4. Chapter Four
Wednesday morning at 9:00 exactly, I park at Gatsby’s and spot Oliver waiting at the back door. I assume it’s Oliver, anyway, because that’s where I told him to meet me. This guy is the right age, wearing a hoodie and Jordans, glasses, and a navy baseball cap.
I cut the engine of my Mercedes and climb out to meet him. I don’t love sharing what I’ve come to think of as “my space” during the day, but Ruby made it clear this guy will blend into the background.
“Be right there,” I call before I grab my gym bag from the back seat.
“No rush.” His voice is deep but soft.
Closer to the door, I can see that he’s medium tall, fairly thin, clean-shaven, and average-looking. Ruby wasn’t lying; he’s not remotely my type, and this is not a setup. I like my guys buff and pretty-boy bearded—or at least rocking the ironic moustache eighty percent of guys in Austin grow—wearing trendy clothes and hair too well-styled to mess up with a ball cap.
I squint at Oliver’s hat. It’s not even for a team. It looks like corporate swag that companies give out at industry events but no one picks unless the good stuff is gone.
I reach the door and punch in the code. “Hey. You’re Oliver, right?”
“Yeah. Madison?”
“That’s me.” The keypad beeps and the lock disengages. I pull the door open and smile at him. “Welcome to Gatsby’s. I’ll show you around and you can see if it will work for you.”
He blinks at me a couple of times.
“You wanted a tour before you decide, right?”
He gives his head a small shake. “Yeah. Yes. I do.”
Socially awkward. That tracks. The tech guys are one extreme or the other. Either all swagger with no self-awareness, or self-aware to the point of making everyone else feel awkward.
I wave him in ahead of me and let the door close behind us, arming the lock again. “We’ll talk about the security system if this works out, but for right now, just know we keep it locked during nonoperating hours even if staff is in here because of all the top-shelf liquor we stock.”
He nods but doesn’t say anything. Guess I’ll be carrying the conversation, but that’s fine. It’s why I’m good at my job. Well, that, big hair, and cleavage.
“This is our stockroom,” I tell him. “It connects to a kitchen, but it’s only for bar snacks and tapas. No cooking, really.” The office is next, a neat if boring space, and I gesture to the metal cabinet against one wall. “We have basic office supplies. Feel free to use them. Pens, printer paper. If you use a lot, just replace it.”
“Thanks.”
“Next up, the main club. Straight ahead for the floor.”
He pushes through the door I indicate. I join him, walking out on the dance floor, stopping when I realize he hasn’t moved. “Something wrong?”
He scans the space, his eyebrows raised. “This is way nicer than I was expecting.”
That makes me smile. “You thought it would be fake leather and sticky surfaces that you don’t want to think too hard about?”
He grimaces. “Yeah, sorry. I shouldn’t have said that out loud.”
“It’s okay, but you’re confusing our fine upscale entertainment venue with Hooters. We’re a classy joint, and you can always tell a classy joint because it calls itself classy.”
He gives me an apologetic smile. “Let me try that again. Hey, Madison. Nice to meet you. This place is nice.”
“Hey back, Oliver. I’m glad you like it. You ready for the rest of the tour?”
“Sure, but I can already tell this is probably going to come down to Wi-Fi speeds. If it’s fast, I’m in.”
“I prepared a whole speech, so you’re going to have to hear it.”
A corner of his mouth quirks up. “I was hoping you had.”
I like that he doesn’t make it sound like he’s doing me a favor by listening. Oliver is all right.
Gatsby’s is geared toward the post-college, pre-marriage crowd, patrons with expensive tastes and disposable incomes. We don’t do cheap drink promos, and our lowest tier for bottle service requires a five-hundred-dollar minimum. During festival weeks and other busy seasons, it’s twice that. Everything about Gatsby’s interior is designed to make our customers feel like it’s worth every penny, from the art deco aesthetic to the expensive leather, velvet, and brass.
I point to the levels terraced above us. “The mezzanine and balcony are more for seeing and being seen. Let’s go up to the balcony. I think that’s where you’ll like working best. There’s a service elevator for freight and disability access if you want it, but I like the stairs.”
Two sets of wide curving staircases lead from the dance floor to the next level, smaller spiral ones lead from the mezzanine to the balcony. “Unless we’re doing VIP events, we’re only open Friday through Sunday night. You’ll have the whole space to yourself, except for me. I’m around a lot, but usually in the office or on the dance floor.”
When we reach the balcony level, I take him to a booth near a corner. “Big surface area, charging ports built into the furniture, close bathroom proximity, and a bar at the other end if you want to keep cold stuff in the fridge. Or fill up on fountain drinks.”
“Free-flowing Coke?”
“Never ending.”
He walks over to the table I indicated and leans down to press on the bench cushioning. “If your Wi-Fi is fast, I’ll move in.”
His expression is so neutral, it takes a second for me to realize he made a joke. “Sorry, no couch-surfing tech bros. You’re thinking of Haymaker’s. We’re the overpriced suit crowd.”
“I’m more of a code monkey than a tech bro,” he says. “But it’s fine. It’s a cultural nuance lost on the out-group.”
“Silly code monkey. Wherever I am is the in-group.”
“Noted. Okay if I do a speed test?” He slides his laptop from his messenger bag.
“Sure. Give me your number and I’ll text you the password.” He hands me his phone, and I text myself from it. “I need to go snap a picture of the corporate password, which is more complicated than the name of that Icelandic volcano. But it has more bandwidth than the free guest Wi-Fi.”
Oliver looks like he’s about to say something but closes his mouth again. He doesn’t blush, but his eyes skitter away for a split second.
“Were you about to say the name of the volcano?” It’s the kind of thing Ava would do, then be surprised when everyone else doesn’t know it.
“No.”
I don’t believe him. “Say it.”
“Eyfjallaj?kull.” It’s barely more than a mumble.
I twirl a loose strand of my hair, eyes wide. “Wow. That’s impressive. You almost got it.” His eyes snap to mine, and I stop twirling my hair. “You skipped a syllable. Eyjafjallaj?kull.”
I turn, hiding a grin at his slightly dropped jaw, and head for the stairs. I’m one hundred percent sure he’s about to google and find out I’m right. He’ll learn a lesson I rarely bother teaching: never underestimate me. I let my smile out.
That was fun.