Chapter 22 Mattie
MATTIE
"Another round!" The immortal slammed his empty glass on the table hard enough to rattle the other glasses. "And don't take forever this time."
Mattie kept her expression neutral as she collected the empties onto her tray. "Right away, sir."
Other than this table of four immortals, the bar was nearly deserted.
Most of the evening crowd had filtered out over the past hour, leaving only this unpleasant bunch who showed no signs of calling it a night.
They'd been drinking steadily since they had arrived about three hours ago, and even though their curfew time was approaching, they didn't seem to care. Could they be exempt?
If they were high enough up the command structure, they might be, which was unfortunate for her. Their voices had been growing progressively louder, their jokes cruder, and their eyes more prone to lingering where they shouldn't.
They were scaring her.
Mattie kept telling herself that she'd dealt with worse, but the truth was that she hadn't. These males were up to no good, and one of them in particular was aiming his bad vibes at her.
"Four whiskeys," she told Anil when she reached the bar. "No ice."
Anil glanced past her at the table, his dark eyes wary. "They're getting rowdy."
"I know."
"You want me to cut them off?"
The suggestion was kind but pointless. Anil was human, the same as her.
He had no authority over the immortals, and they both knew it.
He couldn't cut off the table of drunkards, and calling them out on their bad attitude would only redirect their aggression toward him.
They would have no qualms about killing him.
Well, maybe they would because he was a damn good bartender.
"I'll manage," she said. "Just keep the drinks coming until they leave. They can't stay too long if they want to make curfew."
He glared at the table but poured the whiskeys without further argument. His worried expression followed her as she carried the tray back across the room.
The four immortals had pulled their chairs closer together, huddled in conversation that broke off abruptly when she approached.
That was never a good sign. People who stopped talking when the waitress came by were either planning something they shouldn't or talking about her, and she had a feeling it was both.
"Here we go, gentlemen." She distributed the glasses around the table, keeping her movements economical and her body angled so as not to accidentally brush against any of them. "Can I get you anything else?"
"Yeah." The immortal with the bushy eyebrows, the one who'd been doing most of the ordering and most of the ogling, leaned back in his chair and looked her up and down with deliberate slowness. "You could tell us your name."
"Matilda."
He grimaced. "That's the name of an old hag. It doesn't go well with that pretty face of yours." He took a sip of his whiskey, not breaking eye contact. "Don't you think she's pretty, Yoden?"
The immortal to his left, a stocky guy with a neck like a tree trunk, grunted in agreement. "Pretty."
"What about you, Dorsy? Galus? Don't you think Matilda is pretty?"
The other two made sounds of assent.
Mattie had heard this particular call-and-response before. It was a performance, a way of establishing dominance while technically staying within the bounds of what could be called compliments.
The key was to deflect without engaging.
"Can I get you anything else? Peanuts or pretzels perhaps? I can check with Anil if we have any left."
"Don't be in such a rush," Bushy Eyebrows said. She didn't know his actual name, nor did she care to learn it. "Why don't you sit down? Keep us company for a while." He gestured at the empty chair beside him.
"I wish I could, but I'm still on duty."
"The bar's dead. Who's going to miss you?"
Dimitri was coming over after closing, and he would be waiting for her next to the staff entrance.
Thankfully, he wasn't at the bar, or this could have gone much worse.
These kinds of people preyed on those weaker than them.
He would have intervened, and they would have had no qualms about killing him.
"I need to clean up." She forced a smile. "All those glasses are not going to clean themselves."
It was a lie because Anil just loaded them into crates that the early morning cleaning crew took to the kitchen for a wash and returned to the bar before it opened, but it gave her an out.
She took a step backward and turned toward the bar. She made it three steps before Bushy Eyebrows stopped her.
"Come back here," he commanded.
Her stomach dropped. She turned back slowly, keeping her expression blank. "Sir?"
"I heard you're from Australia." He pronounced the word with exaggerated care.
Relief flooded through her, quickly suppressed. It was just small talk. Invasive, unwanted small talk, but not the accusation she'd feared.
"Yes, sir."
"Where from Australia did they pluck you?"
"Sydney, sir."
"Sydney." He rolled the word around in his mouth like he was tasting it. "I've been to Sydney. Beautiful city. Beautiful women." His eyes traveled down her body again. "Like you. Blond, blue eyes, nice little upturned noses."
"Thank you, sir." The words tasted like sand. "If there's nothing else—"
"There is something else." He patted the empty chair beside him. "Sit down. Refusing my request is rude."
This was getting scary, and she didn't know how to react or what could save her from these immortals.
"I apologize if I gave that impression, but I really do need to get back to work."
"The bar closes in twenty minutes." Bushy Eyebrows checked his watch with exaggerated care. "Sit down."
Mattie glanced toward Anil, hoping for backup, but he was at the far end of the bar, pretending to be absorbed in polishing glasses. Smart man. Getting involved would only make things worse for both of them.
"The glasses need to be sorted and crated," she tried. "The tables need to be wiped down. The floor needs to be swept. It takes a long time to close things here and prepare the place for the next day."
"Then you'd better be quick about your visit with us." He smiled, showing slightly elongated fangs, which was never a good sign. It meant that he was feeling either horny or aggressive, and both were bad for her.
"I really…" she tried again.
"Sit," he barked. "I won't ask again."
The threat in his voice was unmistakable. Mattie weighed her options, and none of them were good. Sitting down was probably less dangerous than continuing to refuse.
She lowered herself into the chair, keeping as much distance as possible between herself and Bushy Eyebrows. "I guess I can sit down for a couple of minutes."
"That's more like it." He draped an arm over the back of her chair, not quite touching her but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his skin. "See, boys? She can be friendly when she wants to be."
"Friendly," Yoden agreed, his small eyes fixed on her chest.
Mattie resisted the urge to cross her arms. That would only draw more attention to what he was staring at.
"So, Matilda from Sydney." Bushy Eyebrows leaned closer. His breath smelled of whiskey and something sour underneath. "How long have you been on the island?"
"Seven months."
"Seven months." He whistled. "That's a long time to be away from home. You must get lonely."
"Work keeps me busy."
"I'm sure it does." His arm dropped from the back of the chair to her shoulders, heavy and possessive. "But a girl needs more than just work. She needs to have some fun, especially a pretty girl like you."
Mattie's skin crawled where his arm touched her. She wanted to shrug him off, to stand up and walk away, but doing so would be seen as a challenge. And with men like him, challenges never ended well for the challenger.
"I have roommates, sir."
"Other females." He said the word with contempt. "Is that what you are into?"
She was tempted to say that yes, she preferred females, but it would only make things worse for her.
Her best defense was to appear as innocent and as virginal as possible.
For some reason, that was the only thing that effectively deterred these immortals.
She didn't understand that, but she'd learned to use it as a shield.
"I don't know what you are talking about, sir. I'm just here to work."
"Just here to work." Bushy Eyebrows repeated her words mockingly. "You hear that? She's just here to work."
The others laughed. The sound was ugly.
"The thing is, Matilda." His hand squeezed her shoulder, hard enough to hurt.
"You don't get to decide what you're here for.
We all follow orders here, and who you need to obey depends on where you are in the hierarchy.
You, my dear Matilda, are at the very bottom, which means that any one of us can do what we please with you. Knowing your place is important."
This was getting worse by the minute, and she didn't know how to turn this train wreck around.
"I know my place," she murmured.
"Do you?" He gripped her chin with his fingers and turned her face toward him. "Because from where I'm sitting, it doesn't look that way. The only thing we should be hearing from you is 'yes, sir.' Not excuses."
The only thing she could do right now was to agree with everything he said. Any attempt at evading his advances would probably be met with violence.
"You are right, sir. I'm sorry, sir."
"That's better." He let go of her chin. "Walking around with that stuck-up expression is not going to serve you well here. Somehow, you managed to avoid the brothel and think that you are better than the other girls who serve there."
"I don't think that." She tried to pull up her pant leg. "I'm damaged. That's why I was sent to work in the bar."
His bushy eyebrows shot up. "Damaged?"
"I can show you." She pulled up the pant leg, revealing the scar tissue it was hiding.