Work was work. Wall-to-wall soul-sucking boredom, at least until Meredith showed up sporting a new shirt. That is, if five sequins and a spiderweb of shiny threads could honestly be labeled as an article of clothing. Hey, I didn't know fashion, but I knew what I liked. And lots of silky bare skin was right up there on the list. Cherry red nails skimmed along my jaw and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "Is the big guy already in, Cal? I think I'm a little late."
"A little late" in Meredithspeak translated to an hour and a half in the real world. I continued wiping down the sticky countertop from behind the bar and raised my eyebrows. "What do you think, Merry, Merry?"
She groaned and blew long red bangs out of her eyes. "He's pissed, huh?" Without waiting for an answer, she pulled at her top, managing to reveal even more cleavage, and then fluffed her hair. "Time to kiss some withered old ass. Wish me luck."
"With double trouble there you don't need luck." I grinned.
She beamed with genuine pride at her double Ds. "They are brilliant, aren't they?" I'd seen women suffer through men's staring at their breasts countless times. Hell, I worked in a bar, after all. That was 99.9 percent of the men there. But Meredith was the first woman I'd seen stare at her own chest with a fascination equal to that of any random perv. With another subtle rearranging of the twins, she disappeared into the back to work her wiles on the owner, Mr. Talley. Or, as he was inevitably known, Tallywhacker. As mysterious and rarely seen as the Abominable Snowman or Bigfoot, he lurked in the back office counting his money and doing God knows what else. Once in a blue moon he'd pop out, leer with soulless eyes at some of the women, comb his five or six silvery strands of hair with nervous fingers, and then disappear again. He was a creepy guy who spent more money on porn mags and Kleenex than on beer for the bar.
Shrugging, I tossed the dirty rag into the sink. Everybody needed a hobby, even the freaks. If Meredith wanted to keep this job bad enough to shake her ass for the 'whacker, then that was her own lookout. And if I kept an ear out for a scream, then that just meant screams were bad for business. Bartenders lived off their tips, after all.
"Excuse me, buddy, could I get some help here?"
I turned my head, mentally kicking myself. Niko would not be happy with the thought that someone could waltz up right behind me while I was distracted. I knew I wasn't too damn thrilled about it. A man stood on the other side of the counter waiting for my answer. He was a big black guy with hair razored short to his skull and a close-cut goatee. The red-and-black tattoo of a horse encircled his wrist, peering out from the sleeve of a black leather jacket. Patient brown eyes measured me as white teeth flashed in a friendly grin. "Catch you at a bad time?"
Reaching for a glass, I filled it up with soda and placed it in front of him on the bar. "Sorry, pal. What can I do for you?"
He curled his hand around the glass, a faint puzzled line between his brows. "Thanks." Taking a sip, he put the glass back down and gave me a rueful twitch of his mouth. "Glad you didn't give me a beer. I don't drink anymore."
I knew he didn't drink. Alcohol tended to linger in the scent a lot longer than in the blood. If he'd had a beer even a month ago, I would've smelled it. "Yeah, you look the sober and serious type. So," I repeated, "what can I do for you again?"
His smile faded a bit at my brusque words. "I'm with the band. I need to start setting our equipment up." He pushed the glass back toward me. "I need you to open up the doors in the alley."
"Band?" I snorted. "You're kidding, right? Talley sprang for a band?"
He settled his weight on a stool and knocked on the surface of the bar once. "Hey, now, we'll bring class and prosperity to this hole-in-the-wall. Your boss recognizes an opportunity when he sees it."
"Funny. He never has before." I wiped off my hands, grabbed the keys off the hook on the wall, and came around the counter. "Hope you got your money up front."
"We're actually working for a cut of the take." He gave me a mildly sheepish look and held out a hand. "I'm Samuel, the guitarist."
"Cal." As hard as I'd stuck to my guns, Niko had still managed, years ago, to break me of my "Caliban" fixation. But labeled or not, I still knew where I came from.
I shook Samuel's hand, the calluses of a lifelong guitarist evident against my skin. "Well, Samuel the guitarist, I hope you can divide jack shit evenly between the band because that's what we usually pull in around here." Heading toward the back of the bar, I kept careful track of his footsteps behind me. No Grendel, but that didn't mean he wasn't here to rob the place. We'd had our share of robbers before. Pissed-off, disappointed robbers once they got a look at what was in the till. "I'll check it out with Talley, then unlock the back for you."
"No problem," he said evenly from behind me. "Maybe then you could help me unload the van. I'd pay you a couple of bucks."