Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107376 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107376 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
What can I say? I’m a go-hard-or-go-home kinda girl.
There are constant lines out the door, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. We’ve been profitable since the day I opened a little over a year ago, but the day I hired a social media marketer, my little bar took off into the stratosphere.
Kia is here every night filming content for our social media accounts, and the day she pitched The Velvet Slap, I officially crowned her the goddess of all social media marketers.
Every Friday night, she posts a code, and when the customer approaches the bar, they’re not to say anything except that code. No hi, no may I have. Nothing. Just quote that code, and you’ll receive one free Fireball shot along with your Velvet Slap. And as a general, unspoken rule, the second the customer receives their slap, their friends throw money at my bar. They cheer and celebrate their friend having the shit slapped out of him, which livens the mood and has everybody else joining in.
It honestly blows my mind how much Fireball I go through, but that kind of enthusiasm gives me life.
Since the moment the doors opened, Black Velvet became my everything.
Every facet of it is so undeniably me. Every booth, every lick of paint on the walls, right down to our signature cocktails—The Red Kiss, Last Regret, and of course, No Alibi, which I like to think speaks for itself. I crafted this place right from the very pits of my soul, and I have lived it every moment since.
I fashioned Black Velvet after Coyote Ugly, my favorite movie growing up. It’s completely owned and run by women. Well, apart from Marcus and Dean, our trusty bouncers, who work the door and keep us safe. They are part of the Onyx Heights Motorcycle Club, who all but run this city, and while they look like they could shred me to pieces with their bare fingers, they’re actually ginormous teddy bears with overprotective hearts of gold. There’s no one else I’d want watching our backs every night.
At Black Velvet, there’s no official uniform, though there are black tanks and crops out back if someone wanted one. For the most part, my bar staff opted against it, because in a bar like this, if you want to pull in those tips, you need to earn them, and the best way to do that is to look the part. Show some skin and smile like you’re about to make someone’s dreams come true. Flirt with the customers just enough to make them think they stand a chance, and the cash will roll in.
It’s all a performance, and my bartenders know it. Hell, they thrive on it. The moment you step behind the bar of Black Velvet, you’re no longer just some girl working for tips; you’re the reason why the hundreds of people who come through here each night have the time of their lives. You’re not just a bartender; you’re a dancer, a therapist, and an overall badass, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Each and every one of my bar staff is beautiful in their own way. We have women of every shape, size, and color, and while there’s no denying just how stunning they are, it’s their confidence that truly makes them shine. They love their jobs, and it shows in their work, making it a pleasure to bartend alongside them every night. They’re passionate and motivated, and because of that, they’re an incredible bunch of women to have on my payroll.
Black Velvet is about the vibes, and we don’t just reach that every night; we obliterate it. There’s honestly no place like it.
As I get back to work, busily taking orders and glancing over the rush of bodies surrounding the bar, I can’t help but take in the faces. We’re at capacity tonight, just like every other Friday night.
There are people from all walks of life, yet every single one of them has one thing in common. They talk too much when they’re drunk. They spill their guts, blabbing about every dark skeleton hidden in their closets.
I’ve heard enough secrets behind this bar to ruin lives. The kind of secrets people would kill for. Not that I ever would. Although, given the right circumstances, who knows what I’d be capable of?
Working in a bar teaches you two things very quickly—how to pour the perfect drink, and how to fake a personality. You meet a lot of people here, but there are generally three main types: liars, idiots, and men who mistake arrogance for charm. Sometimes they’re all three at once. By midnight, they think they’re the main character. By 2 a.m., most of them are just embarrassing, but I don’t judge them for their choices. At least, I don’t judge them out loud to the point they’re aware of it. I’m a very judgmental person. What can I say? It’s in my DNA.