Page 16 of Season's Schemings
“Good to hear, ma’am.” The bartender nods at me a tad stiffly. I think it’s because I tried to be suave and slide him a folded twenty across the bar to keep ‘em coming, but my money turned out to be an old stick of gum from the bottom of my purse.
Could’ve sworn I had a loose twenty in there.
I take another sip and hiccup slightly. Imaybe a touch intoxicated. Luckily my room is just upstairs, so I can get myself to bed later. Assuming that I can find my way to the elevators. The fancy casino on the ground floor of this hotel is an absolute riot of colors and sounds and piped-in air conditioning that kind of makes me feel disorientated and lost even when I’m one hundred percent sober.
I prop myself up on my elbows and lean forward. “I’m working, too. On Thanksgiving. We’re both working right now.”
“Oh, um.” The guy looks me up and down and shakes his head. “Thank you for the offer, but I’m not really in the market for that. I have a girlfriend.”
For some reason, I find this hysterically funny. “Nonononono, I’m not selling sex. I’m in the NHL.”
Wait, that’s not right.
“I mean, Iworkfor the NHL. A team. NHL team. I am working for hockey.”
In response to this, the bartender blinks at me multiple times, looking a touch concerned for my mental wellbeing.
“I feed the hockey players,” I add helpfully, then break off into peals of laughter again.
Wow. I don’t remember the last time I was this drunk. Words are hard, but at least my brain is happy. Finally.
Took me multiple drinks to drown out the memory of my mom’s voice, going on and on about Elizabeth’s stupid pantsuit.
Who does she think she is, anyway? Hillary Clinton?
“Harassing the bar staff, are we, Lady M?”
The deep voice comes from behind my right shoulder, and I jerk my head around to see Number 19, Sebastian Slater, slide onto the barstool beside me. Despite my drunken haze, I notice two things: one, he’s wearing averynice shirt that he’s filling outverynicely. Two, he looks freaking pissed.
“Hello Mr. Hockey Man.” I hold up my glass and toast him. A bit too vigorously, apparently, as a slosh of sticky pink liquid splashes down my arm. I grab a handful of napkins and start dabbing at my forearm. “What are you doing here? And I still can’t figure out why you call me Lady M. Why do you call me that?”
He ignores my questions. Instead, he flattens his palm on the bar, and smoothly slides what looks to be a one hundred dollar bill to my bartender friend in one slick motion. “Jack, neat. And keep ‘em coming.”
I watch, suitably impressed, as the bartender snaps up the bill and his whole body snaps to attention. “Right away, sir.”
That’show it’s meant to be done. Clearly.
The bartender places a glass of dark amber liquid on the bar and Seb immediately downs it. Another one appears like magic, and he drinks that, too.
“Celebrating your big win?” I ask with a smile that feels soft and blurry around the edges. Come to think of it, the room feels soft and blurry around the edges, too.
He scoffs, then gestures for another drink, his jaw clenching. His whole beautiful face is drawn, his brows lowered right down to his eyes and his lips pursed. He seems stormy. Not unlike a…cyclone?
I snort with laughter at my own internal monologue. Seb simply raises a brow at me.
“Doing okay over there, Lady M?”
“I am thriving, actually.” At this very inopportune moment, my stool twiddles and I have to grasp onto the bar.
The mustachioed bartender looks at me wearily, then turns to Seb. “You two know each other?”
I nod manically. “Sure do.”
Seb, meanwhile, cracks the first smile I’ve seen this evening as he stares into a brand-new drink that’s magically appeared in front of him. “Watch out for this one. She likes to lurk in men’s restrooms.”
“WHAT? Not true!” I throw up my arms… and almost topple off my stool again.
“Whoa. Easy there, drunky.” Seb steadies me. The bartender gives us both a flat look and then walks away to serve another customer.