Page 4 of Underground Prince

Wrinkling my nose, I decided that picking up a liquor bottle and inspecting the label was the best solution to this problem.

“What’s he do outside of this?” I asked.

“Crime. Drugs. Amputations with kitchen objects,” Verily said. “Anyway, I’m going to leave you to it.”

I smacked the bottle onto the bar, the sound drawing more gazes.

I must’ve looked horrified, because she said in her sweetest voice, “I’m never letting you live this down. Ever.”

The horror wouldn’t leave my face.

“You’ll be fine,” she said. “These young’uns are harmless. Soft little unicorn babies, really.” She squeezed my arm. “And they don’t expect you to take your clothes off until at least two o’clock.”

After one last bright, dimply smile, Verily flounced away, fluttering her fingers in hello at one of the men at the table. She opened a wooden door on the right, and effectively disappeared from my life.

Suddenly exposed, I stood behind the bar for a full minute before I thought to busy myself—quietly—since the players only deemed it necessary to acknowledge me when I was making enough noise to require decapitation.

I was concentrating on organizing the whiskey bottles alphabetically when the word “waitress” buzzed gently in my ear. But all I saw were the same ten men around the poker table, heads down, cards up, lips sealed with secrets. I went back to lining up bottles.

A throat cleared, and when I glanced up, the dealer was glaring. A few seconds passed, and he was still focused, unblinking, at me. I looked to the right, then the left. His glower was code for wanting to kill me for this unauthorized staring contest.

He angled his head, to the player seated beside him, the one with the headband.

Oh.

I tottered over, incredibly pleased that I didn’t trip. Weaving my hands behind my back (because why not?) I stood between the dealer and the Exercise-Head, asking, “Can I—” I stopped, lowering my voice to whisper. “Can I get you something?”

“Beer,” he said.

“Sure.” I clomped back to the bar.

Rows of cheap cans were shoved into the fridge, and I selected one after only a slight freak-out on which to choose. I briefly searched for a tray, in case they expected their hired maid to be fancy as well as frilly, but saw none.

The floorboards creaked throughout my entire journey back to the table, and I set the can beside him.

Exercise-Head motioned with an index finger, which I assumed was his thanks, so I turned away. But as I was twisting, ice-cold fingers met my flesh and I gasped.

Theo reared up from his cards, his eyes landing first on mine before settling on the hand around my arm.

As soon as that aim was on him, Exercise-Head let go. “Sorry,” he said.

“No touching,” Theo said in his low, velvet undertone. His stare was cloaked by his brows, but that only enhanced the warning.

“I know that,” Exercise-Head said, raising both hands. “I was trying to get her attention, because she left her tip.”

Sighing, the dealer joined the conversation by holding up the lone blue and white chip lying on the edge of the table. $1.00 glittered in gold across its face.

As he held it up, I thought, a chip? I was being tipped in plastic currency? What did they expect me to do, play a round of poker with my earnings? Throw it on a Monopoly board?

The dealer said only, “I’ll explain later. Just take it.”

I was holding up the game. A few players were shifting in their seats. Yikes. I plucked the chip from his fingers and beetled out of there.

“Fucking cherries,” I heard one mumble as I resumed my position.

Since I had no idea what that meant, I had no reason to be insulted. I sent a glare to the back of his head anyway.

I found an extra stool and placed it beside the bar, moaning with the quietest relief I could, but hell, the gratefulness coming from my feet was palpable. They were given a full thirty seconds reprieve until I was signaled once more. And then again. And three more times within fifteen minutes. These guys enjoyed their chambermaid beer fairy.