4. Abbie
4
ABBIE
M y reflection in the rearview mirror still startles me. Tessa's "magic" transformed my usual understated look into something that belongs in a fashion magazine. The smoky shadow makes my hazel eyes look mysterious, almost cat-like, and my curls cascade over one shoulder in perfect waves. The burgundy silk catches the streetlights as I drive, making me feel more sophisticated than I've felt in years.
"You can do this," I whisper to myself, channeling my inner Tessa. The words feel foreign on my tongue, but maybe that's the point. New job, new Abbie.
My GPS chirps, directing me to turn right onto a narrow street lined with brick buildings. I double-check the address - this can't be right. The area screams "abandoned warehouse district" more than "upscale cocktail lounge."
I park across the street from what my phone insists is The Velvet Room. The building stands three stories tall, its weathered brick facade blending seamlessly with its neighbors. No sign. No velvet ropes. Not even a hint of the luxury its name suggests.
"Well, this is... underwhelming." I say to no one in particular.
The only indication this isn't an empty building is a small brass plaque beside a plain black door, engraved with "TVR" in an elegant script.
A text comes over from Tessa: Kill it queen! Show them what your made of!
I laugh, some of my nervousness dissipating. Place looks sketch. If I get murdered, avenge me.
Please, you look too hot to murder. Maybe pillaged. Now go get that job so I can get free drinks!
Taking one last look in the mirror, I adjust the silk blouse and grab my purse. The plain exterior must be part of the speakeasy aesthetic - at least, that's what I tell myself as I cross the street. My heels click against the pavement, echoing in the quiet street as I approach the door.
The heavy door swings open to reveal a world that steals my breath. Crystal chandeliers drip from a ceiling painted midnight blue, their light catching on gold-leafed crown molding. Deep burgundy velvet panels the walls, creating intimate alcoves with plush leather banquettes. The bar stretches the length of one wall - a masterpiece of gleaming mahogany and brass, bottles arranged like jewels against backlit glass.
My feet sink into thick carpet patterned with art deco swirls. The air carries notes of cedar and vanilla, with undertones of aged whiskey. Everything whispers of money and sophistication.
A knot forms in the pit of my stomach. This isn't some college bar where I can fumble through learning to pour drinks. The stemware alone costs more than my monthly rent.
What am I doing here?
A woman in a perfectly tailored black dress looks up from the reception podium, one eyebrow raised. It's obvious I'm a little out of my league here.
Tessa's voice echoes in my head: 'You're a bad bitch.' She'd spent twenty minutes hyping me up this morning, dancing around our tiny kitchen in her pajamas. Right. I've spent a good portion of my twenties dealing with drunk frat boys and Chandler's entitled friends, breaking up fights and dodging spilled beer. I can handle fancy drunk people too. They're probably nicer - they can afford therapy. At least they won't try to pay their tab with half-eaten pizza or fraternity IOUs.
I straighten my spine, channeling every ounce of confidence I can muster. The silk of the borrowed blouse whispers against my skin as I approach the podium. My hands are trembling slightly, but I tuck them behind my back where no one can see. Fake it till you make it, that's what Tessa always says.
"Hello, I have an interview with the manager?"
The receptionist's perfectly manicured finger traces down a leather-bound appointment book.
"Abigail Stiles?"
"Yes, that's me."
The receptionist presses a button on the wall, and my attention is drawn to a man emerging from a door down the hallway. He's built like a brick wall in an impeccably tailored suit, and my first thought is that someone definitely cast the wrong actor for this speakeasy aesthetic. He belongs in a movie about organized crime, not mixing craft cocktails.
"Miss Stiles?" His voice is surprisingly soft for someone who looks like they bench press Volkswagens.
"Yes, that's me." I resist the temptation to fidget with my blouse.
"Michael Romano. Please, follow me." He gestures toward the bar area.
The empty room amplifies every sound -the subtle hum of the refrigeration units, the clinking of glasses as they are being stacked by staff. It's eerie, like being in a theater after the show's ended.
"We're closed for a private event tonight," he explains, settling onto a barstool. "Please, have a seat."
I perch on the stool, trying to look professional despite the fact that my feet don't quite reach the footrest.
"A little bartending experience?" He glances at what I assume is my application.
"Well, not in the professional sense, but I've spent three years managing drunk college students at parties, which is basically an unpaid internship in crowd control."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Psychology major?"
"Yes. Night classes at the college."
"Interesting combination. Most people who apply here want to be actors or musicians."
"I just want to understand people better. Bartenders are basically unlicensed therapists, right?" I take a risk and raise one eyebrow cheekily, holding his gaze.
This time he actually smiles, though it's gone so quickly I almost miss it. "The hours are late. 9-2. You alright with that?"
"Perfect. My classes end at seven, so I'll have time to get here."
He studies me for a moment, and I fight the inclination to shrink under his gaze. I channel Tessa's confidence, continuing to meet his eyes steadily.
"Can you start tonight? Help with the private event? Consider it a trial run."
My heart jumps into my throat. "Tonight? I mean, yes, absolutely."
"Good. Be back here at nine. Wear black, nothing too flashy. Emily at the front will give you the employee handbook on your way out."
He tucks his papers back in the folder, signaling the end of our brief interview. I can't help wondering if I've just signed up to work for the mob. But hey, at least the mob probably offers health insurance.
Mr. tall, dark, and imposing rises from his barstool, and his height becomes even more imposing. His hand engulfs mine in a firm handshake.
"If tonight goes well, you’ll keep the job. Nine PM sharp."
"Thank you, Mr. Romano. I won't let you down."
"Michael is fine.” He steps away, leaving me with a few insecurities about this new venture.
The receptionist hands me a leather-bound employee handbook at the podium, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against the cover. "Dress code is on page three. And welcome aboard. My name is Emily."
The handbook weighs heavy in my hands as I open the heavy door, breathing in the scent of the evening air. My legs shake with each step toward my car, the reality of what just happened hitting me. A real job. A grown-up job. No more babysitting entitled brats or dealing with Chandler's judgment.
My phone rings before I even reach my car.
"Well?" Tessa's voice bursts through the speaker. "Did you get it? Are you a fancy cocktail goddess now?"
"I start tonight. Trial run for some private event."
"Tonight? Holy shit, we need to celebrate! And plan your outfit! And-"
"Tess, breathe. I need something black and not flashy."
"Boring. But fine, we can work with that. Get your ass home so we can make you look like the sexiest non-flashy bartender ever."
The excitement bubbling in my chest makes it hard to pay attention while driving. Each red light feels like torture, my mind racing with possibilities. Sure, it's just serving drinks, but it's also a chance to prove Chandler wrong. To prove to myself that I can be more than just someone's girlfriend or babysitter.
My hands are shaking as I grip the steering wheel, but now it's from anticipation rather than nerves. New job, new life.