Four Alphas Bow To Only Me

The rock music blearing from the bass thumped through the floor of The Crimson Moon hard enough to rattle Rachel's teeth.

She balanced three martini glasses on her tray; two dirty, one with a twist, and navigated through the crush of bodies with the practiced ease of someone who'd been doing this job for two years.

Men on designer suits and ladies on silk dresses were seen gyrating to the rock music coming from the speakers.

The air smelled like expensive cologne, aged whiskey, and something else she could never quite name.

"Rachel! Table seven needs you five minutes ago!" Marcos, the floor manager, snapped as she passed the bar.

"On it," she called back, not bothering to hide her eye roll once her back was turned.

Her feet ached in the required four-inch heels. The black cocktail dress they made all the waitresses wear was too tight across her hips, and the diamond-studded collar felt like a leash.

But the tips at The Crimson Moon paid her rent, kept ramen in her cupboard, and occasionally allowed for luxuries like new underwear.

So she smiled, delivered the martinis to the trio of silver-haired men who didn't even bother to give her a second glance, and pocketed the fifty-dollar tip without comment.

"Girl, you look like you're about to murder someone." Suzy appeared at her elbow, somehow making the same ridiculous uniform look like haute couture.

Her best friend had that gift, turning everything she touched into something beautiful. Even waitressing looked like performance art when Suzy did it.

"Just counting down to closing," Rachel muttered sighting, scanning the crowd for empty glasses and raised hands. "Three more hours."

"It's your birthday." Suzy bumped her hip against Rachel's. "You're twenty-one. We should be out getting drunk, smoking joint and making bad decisions, not serving entitled rich people their overpriced alcohol."

"Some of us have rent due in four days."

"Some of us are going to die of boredom before we're twenty-two." Suzy grabbed a bottle of champagne from the bar. "Table twelve. Want to split it after shift? I've got that bottle of tequila we've been saving."

Rachel grinned. "You're a terrible influence."

"That's why you love me."

Suzy disappeared into the crowd, her dark hair swinging. Rachel turned toward the kitchen to grab her next order and froze.

Rowan Blackwood stood near the VIP section.

Her heart did something stupid in her chest. It always did when she saw him. He owned The Crimson Moon, owned half the underground clubs in Manhattan, if rumors were true, and he was absolutely, devastatingly gorgeous in a way that made Rachel forget how to form coherent sentences.

Tonight he wore all black. Expensive shirt rolled to his elbows, showing forearms that made her mouth go dry. Dark hair just long enough to run your fingers through. Sharp jawline. And those eyes, oh Gaud, even from across the room, even in the dim red lighting, they seemed to glow gold.

He was talking to someone she couldn't see, his expression serious. Then, as if he felt her staring, his gaze cut directly to her.

Rachel's breath caught.

For one impossible moment, those gold eyes locked with hers. Something hot and dangerous flashed across his face.

Recognition. Hunger. Something that made every nerve ending in her body light up like she'd touched a live wire.

Then someone bumped into her from behind, and she stumbled. When she looked back, Rowan was gone.

"Get your head out of the clouds, Morningstar!" Marcos barked. "Table fifteen!"

Rachel shook herself. Right. Work. Tips. Rent. No fantasizing about the completely unattainable club owner who'd never spoken a single word to her in two years.

She delivered drinks. Cleared tables. Smiled until her face hurt. The night blurred into the usual rhythm of controlled chaos that was The Crimson Moon on a Friday night.

The club catered exclusively to members, the kind of people who had more money than sense and wore it like armor.

Politicians. CEOs. Old money types who looked and acted like they owned the world, and young over pampered men who act like over grown babies, who act like the wait staff is beneath them.

Rachel had learned not to make eye contact unless necessary. Learned to be invisible while still being attentive. Learned that the bigger the tip, the more arrogance they can be towards the wait staff especially the young men whose fathers are the ones who actually makes the money.

"Twenty minutes to last call," Suzy said, appearing with two empty trays. "Thank God. My feets are killing me."

"Mine died an hour ago." Rachel leaned against the bar, stealing a moment to breathe. The crowd was thinning slightly as some of the early-leavers headed out.

"You still want to do tequila at my place?"

"Obviously. It's your birthday, and we're celebrating the fact that you've survived twenty-one years of this bullshit world." Suzy grabbed her hand and squeezed excitedly.

"Love you, babe."

"Love you too."

They'd said that to each other every day since they were seven years old, shivering in bunk beds at the group home in Queens. No one else had wanted the two skinny orphan girls with attitude problems, so they'd wanted each other. Built their own family from nothing.

Rachel was just turning to grab her last round of orders when pain exploded behind her eyes.