Betrayed By Beauty - Ashley Lane Page 0,19
miss the clench of his jaw or the nervous tics beneath his eyes.
I huff out a laugh. “Yeah, of course. Need all our bases covered. About six months ago we noticed the receipts weren’t matching up to the till—kept coming up short.” I give him a nonchalant shrug. “We figured a customer managed to dip his hands in while you or Rhys had your backs turned. I completely forgot about it until now.”
“Good thing you have ‘em then.” He scrubs his hands over his face and blinks rapidly.
“Yeah. Oh, and Malcolm, thanks for the heads up. I’m going to look into it.” I give a subtle nod in Rhys’s direction.
Malcolm makes a hasty retreat and I use his absence to familiarize myself behind the bar. Cocktail shakers, strainers, straws and stirrers are sorted into their appropriate places along with small baskets of fresh fruit and herbs for garnishes. Working through my mental list, I check the shelves below the bar to ensure we’ve got enough stock for the month.
We always have a large range of non-alcoholic beverages available, but because they’re used as mixers as well, they tend to run out quickly. Satisfied with what we have, I line up the highball and shot glasses that have been moved, probably during a busy shift. This area, including the anti-slip flooring—thank fuck—is spotlessly clean.
When I turn around to check the shelves where the bottles of alcohol are displayed, my mood sours again. What the fuck?! “Hey, Rhys, why are there so many bottles missing?”
The wall behind the bar is just one of the eye-catching features at Corrupt. Back lit by red neon lights, the clear glass shelving makes it appear as though the bottles are suspended midair. For that reason, it’s imperative it’s kept fully stocked at all times.
Our customers expect to be served whatever they ask for, no matter the price. Whether it’s the top shelf cognac or whiskey, or the cheaper flavored liqueurs, we pride ourselves on having an international range of alcohol that most clubs will never see.
Right now, the top shelf is bare, and I count seven empty spaces on the lower shelves.
Rhys looks up from where he’s washing and drying wine glasses. “I’m not sure. I asked Malcolm about placing an order last week, but he said something about needing to make it worth it for the shipping.”
I make a mental note to check the invoices and see the last time an order was placed. The wall is basically fucking barren and honestly, it’s a goddamn embarrassment. I grab a pad and pen from behind the bar and begin the monotonous task of going through the inventory and making a list of what needs to be ordered immediately. By the time I’m finished it’s nearing eight pm and the nighttime early birds are making their way in. Rhys is damn near running to fill orders as a line of customers wait at the bar.
The only words exchanged between us are to shout out what we need from the other end of the bar. Rhys may be a little shy and skittish when we’re one on one, but behind the bar, it’s clear he’s in his element. He never falters; never messes up an order and even goes as far as stopping me before I inadvertently send out the wrong drinks on more than one occasion.
I help him for a solid thirty minutes until there’s a break in the crowd. When the last customer is served and we can finally breathe, Rhys grabs two bottles of water from the cooler and passes one to me.
I wipe down the bar and throw my empty water bottle in the recycle bin. “I’m about to head out,” I tell Rhys.
He chokes. “Head out? You mean you’re leaving?”
I laugh. “Yeah, I got shit to do that can’t wait. I’m gonna get one of the girls to come help you with simple orders, that’ll relieve the tap and bottle beer requests so you can focus on the wall.” I glance at the pitiful selection again. “Which shouldn’t be hard since we’re out of over half our normal stock.”
Rhys looks like he’s about to piss himself. “Don’t stress, kid. I wouldn’t leave you here if I had any doubts. If anyone gives you trouble, call Bruno or Stan, they’ll be working the door tonight.”
A man dressed in a sharp navy-blue suit collapses onto a barstool. “Judge,” I greet the man who presided over Falcon and Tobias’ adoption. “What can I do for you?”