"Can I get a round on the house? I know the owner."
Patrick glanced at the attractive redhead leaning on the bar and her two friends giggling from behind her. It was barely 8 PM on a Friday but he could tell it will be a busy shift.
"What's the password for today?", he asked, eyeing the girl skeptically. He was good with faces, but she wasn't a regular and by her confused look she must've been at least two weeks behind on the new rules. Meaning old flame, meaning no free shots, especially since she didn't even try to hit on him.
A code phrase was a trick Maze taught him to keep the place from financial ruin. She invented many tiny mind games to torture the clubgoers that felt entitled for knowing Mr. Morningstar personally... as if he didn't spend most of his time here, playing the piano and charming anyone capable of maintaining eye contact for more than two seconds.
More often than not Patrick missed working with Mazikeen, despite getting promoted when she left. She trained him well, but didn't mention how cooked Lux's books really were, how many criminals Mr. Morningstar gave favors to, or that the bar got demolished so often the renovations crew had an open tab.
At least the pay bumps were reasonable, following every other PTSD-inducing disaster so that Patrick could afford his obligatory LA therapist. And being the main bartender at Lux came with its own perks, like a selection of striking models asking him for discounts and incredible networking opportunities. He mixed drinks at a senator's wedding recently, and was now selling his politician friends cocaine with an insane markup.
He saw a man got killed on the dancefloor, sure. But he could afford his sister's college fees and was promised a manager's position once the Las Vegas extension was finally cleared for launch.
Many of his fellows tried their chances at this place, but dropped out after a few weeks, unable to keep up. Patrick just used his breaks to smoke weed and had long decided making sense of his situation wasn't worth the stress.
"Evening, Patrick. How's your shift?"
He didn't have to look up this time, recognizing the voice. Chloe Decker.
The woman who knew all of Lux's bouncers, but somehow got embarrassed every time they let her skip the line with a tired nod. Who never paid for her drinks and still ordered the cheapest specials. Who came in at odd hours with her own access card yet always apologized for interrupting a delivery or stepping on the freshly washed floor.
She was also the reason Patrick purchased extended life insurance as the number of in-club shootings increased exponentially since she started visiting. Whenever Mr. Morningstar strolled downstairs excited about a new murder case, Patrick texted Mr. Slonzky, a shady lawyer with his own bribe fund, after serving the boss his morning whisky.
He made small talk with the detective, fixed her a daiquiri and pointed up before turning to serve other guests. Ever since Mr. Morningstar and Detective Decker started dating, Patrick didn't need his tv dramas anymore. He mildly enjoyed witnessing their prolonged chase, but now, as Chloe made her way to the elevator with a shy smile, he knew there were only three possible outcomes to this evening.
A. She storms out after ten minutes, cursing all that is sacred and slamming the doors - meaning he blew it.
B. She leaves quietly an hour later with sad eyes, lingering on the staircase - meaning she blew it.
C. They leave together the following morning and have coffee by the bar - meaning the blowing already happened, but they will find a new way to wreck it later on.
There was no in-between. But as the last call rolled and the remaining patrons wobbled out into the night, Patrick smirked from behind the register, getting ready to close. Every dog has its day.