Colton
Well, this is not what I expected. To be fair, none of this was my idea, nor was it something I was particularly excited about starting, but bartending had always been an easy job for me.
Drinks weren’t hard to make, and if you flirted well enough, people didn’t particularly care if you weren’t a professional mixologist. A job is a job, and I can’t afford to be too picky right now.
Though making drinks at Cirque feels like an easy job to fuck up.
The basic mixes are easy—a splash of cranberry here, a wedge of lime there—but the clientele here come for the experience and thrill in everything the club offers.
None of which includes the typical vodka tonic that I have perfected over the years.
Once I realized that backing out of the interview was not on the table, I did my best to brush up on creating high-end, fancy as shit cocktails. James, ever the devoted best friend, was happy to be my taste tester for the weekend.
“How bad can it be? It’s temporary, and it’s what you need to do right now.
Think of the long game here,” he had lectured, reminding me of the trouble he went through to set up the interview to begin with.
He called in what seemed like a hundred favors and pulled every connection at his disposal, which seemed to add a layer of eccentricity every time I asked.
A sister’s friend who was married to the dog groomer's cousin is a friend of the owner’s old assistant.
It was my fault, really. I shouldn’t have just assumed James knew what he was doing when he set this interview up. I have known the overgrown toddler for over a decade, and there is always a small hiccup when he makes the plans.
This hiccup is slightly more inconvenient than most.
Despite the reputation and allure this place has, there is almost nothing online about the club, and even less about the owners, Grant Darling and Harper Mathers. Only a few pictures here and there, most of which are prior to the club’s opening.
Usually, when a place tries this hard to stay mysterious after a few years of being open, it’s because they are either doing something illegal, or because they are desperately trying to maintain the image of high end through exclusivity.
Like wanting to belong to an expensive country club only because the price point ensures everyone allowed in is of the same caliber of douche. The entitlement and stick up the ass are more of an informal requirement.
But Cirque? No, Cirque is nothing like that.
I’ve known politicians and celebrities who were denied memberships here.
The vetting process doesn’t seem to have much rhyme or reason—denying those perceived as the cream of the crop of their social circles, and then simultaneously giving a membership to their best friend.
Now that I’ve met her though, it all makes a little more sense. This isn’t a person who will grant you a membership because the world has decided you deserve one. She would have to care about what other people think for that. Harper needs to believe you deserve it.
If I had known I would be walking a tightrope on day one, I would have probably worn a different outfit. I thought an all-black ensemble was a good call—the simple dress shirt and slacks made me look sleek and professional. The perfect attire for a bartender interview.
All those limes cut, recipes looked up, and arguments over how much vermouth is too much vermouth, were completely wasted. Apparently, the only preparation I needed was to scrutinize the thirty seconds of undressing before hopping in the shower every morning.
Exotic dancer, regardless of how good I think I could be, wasn’t on my radar for job prospects. A big mistake has been made, wires crossed somewhere, but if they were hers or mine doesn’t seem to matter as we stared at each other across the empty space of her office.
Now I’m here, paused at the threshold and contemplating my two options: run for the hills, or show her why I deserve it.
I could leave. It would be easy to pretend this never happened and find a different solution.
I know which option I should take. I know that I should feel embarrassed that a stunning woman just said that I may be found wanting.
Then why am I having fun?
Why does the idea of leaving this space, of leaving her, feel wrong?
Her gaze burns into my turned back, tugging like the strings of a marionette trying to pull me in the right direction, back to her.
My hand hovers over the doorknob, the sliver of space left open, allowing the music beyond to wash over me as the heady scent of sugar makes my mouth water.
My grip tightens, and I find myself pulling the door shut instead of opening it wider for my escape. I can feel my smirk widening as I hear a long sigh behind me, accompanying the soft snick of the door, as if she had been holding her breath for my decision.
I glance over my shoulder as my hands start to wander towards the top buttons of my shirt, not wanting to risk missing even a moment of her attention.
She’s leaned back in her wingback chair, long raven hair cascading over one shoulder in loose waves.
Her features aren’t exactly sharp, but with a mask of indifference, it’s hard to believe she isn’t made of stone.
Every movement is practiced, making sure not to frown or smile, not speaking with condescension or praise, keeping her hands busy but not fidgeting.
My eyes move up from the column of her neck and jawline to her small, slightly pouty lips. With a single word from those lips, she sent me reeling. I love to think what she could inspire me to do with full sentences.
Her nose is small and rounded at the end, set between a pair of hazel eyes that glow in the low lighting of her office. I can make out a ring of deep blue on the outside with green tracing its border, clawing to reach its center. Only to encase the brightest ring of yellow I have ever seen.
It’s a stunning contradiction—to elicit a shiver of ice down my spine while melting into her stare.
This is a challenge as much as it is a game, yet here I am, giddy to be playing with her, wondering how long it took her to perfect the neutrality she wears so well. And how quickly I can get her to break it.
“Harper, I can assure you I have never been found wanting a day in my life. And I’m not about to start today.”
There is no music playing in her office, and yet I can feel the steady rhythm of my own heartbeat, keeping time as I continue my slow undress and make my way back over to where she is perched atop her throne.
When I reach the front of her desk, my shirt is hanging open, revealing the abs I have so painstakingly devoted every Tuesday and Thursday to creating in the gym.
Which right now feels like I should be adding in maybe Saturday or Sunday as well.
Her slow perusal of my body starts at my collarbones and slowly traces down between my pecks to land on each ab muscle like she needs to count out all six before I can move on.
I can feel her gaze as if she’s dragging one of her claw-tipped fingers down my body to outline the V dipping into my dress pants.
My body reacts without permission, wanting to shiver at her touch even though neither of her hands have moved an inch.
One firmly grasping the drink her assistant dropped off, the other is rapping her nails against the desk.
She is nowhere near me, and yet I feel her everywhere.
Pulling me deeper and deeper into the scene.
My hands trail down the front of my body, caressing my skin like I imagine her hands would, wishing I could feel the bite of those nails against my flesh. One hand snakes down to my belt, undoing the clasp and pant button, the small clink of the buckle composing a melody for this quiet moment.
My other hand caresses the outer rim of her desk, my desperate attempt to stay grounded as I move around the garish obstacle.
I pull the buckle out and slowly slide the belt through the loops one by one.
The fabric brushes with each tug, the crescendo of desire ratcheting up in time with my steps around the desk until I clear the corner and stand a step or two in front of her, dropping the belt to the ground. Ready for the final note.
I realize now that she isn’t even watching me undress. Instead, her eyes bore into mine as I drop to my knees a few feet in front of her.
Neither of us is smiling, not even a hint of amusement left in the room.
I feel the invisible strings pulling taut, the need to be closer to her increasing with every shared breath.
What started as a fun test to see if I could get that mask she wears so well to slip, has betrayed me into a desire beyond my experience.
I start to shift forward, and before I can even place my hands on the thick carpet, she finally speaks.
“Enough.”
On anyone else, the single instruction would be a show of dominance, an attempt to keep the upper hand. But with Harper, she never lost it, and we both know it. She doesn’t need to exert dominance or prove she’s running the show. She is the show, and the rest of us are merely side acts.
My chest heaves as if I’ve run a mile, breath ragged and heart rate about to send me into shock. But Harper? Not a hair out of place, breathing even and controlled, she’s steady and calm. The only evidence I’ve had any effect on her at all is that she made me stop.
Without warning, the door bursts open, Tessa already prattling away as she comes to an abrupt halt mid-sentence.
“…would have brought this for you earlier, but the printer was stuck again. I think there is a mistake. All of Colt’s references are for bartender. Do you want me to…”
I’m still on the ground, my pants undone, belt discarded, shirt hanging open, when Harper finally drags her eyes away from mine to stare at Tessa.
“Did you just say bartender?”