down in front of him with a soft clack. Before I can pull my hand away, he reaches out, his fingers brushing mine as he slides the bottle off the counter and places it firmly on the empty barstool right next to him.
It’s a silent, arrogant gesture. He’s claiming the space, making sure no one else can sit next to him.
My pulse ticks up in my throat, and suddenly the entire bar feels smaller. I don’t have time to dwell on the guy's power play because another customer slides onto a stool a few seats down.
I recognize her immediately, she's a regular.
I wipe my hands on a towel and walk over, forcing the tension out of my shoulders as I slide toward her, leaning my elbows on the polished wood. I let my signature "bartender smile”....the one that’s earned me more tips than my actual mixing skills....spread across my face
“Look who survived another week,” I say warmly. “I was starting to think you’d replaced me with a more competent bartender.”
She laughs immediately, a soft blush coloring her cheeks. “Please,” she says. “You’re my favorite.”
“Careful,” I reply, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “Flattery like that might get you free olives. And we both know those are a premium commodity.”
She laughs again, I nod toward the bar.
"The usual? Extra lime, no salt?"
"You know me too well," she sighs, watching my hands move. I grab the shaker and start building the cocktail from muscle memory. Ice, citrus, the clean, precise movements that usually calm my nerves.
Except tonight I can feel eyes on me. Heavy and watching. How the hell am I supposed to work tonight like this? It’s suffocating. I try to focus on the drink, wondering if I can actually file a harassment claim against a man who literally bought the HR department this morning. Is there a "Creepy Billionaire" clause in the employee handbook?
Probably not...
I finish the cocktail and slide it toward her. She takes a sip and sighs happily. Then she leans forward slightly. "So," her voice drops to a playful whisper. "I finally did it. Got that new piercing I was telling you about."
I arch an amused brow. "Did you now? And where exactly did you decide to put it? Somewhere that requires a license to see, or can I get a hint?"
She wiggles her brows playfully, straightening up and arching her back, jutting her chest forward just enough to make the silk of her top go taut. "Take a guess, Kaden. I'll give you three tries, but only the first one's free."
I let out a low whistle, a smirk playing on my lips. "Careful, sweetheart. You're trying to get me fired on a Friday night, aren't you?"
A sudden, sharp clatter echoes through the chill music.
"Fuck!" a voice growls.
I snap my head toward the end of the bar. Bastian is standing, his stool pushed back so hard it’s still vibrating. His glass is lying on its side, the amber Umbra bleeding across the mahogany and dripping steadily onto the floor, and right down the front of his pristine white shirt.
He looks murderous. His jaw is so tight I’m surprised it hasn't snapped. He grabs napkins as he attempts to wipe the amber stain spreading across his shirt. His eyes turn to me, dark and turbulent, like he’s about to reach across the bar and snap my neck or something.
I grab a bar towel and walk over, wiping the spreading whiskey from the mahogany with a few paper towels first before following up with the towel.
Only then do I look up at him. “Maybe that’s your cue to call it a night,” I suggest.