There are no customers this early, of course, but it’s almost strange to see it this way after being here Friday night and experiencing it at its full potential. The dense sea of beautiful people, the din of conversations and laughter and music combining into one wall of sound, the pace of taking orders and making change and serving drinks—I realize that the experience of the bar at the top of its game on Friday has become cemented in my mind as Altitude, all that play overwriting the idea of it as my place of work. Being in the middle of all that activity, all that life was the most fun I’ve had in, well, years.
And I realize maybe that’s part of why I can’t let Ryder fire me either. It’s not just the job and paying down Jamie’s debt that I want to keep on track. This bar, these people—I love this place. Friday night, working my tables, getting to know Shelby, even joking around with Cash, I was part of a group. I wasn’t alone anymore like I have been for almost two years, even while I was with Sebastian. It felt good. It felt right.
What doesn’t feel right, though, is the grim look on Cash’s face when he enters from the back, carrying a bag of ice in each hand.
“Ryder wants to see you,” Cash says.
“Good morning to you, too.” Without looking at me, Cash takes his usual station behind the bar, rips open each bag.
“Did he say what about?” I say, going for chipper. But my optimism gets lost in the noise of Cash pouring the cubes into the built-in chests behind the bar, the sound like an avalanche echoing through the quiet of Altitude’s open, empty space.
“What?”
“Did he tell you,” I say, my stomach starting to churn, “why he wanted to see me?”
“Nope,” he says, yawning. So just in case I didn’t think I was boring him, now I know for sure. “That’s for you to find out, I guess.”
“Thanks.” I start to round the corner of the bar. Ryder’s office is maybe four or five yards from where I stand. I can see the shut door at the end of the hallway. But when you’re dragging your feet, a few steps can seem so far away.
“What’d you do to your hair?” Cash says.
I stop and face him, running my hand up the back of my head. I’ve become so quickly accustomed to being a brunette that I almost forgot how many other people haven’t seen it yet. “You can’t tell?” I say.
“It’s shorter,” he says, yawning again. “And it’s a different color, right?”
“Just how many mind eraser shots did you have this weekend?”
“Sorry,” he says. “Monday mornings. I don’t do them well.” He rubs his face. “Go see Ryder.”
I nod. It’s true that Cash doesn’t look his usual pretty, preppy, playboy self. His dimples are the same, but his hair is a little more ruffled than usual, his shirt a little more wrinkled.
So maybe he is just grumpy that it’s Monday. Or hungover. Tired.
Or maybe he knows something I don’t.
“You wanted to see me?” I say. I’m half in, half out of the doorway of Ryder’s office, my hand gripping the knob, which I notice is different from last week. There’s a keyhole now. For a lock, I assume.
I wonder if the change was Ryder’s idea. Maybe Jackson’s. Either way, it’s a sign that Friday night made a clear impression on someone.
Or Saturday night. Or last night. For the first time, it occurs to me that this whole office-seduction routine could be a regular thing for Ryder, that maybe I wasn’t getting special treatment but just the house special—a private tongue tour in the back room. Sure, why not? He’s hot and powerful and available. There are plenty of women every night in Altitude who’d love to find out what the top of his desk feels like underneath their back.
My fingers tighten on the cool metal of the doorknob as the thought of another woman in here with Ryder makes my stomach go from nervous to nauseated. The reaction catches me a little off guard. Because I don’t care if he has the whole Falcons cheerleading squad in here every night.
Do I?
I take a deep breath. Even if I don’t exactly know how I feel, I know precisely what I think, and what I think is that he has no right to strip me of my job because of what happened between us. Especially if I’m not the only one he’s stripping of her pants. That’s a him problem, and I’m done taking responsibility for other people’s issues.
Sitting at the desk, which is now covered neatly in paperwork (thanks to my bookkeeping), Ryder beckons me into the office, waving his index and middle fingers. He’s dressed in his usual sexy-daytime-businessman attire: expensive-looking jeans, a pressed shirt with the collar open, the greens and blues and reds of his tats just barely visible under the sleeves, which are buttoned to his wrists. He gets up and pulls over a chair from the corner by the coat rack.
“Have a seat,” he says.
“I’d prefer to stand, thanks,” I say, though it’s dizzying, being this close to him again in the same place where we were even closer just a couple nights ago. I cross my arms in front of my chest and flex my knees, trying to anchor myself to the floor, my mind’s attempt to get my body focused on my plan.
Because if I left it up to my body right now, the only thing it might get focused on is Ryder.
“Have it your way,” he says.
“I intend to,” I say.