How To Catch A Killer … And Date His Best Friend

1. LYRA

LYRA

T he dark-haired bad boy meets my stare with a set of bedroom eyes that are wicked enough to land any woman on her knees, and when a smirk stretches across his full lips, I prepare myself, knowing that whatever’s about to fall from his lips is bound to destroy me.

“Let me eat that sweet cunt.”

Well shit. He just had to go and say the magic words.

Hunger swells deep in my chest as I stare back at him, excitement thrumming through me. I arch a brow, waiting for him to chicken out. “Right now?” I call over the loud thumping music.

He nods, that attractive confidence stirring up something wild inside me. “Right here. Right now, baby.”

I glance around the full bar, gesturing toward the hundreds of people crammed in around us before leaning closer to him. “You sure you can handle it? Because I’m not climbing over this bar only to have you bitch out at the last second.”

He reaches for me, grasping my chin in his big, warm hand. “Do I look like the kind of man who’s about to bitch out?” He scoffs as though the mere thought offends him. “Now, climb that ass over this goddamn bar, spread those pretty thighs, and let me eat that sweet cunt.”

God! If only . . .

“Alright. You asked for it,” I say with a shrug, pouring out a quick shot before climbing over the bar. My entire body vibrates with giddy excitement.

I can’t lie, this is always my favorite part of the night.

Settling myself in front of this delicious stranger as his friends hover around, eagerly watching my performance, I spread my legs and get this show on the road. He steps right into me with a wide grin, his big hands landing high on my thighs, gently squeezing in anticipation.

I hold his stare, my heart thumping wildly. “Are you ready for this?”

A cocky smirk rests on his lips, looking at me as though he’s about to devour me. “Born ready.”

I scoff and roll my eyes. He’s not ready, not even close. I see the nervous flicker deep within his eyes, but he’s standing in front of his friends, trying to pretend like he’s a boss, so I won’t call him on his bullshit. Only if he’s on his best behavior, of course.

“Let’s do this.”

Wasting no time, I reach for the Fireball shot I’d just poured behind the bar and hand it to him.

Without a second of hesitation, he lifts it to his lips and throws it back.

Barely even a split second passes when his gaze comes back to mine, and the burn from the shot starts working its way down his throat.

Only then does my hand rip through the air and smack hard across his handsome face.

His friends holler with laughter, but it’s not over yet.

Just as my hand makes its way across his face, I hook it around the back of his neck and yank him hard against my chest. His face lodges between my tits, and I start to shimmy, motorboating him for only a second before finally releasing the sucker and giving him a second to breathe.

The man pulls back just an inch, looks up at me, then blinks. He and his friends whoop and cheer, fist-pumping the air, chanting about being a god.

All I can do is roll my eyes.

Scooching back on the bar, I spin around and drop back to my feet, meeting the eyes of Danielle, one of the other bartenders. She smirks and shakes her head.

Fucking men. They always get a kick out of the stupidest shit.

The Velvet Slap. Otherwise known as The Reality Check. Take your shot of Fireball and immediately get slapped back into reality, all while that sweet cinnamon burns its way down your throat. But cure that burn by motorboating the bartender, and suddenly you’re a hero.

Now that’s my idea of a good night out. What’s not to love?

A man gets to say something insanely crass to a woman at a bar without being publicly executed, and that woman gets to slap the shit out of him.

He goes home with a story to brag about, and his friends somehow think he’s a legend and buy more drinks, all while my bar rakes in all the dollars.

Sounds like one hell of a win-win to me.

God, I love my bar.

It’s been my world since I bought it two years ago and completely overhauled its ass.

I received an inheritance from a long-lost aunt a few years ago, and instead of buying a home and setting myself up like a responsible adult, I bought a run-down bar and transformed it into Black Velvet.

It came with its challenges, such as legally not being able to have a liquor license until I’d reached my twenty-first birthday, but I figured it out, and now, after working my ass off for this place, Black Velvet has transformed into the most profitable bar in the area. Maybe even in the state.

What can I say? I’m a go-hard-or-go-home kinda girl.

There are constant lines out the door, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. We’ve been profitable since the day I opened a little over a year ago, but the day I hired a social media marketer, my little bar took off into the stratosphere.

Kia is here every night filming content for our social media accounts, and the day she pitched The Velvet Slap, I officially crowned her the goddess of all social media marketers.

Every Friday night, she posts a code, and when the customer approaches the bar, they’re not to say anything except that code.

No hi , no may I have. Nothing. Just quote that code, and you’ll receive one free Fireball shot along with your Velvet Slap.

And as a general, unspoken rule, the second the customer receives their slap, their friends throw money at my bar.

They cheer and celebrate their friend having the shit slapped out of him, which livens the mood and has everybody else joining in.

It honestly blows my mind how much Fireball I go through, but that kind of enthusiasm gives me life.

Since the moment the doors opened, Black Velvet became my everything.

Every facet of it is so undeniably me. Every booth, every lick of paint on the walls, right down to our signature cocktails—The Red Kiss, Last Regret, and of course, No Alibi, which I like to think speaks for itself.

I crafted this place right from the very pits of my soul, and I have lived it every moment since.

I fashioned Black Velvet after Coyote Ugly , my favorite movie growing up.

It’s completely owned and run by women. Well, apart from Marcus and Dean, our trusty bouncers, who work the door and keep us safe.

They are part of the Onyx Heights Motorcycle Club, who all but run this city, and while they look like they could shred me to pieces with their bare fingers, they’re actually ginormous teddy bears with overprotective hearts of gold.

There’s no one else I’d want watching our backs every night.

At Black Velvet, there’s no official uniform, though there are black tanks and crops out back if someone wanted one.

For the most part, my bar staff opted against it, because in a bar like this, if you want to pull in those tips, you need to earn them, and the best way to do that is to look the part.

Show some skin and smile like you’re about to make someone’s dreams come true.

Flirt with the customers just enough to make them think they stand a chance, and the cash will roll in.

It’s all a performance, and my bartenders know it.

Hell, they thrive on it. The moment you step behind the bar of Black Velvet, you’re no longer just some girl working for tips; you’re the reason why the hundreds of people who come through here each night have the time of their lives.

You’re not just a bartender; you’re a dancer, a therapist, and an overall badass, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Each and every one of my bar staff is beautiful in their own way.

We have women of every shape, size, and color, and while there’s no denying just how stunning they are, it’s their confidence that truly makes them shine.

They love their jobs, and it shows in their work, making it a pleasure to bartend alongside them every night.

They’re passionate and motivated, and because of that, they’re an incredible bunch of women to have on my payroll.

Black Velvet is about the vibes, and we don’t just reach that every night; we obliterate it. There’s honestly no place like it.

As I get back to work, busily taking orders and glancing over the rush of bodies surrounding the bar, I can’t help but take in the faces. We’re at capacity tonight, just like every other Friday night.

There are people from all walks of life, yet every single one of them has one thing in common. They talk too much when they’re drunk. They spill their guts, blabbing about every dark skeleton hidden in their closets.

I’ve heard enough secrets behind this bar to ruin lives. The kind of secrets people would kill for. Not that I ever would. Although, given the right circumstances, who knows what I’d be capable of?

Working in a bar teaches you two things very quickly—how to pour the perfect drink, and how to fake a personality.

You meet a lot of people here, but there are generally three main types: liars, idiots, and men who mistake arrogance for charm.

Sometimes they’re all three at once. By midnight, they think they’re the main character.

By 2 a.m., most of them are just embarrassing, but I don’t judge them for their choices.

At least, I don’t judge them out loud to the point they’re aware of it.

I’m a very judgmental person. What can I say? It’s in my DNA.

I like my work nights the same way I like my customers—predictable and gone by morning.

But that’s not always the case. There’s generally a rhythm to a busy night.

Drinks, laughter, loud music, and of course, the occasional mistake that people tend to regret the next morning.

And from my experience, it generally starts when somebody says just one more drink.