I went to bed earlier than I intended to last night, unable to deal with knowing he could turn up with some random slut and I wanted to be asleep before he did. I downed two sleeping pills to make sure I was oblivious to any sexual moaning or appearance of his playthings and woke up groggy before getting down here as fast as I could. I had no intention of awkward morning greetings either and even though I am tired and feeling listless, I submerge myself into sorting the club out.
It’s cleaner and the brewery is restocking the basement as we speak. I have cases of foreign booze being shipped in and the kitchen is being filled with fresh ingredients to feed the staff. Joanne had stopped that service the second I was out the door, meaning no food was supplied at any point from the girls coming on or leaving twelve hours later.
It’s a gruelling shift and not exactly convenient to pop out for takeout, and she should have thought about that before she started having escorts passing out mid-shift from exertion and lack of food. They have a very physical job and our clients expect more than a half-arsed fuck before they want to call it quits. Food may not seem important to someone who has never worked on her back for long hours, but I have the sense to know differently. Keep the Toms happy and you keep the men smiling. It’s hardly rocket science.
Joanne is hiding in the downstairs office at this moment in time. She has been cancelling client lists for the past couple of days and having to grovel and explain to childish rich men why they cannot come to their favourite hangout while I turn my nightmare back into a palace.
I found she had fired five of our seven cleaning staff, fired two of the bar staff and four of our servers in a bid to save money and scrimped on the booze to hide the fact she was losing him customers. Memberships dropping off, and to top it off one of his high rollers had an overdose here two months back because she was failing to limit the product flow to each member. Fuckwit could have screwed everything up had he died here. I doubt Alexi even knows about this yet and I am not hiding it from him. Let her see his demon side when he’s in a rage. I’m sure she is ill-equipped to handle him if someone like me can’t.
I have the electrician coming back at the end of the week to replace all switches, and it’s not too soon as one of the sockets at the bar sparked at me this morning when I tried to plug in the neon sign over the cocktail counter. I have had to stick a sign over it which says ‘Do not use’ before one of our staff kill themselves.
I also located and had my oval club logo rehung in pride of place after finding it in storage in the basement, and personally took a match to that shitty piece of artwork she had used instead. She stood gawping when my ‘Club Carrero’ sign went back up, all polished and gleaming and signalling my return as Queen of MY club!
It’s one thing after another and it’s only now I find out the new sprinkler system, which was the cause of all the mayhem, doesn’t even work and had to be unplumbed to stop the leak. She never had it resolved, wasted thousands installing it, and now it’s off because she couldn’t figure out how it was leaking. Which is in complete violation to city code and could get us shut down until it’s rectified anyway.
So that’s plumbers, electricians and decorators all coming down this week with a view to causing more disruption before this building gets better.
We still have to abide by certain fire and safety codes even if this place isn’t exactly above board. It’s run like a legit business, with payrolls, regulations and things in place to keep the City authorities happy. Joanne has failed to answer notices and inspections in the last month and I have a pile of paperwork a mile high. To top it off there’s a huge mountain of receipts that have never made it to the accountant, and the books are a total mess. Alexi didn’t just avoid coming here; it seems he washed his hands of the whole fucking place while I was gone. There are no hints that he even checked in on it sporadically.
I’m in a rage, throwing papers across the desk in the office, which is now shared again, while scraping my fingers through my hair against my scalp in agitation, and getting more and more furious as I try to sort it out. My temper is simmering between an all-out tantrum and complete frustration; kicking my foot against the wooden leg from its crossed position, and fingernails tapping on the surface as I try and decipher more jumbled chaos.
Alexi comes swanning in around ten a.m. looking shower fresh and perky in sweats and a workout top, whistling to himself merrily, which is weird. He has on a hoody with no sleeves that’s cut out around his shoulders in a very flattering way. It showcases the sheer size and strength of those toned, muscled biceps and the way his tattoos curl all the way down to the backs of his hands, up both arms and sneak behind them under the fabric.
I have to drag my eyes from lingering on them. He looks hot, even I can admit that it gets warm in the panty area at the mere sight of him like this.
By the looks of it he has added a new addition to his left hand … where the tattoo used to stop at the wrist it now matches his right in meeting his knuckles. It’s looking glossy, meaning it has some sort of barrier cream on it as it heals, so I am guessing this was done yesterday at some point after he left here. I am pretty sure I never saw it before.
It’s another gothic skull, entwined with barbs and snakes that melt into all his other black ink like a mosaic. He has a thing for dark themed images.
He is clearly going to the gym this morning and I glare at him when he throws a boyish smile my way, that cheeky twinkly look in his eye which suggests a great mood. Meanwhile, I am stressed to the max clearing up the mess he let happen.
I wonder if it’s sex induced and scowl all the more.
‘You look happy,’ He says drily giving me the once over, joking obviously, and I just cast another furious look his way.
‘This place is a shambles; I hope your accountant isn’t busy because I am sending them four boxes of shit to decipher.’ I rage at him, unamused and with sarcasm, miffed that he seems lax about the pandemonium of his nightclub.
‘Tell them it’s from me and they will prioritise it.’ He shrugs with one shoulder, a hint of a half-smile at me. He just doesn’t seem to care at all about the surface of strewn paperwork or his extremely harassed hostess and I lose the last of my frayed mood.
‘How could you let it go this way? This was half a year of my fucking life in the making, Alexi. It’s been left to drown in shit and fall apart like it never mattered. How is that good business?’