Chapter 2 The Man Behind the Bar

The ballroom was too bright and too loud. Everywhere Jaxon looked, there was gold and expensive glass. Men in black suits and women in long dresses moved across the floor, their faces hidden behind masks. They looked like birds of prey circling a kill.

Jaxon did not look like a Blackwood tonight. He did not even look like a man who owned a suit. He wore a cheap white shirt and a black vest that was a little too big for him. His name tag read Mylo. He kept his shoulders slumped and his head down. He moved slowly, wiping the dark table of the bar with a rag that was slightly damp.

To the people in this room, he was invisible. He was just the man who poured the gin and cleaned the spills. That was exactly what he wanted.

"Hey, kid. Give me another scotch. Make it a double."

Jaxon looked up briefly. The man speaking was Viktor Sterling. Ten years had changed him. He was heavier now, his face red from too much food and wine. He leaned against the bar, his thick fingers tapping on the surface. Jaxon didn't see a powerful man. He saw a target. He looked at the side of Viktor’s neck, right where the pulse was beating. It wasn't a neck to him. It was a soft spot. It was a place where a small blade could end a decade of waiting in three seconds.

"Right away, sir," Jaxon said.

His voice was soft and a bit shaky. He made sure to fumbled with the bottle just a little. He poured the drink and pushed it toward Viktor without meeting his eyes.

"You're new," Viktor muttered, tossing back the drink. "You look like you're about to jump out of your skin. This place too much for you?"

"I’m just an artist, sir," Jaxon whispered, looking at his own shoes. "I only took this job to pay for my paint and my rent. I don't really belong in places like this."

Viktor laughed, a loud, wet sound. "An artist. Great. Just what the world needs. Stay behind the bar, kid. It’s the only way you’ll ever make a dime."

Viktor turned away to talk to a man in a silver mask. Jaxon went back to wiping the bar. He felt a cold, calm anger sitting in his stomach. He had waited ten years to be this close. He could wait a little longer to finish it.

A few minutes later, the crowd near the center of the room parted. A young woman walked toward the bar. She wasn't wearing a mask. Her face was beautiful but hard, like she was expecting someone to hit her and she was ready to hit back.

This was Delphine Sterling.

She slammed her hand down on the bar, not far from where her father had been standing. "Give me a gin. No ice. No lime. Just the gin."

Jaxon reached for a glass. "Yes, ma'am."

"Don't call me ma'am," she snapped. She looked back at the crowd. Her father was watching her from a distance, his face dark with anger. "Did you see that man over there? The one with the thin hair and the mean eyes?"

Jaxon poured the gin and set it down. "The one talking to your father?"

"That’s Dorian Crane," she said, taking a large gulp of the drink. She winced but didn't stop. "My father wants me to marry him. Can you believe that? He wants to trade me for a business deal. He thinks I’m a car or a house he can just sell."

Jaxon leaned in a little, resting his elbows on the bar. He made his expression look kind and worried. "That sounds terrible. I’m sorry."

Delphine looked at him for the first time. She really looked at him. She saw the cheap vest and the messy hair. "What’s your name?"

"Mylo," he said.

"Well, Mylo, do you have a girlfriend? A wife? Anyone who tells you what to do?"

"No," Jaxon said, shaking his head. "I live alone. I just paint and work. It’s a quiet life. Sometimes it’s a bit lonely, but nobody owns me."

Delphine laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "I wish I had a quiet life. I wish I was anyone but a Sterling tonight. Everyone in this room is a liar. They smile and they shake hands, and then they stab you the moment you turn around."

"I think I understand," Jaxon said softly. "I see a lot from behind this bar. People forget I’m here. They say things they shouldn't. It’s a different world back here."

"I bet it is," she said. She finished her gin and pushed the glass toward him. "Fill it up again."

"Are you sure? You seem pretty upset," Jaxon said, acting like a concerned friend.

"I’m more than upset, Mylo. I’m done. My father thinks he can force me into this. He thinks he can break me." She leaned over the bar, her face inches from his. He could smell her perfume. It was expensive and floral, but it couldn't hide the sharp smell of the alcohol.

She looked at his name tag again, then back at his eyes. A strange light came into her gaze. It wasn't love or even liking. It was a plan forming.

"You're a painter, right?" she asked.

"I try to be," Jaxon said.

"And you need money? You look like you need a meal and a better place to live."

Jaxon nodded slowly. "It’s been a hard year. Why do you ask?"

Delphine smiled, but her eyes stayed cold. She reached out and touched his hand. Her fingers were shaking slightly.

"You’re pathetic, Mylo," she whispered. Her voice was low and dangerous. "You’re small and you’re poor and you have nothing. But you’re exactly the kind of pathetic I can use to ruin my father’s night. And maybe his whole year."

Jaxon didn't move. He let her keep her hand on his. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I’m going to make a choice he hates," she said. She leaned in closer, her hair brushing against his shoulder. "Take this."

She pulled a small card from her purse and slid it across the bar. It had her name and a phone number on it.

"Call me tomorrow morning," she said. "If you want to stop pouring drinks for men like my father, you’ll call."

She turned and walked away, her head held high. Jaxon watched her go. He picked up the card and tucked it into his pocket. He didn't feel like a pathetic painter. He felt like a man who had just watched a door open to the house he was going to burn down.

He picked up his rag and went back to wiping the bar. He had work to do.