"And then his security guard pulled a gun on me."

From her perch atop the ice box, Gabby gasps. "What?"

"Kidding." I hold up a finger. "Kind of."

Gary, one of our regulars, tilts his head to the side—no doubt eavesdropping on our conversation. We probably shouldn't be gossiping like this, not while we're on the clock, but the bar's been slow all night. Besides Gary, there's a group of thirty-somethings horsing around over at the pool tables. And then there's Rhonda, another regular with a bad perm and razor thin lips. She's been trying to catch the eye of one of the younger men for the last hour now; Gabby and I already placed bets on how her gamble will pay off at the end of the night.

Come on, Ronda. I've got ten bucks riding on this. Bust out the Cougar Special.

"How does someone kind of pull a gun on you?" TJ asks, skeptical. He and Gabby are shoulder-to-shoulder, listening rather dubiously to my dramatic rendition of the morning's events.

"Let's not get into semantics." I down the rest of my beer, smacking my lips gratuitously. TJ just shakes his head.

I consider reaching over to flick his nose when the front door slams open. We glance up in unison, hopeful. A hope that's quickly dashed.

"Hey, Trevor," TJ calls, smiling at the middle-aged man with a gap in his teeth who comes in here every Wednesday night. Like clockwork.

"Alright?" Trevor asks, nodding good-naturedly as he pulls up a stool down at the front.

"Good to see you again, Trev," Gabby says, sliding off the ice box to throw together his usual—a basket of fried pickles and a dirty martini, extra dirty, on the rocks, in a lowball glass. We memorized the order the seventh or eighth time he made an appearance.

TJ mumbles something about spending some quality time in the bathroom (gross) when the door opens a second time. I look up from my phone, only half-interested.

"You've got to be kidding me," I mutter, sliding my phone in my back pocket.

Nicholai Ivanov quietly assesses the state of the bar, disgruntled. As if he can't imagine how he ended up here, of all places. Let alone twice in the same week.

I plant my hands on my hips. "Well?" I ask, drawing his attention. "What is it?"

The question seems to amuse him. He strolls to my end of the bar with an arrogant swagger. "Good," he says, pulling out the stool directly in front of me. "You're here."

Further down the bar, Gary watches our exchange with all the discretion of a trumpeting elephant. I sigh. "Where else would I be?"

Nicholai considers our stock while I consider him. "Vodka," he says, ignoring my question entirely. "Straight up."

"You are a walking, talking cliche. I hope you know that." Before he can answer, I grab a glass—and our most expensive bottle, because he can afford it—and start pouring. "There. Vodka, for the Russian. How original."

He rolls his eyes and grumbles something under his breath. "What was that?" I ask.

He repeats the phrase in a language I can't understand. I throw a plastic straw at his chest and laugh when he flinches.

"That is assault," he tells me, affronted.

"That," I correct him, "is a straw. You can use it to suck my—"

"Don't mind her," Gabby interjects to my right. I watch, aghast, as a sultry smile curls her lips. "She's a grouch."

"That she is," Nicholai agrees. Gabby winks at him before wandering back over to her station, hips swaying. He stares after her, openly curious. The urge to snap my fingers in his face nearly overwhelms me.

I'm not sure where my sudden agitation stems from. Maybe it's because she has a boyfriend and I can't stand to watch her sabotage another relationship. Or maybe it's because I know her type: wide-eyed romantics who place their hearts in the palm of her hand, only to fall to pieces when she eventually crushes it between her fingers. And Nicholai doesn't fit that bill. Not by a long shot.

None of that matters, of course. She can flirt with whomever she wishes. I shove aside my irritation, abashed.

"Is she your friend?" Nicholai asks, feigning nonchalance.

"Yes," I snap. So much for setting my irritation aside. I mentally kick myself.

He doesn't comment. Instead, he takes a long sip of vodka. Without flinching.

I pretend to gag.

"What?" He tilts his head so that the stud in his ear catches the light.

"I don't know how you drink that stuff." I reach for the basket of fried pickles TJ abandoned, glancing over my shoulder to make sure I'm not about to get caught with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

Nicholai analyzes me in silence. Eventually, I heave a sigh. "What?"

"Nothing." He spins the glass between his fingers, smiling a secretive smile.

I scowl at him. I may not have understood him before, not fully, but it's pretty easy to garner meaning based on one's tone. If I have to learn an entirely different language just to appreciate a few eloquent insults...

Grabbing the basket of fried pickles, I haul myself onto the bartop, catching him by surprise. "Tell me something," I say, pinching the edge of a pickle between my thumb and forefinger.

His smile falls. Defensive, this one. "What do you want to know?"

What happened to your last assistant? The question is there, hovering on the tip of my tongue. But I can't bring myself to say the words. I have no idea how he'll react. It might anger him. Or maybe he'd just deny any foul play.

Foul play. Jesus. I've been watching too many action movies. Maybe the woman just quit without putting in her two weeks' notice, I reason.

Or maybe, the more paranoid side of me whispers, you don't want to know the answer.

Instead of asking the question that's been hounding my steps all day, I indicate the basket of fried pickles. Like the coward I am. "Ever had a fried pickle?"

"Of course not." The tense set to his shoulders eases somewhat.

"Ever had a fried anything?"

Several seconds pass. He furrows his brow, contemplative.

"Yeah. I thought so." I slide the basket in front of him, nudging his drink aside. "Try one."

His nose wrinkles. The expression is so child-like, I have to laugh. "Absolutely not," he says, knocking the basket against my fingers.

"Hey, sugar!" Ronda sings, startling us both. Nicholai twists around. But Ronda's sights are on the balding man lining up his next shot at the pool table.

I shake my head and grab another beer from the trough to my left. "Cougar." I pop the cap and drink deeply.

Nicholai watches me, amused. "Drinking on the job?"

"Why not?" I indicate the near-empty bar. "My manager doesn't mind."

"Your manager." He gazes further down the bar, at Gabby. "Her brother?"

I shove a pickle in my mouth and wash it down with a pull of beer. "Yep. Look at you, with your big boy brain."

He tilts his glass, swirling the contents around and around, and watches me take another drink. "And you have the audacity to judge my taste in beverage?"

I hold the beer to my chest. "That's because your beverage is disgusting. And borderline sociopathic."

He eyes the fried pickles with distaste. "That is disgusting."

"You're drinking warm vodka." I nibble on the edge of another pickle. "You have no room to talk."

He leans back and crosses his arms, considering my counter. Finally, he smiles. My stomach clenches at the sight. "Fine." He plucks a pickle from the basket, coating his fingers in grease. "If I eat this," with his other hand, he indicates his glass, "you have to drink that."

"What?" I stare down at his drink, horrified. "No."

"Fine." He drops the pickle back into the basket with a shrug.

"Wait," I growl, snatching his drink before he can grab it. He grins like a small boy, cheeks dimpling.

I suck in a deep breath, hold it, and then knock back enough liquor to burn my throat on the way down. I make a sound of disgust and slam the glass back on the counter. "Revolting. You are psychotic."

He laughs. I have to look away to hide my smile and accidentally make eye contact with Gabby. She frowns at me, concerned. Or annoyed. Or both.

I lick my lips, wincing as the sting of vodka coats my tongue. "Your turn."

"Oh. Well..."

"Aht-aht." I flick the basket into his chest with my index finger. "Eat up."

Nicholai sighs and then, faster than I can blink, tosses a pickle between his teeth. His eyes narrow as he chews, thoughtful. When his eyes widen, I know it's over.

I smile, smug. "I told you." I bite into another to chase away the taste of liquor. "They're good, aren't they?"

The words seem to pain him. But finally, he concedes. "Yes. They're...quite good."

I lean back on my hands and watch him eat, alternating between the basket of fried pickles and his premium vodka. A truly chaotic combination. But he looks content. More than content. Sitting there at the bar, his fingers covered in a layer of grease, he looks as relaxed as I've ever seen him.

When he finishes, I offer to get him another basket. But he shakes his head, wiping his fingers on an already grease-spotted napkin. "No. Thank you." He glances over his shoulder, eyeing the front door. "I have a prior engagement."

I follow his line of sight. A black-haired beauty stands at the threshold, a soft frown marring her otherwise lovely face as she takes in the dive bar. She's covered her thin figure with an oversized coat—given the temperature outside, I can't help but roll my eyes. "Another one? You're really taking this rebound thing seriously."

He downs the rest of his drink and pulls out his wallet. I wave him off, but he ignores me and tosses a bill on the counter. "For exemplary service. Salyut."

I stare at the crisp hundred dollar bill. "Nothing about my service is exemplary."

Nicholai smirks. "Fine. Consider it a charitable contribution for this charming establishment."

"Charming. Right." My attention shifts back to his date. Our eyes meet—hers are less than friendly. "Well, if you're looking for more charm, come out for a real drink sometime. We have charm spilling out of our asses around here."

He dips his head in farewell before turning to go, moving with an easy sort of grace. He didn't turn down the offer, I note with a little thrill.

A thrill that quickly dies. I frown down at the money in my hand. "Damn you and your damn money," I mutter.

Someone snatches the bill from my fingers. "If you don't want it, I'll take it," TJ sings.

"No, no," I protest, reaching for it. "I did not say that."

He tosses the bill into the tip jar and wraps his arm around my shoulder. I feel better almost immediately. "How about we take Petey out for a midnight spin?"

Petey. I brighten at the thought of the dinghy, currently docked in a slip outside. The three of us—TJ, Gabby, and I—pooled our savings together and purchased the piece of crap as a graduation gift to ourselves. We've almost capsized her multiple times out on the open water, but she's a reliable beast.

I love her with a burning passion.

"Can I drive?" I ask, suddenly eager.

TJ makes a face. "I would prefer to live, actually."

I smack him in the chest. He laughs. "Kidding. Let me grab the keys. Can you chase everyone out?"

"Say less." I raise my voice. "Alright, everyone! Last call. We're closing up early tonight."

Closing down the bar takes less than an hour. I mop the floors with vigor, throwing my weight into the task, while TJ doles out our tips; I pocket sixty bucks, which is more than I expected to make at the start of the night. By midnight, the doors are locked and we're skipping across the dock, savoring the salty air and the cool ocean breeze.

"Save room for me," Gabby orders as we climb aboard the dinghy.

"Yeah, yeah." I watch her struggle and finally offer a hand. "I thought you hated my new boss. You two seemed pretty chummy today, though."

She shrugs, wedging herself between me and her brother. "Nicholai seems alright."

Just drop it, Amara. I sit back as TJ steers the boat into the salty channel. A little innocent flirting never hurt anybody.

Gabby wraps her arms around her middle to ward away the chill as the channel opens to the sea and the world beyond. Any possibility of holding a conversation vanishes as TJ kicks the engine into high gear. We bump over the break, silent as salt water peppers our faces. Once we hit open water, TJ kills the engine.

I stare at the moon, floating high above. Its reflection glimmers across the surface of the ocean, lighting our path.

"We should do this more." TJ twists to face us. He looks calm. At peace. "I missed this."

"We paid enough money for this damn hunk of junk," Gabby mutters. "Might as well use it."

I throw my arm across her shoulders. "Now, now. We shan't disrespect Petey while we're on open water. She'll break down just to spite us."

Gabby huddles closer, borrowing my warmth. It's been a running joke for years now; her skin is like ice, with her perpetually frozen hands and feet and nose. Meanwhile, I produce enough body heat to fuel a furnace.

"Were you serious?" she mumbles into my shoulder.

I lean my cheek against her hair. I can never stay mad at her for long. "About what? Breaking down in the middle of the ocean?"

"About Luca Ivanov." She wraps her hands around my bicep. "Amara..."

"Oh. Oh." I laugh. A false sound. "Gabs—"

"Don't lie to me. You're a terrible liar." She leans back to pin me with a glare.

I pout. "I am not a bad liar. Why does everyone keep saying that?"

"Stop deflecting."

"Fine." I lean into her side. "Luca Ivanov is...intimidating. But I only met the man for all of ten seconds. And let's be honest. My pink hair having ass probably isn't his preference when it comes to his son's professional assistants." I shrug. "I'm sure that's all there is to it."

"Good." She snuggles back into my sphere of warmth. "Because if I have to scour the ocean for your dead body, I'm going to be pissed."

TJ raises his hand. "I second that."

I smile, grateful for their concern. That smile sticks with me as we troll up and down the Los Angeles coast—and it grows when TJ reveals a stash of beer he hid after our last outing. We toast a round to our regulars, who make work that much more entertaining. We toast a second round to our high-rollers—the ones who fund our rent with every pour of top shelf bourbon. A third round, to our tragic one-night stands.

"And all the one-night stands to come," TJ adds.

Unless Luca Ivanov tosses my body in the ocean, I think darkly, echoing Gabby's fears.

But even so. I hold up a beer in salute—to my friends, to my future.

And to the one-night stands.