The waiters soon arrived with food. After the wine was placed on the table, a fruit plate and a few side dishes followed. This was Paul Pierce's way of showing respect. Once everything was arranged, the female bartender stepped forward to confirm everyone's preferences before preparing a round of aperitifs.
An aperitif, much like an appetizer, is a staple in Western dining culture. It works almost like a stomach protector before alcohol—helping the body adjust to liquor, reducing discomfort, and making drinking more enjoyable.
Pierce and the others were veterans in this regard, but Jiang Hai had little understanding of the details.
Before long, the bartender served several aperitifs that tasted more like soft drinks than wine. Each person drank two. Afterward, they relaxed, letting the light alcohol settle in as the atmosphere warmed.
Avery Bradley, the youngest of the group, soon pulled Isaiah Thomas—also young—over to the window, their eyes scanning the floor like hunters. Josh Smith and Evan Turner were still at the billiard table, while DeAndre Jordan, worried that his sheer size might require more than two aperitifs to be effective, sat quietly at the bar, sipping his drink.
Only Jiang Hai and Paul Pierce remained composed. Jiang Hai wasn't optimistic about finding anyone who matched his taste, while Pierce, seasoned and indifferent from years of encounters, lounged on the sofa, chatting casually.
Before meeting him, Jiang Hai had half expected Pierce to be arrogant. But in truth, Pierce was refreshingly straightforward. He spoke directly, laughed easily, and while his jokes sometimes bordered on crude, he never crossed the line. At most, he teased Jiang Hai about his nightly "schedule" and whether his back could handle it. For Jiang Hai, their conversation was unexpectedly pleasant.
As they talked, the sky outside darkened. People trickled into the bar, and Bradley and Thomas grew visibly more focused.
"Hey, Paul, we're heading down," Bradley said after about ten minutes of watching. Clearly, they had found their target. With that, the two slipped downstairs.
"Aren't you guys going?" Jiang Hai asked the others, surprised that the remaining four seemed so calm. Weren't they supposed to be more eager in situations like this?
Josh Smith grinned. "What's the rush? You don't just swoop in. First you drink with them, dance with them, build a vibe. If you hurry, you'll just get played. Timing's everything."
Hearing this, Jiang Hai couldn't help but give him silent approval. Clearly, Josh had learned well from experience.
Sure enough, half an hour later, Evan Turner, DeAndre Jordan, and Josh Smith all went downstairs together. With the room quieter, Pierce stood and motioned toward the door.
"Come on, take a look. If you see someone you like, go for it. If not, stay here and drink. I'm heading down too," Pierce said with a knowing smile.
"Oh, I'll have a look," Jiang Hai replied. In the past, he would have refused outright—he had even resisted when Moses Adams dragged him through New York nightlife. But now… wealth had shifted his perspective. Maybe that saying was true: men do become "bad" when they have money.
He didn't refuse this time, but he also wasn't desperate. If he didn't see anyone to his liking, he'd stay put. After all, he had plenty of women waiting for him back home.
Scanning the dance floor, Jiang Hai soon spotted a striking figure—not among the dancers, but seated calmly at the bar.
He smiled and pointed her out.
Pierce followed his gaze, then shook his head with a hint of pity. "I'd stay away from that one if I were you." His eyes said it all: rookie mistake.
"What's wrong?" Jiang Hai asked, puzzled.
Pierce chuckled. "Look at her—beautiful, alone, in a nightclub, and not a single guy has gone near her. That doesn't happen by accident. A woman like that isn't overlooked. Which means she's not alone—she's guarded. We call women like her 'trouble.' She's not some heiress out to trap you in marriage. She's someone's woman—someone powerful. You get what I mean."
Jiang Hai pursed his lips. He wasn't interested in stirring up that kind of trouble. With a shrug, he let Pierce head downstairs while he remained in the private suite, turning his attention back to the bar.
Noticing that Jiang Hai had stayed, the bartender returned to her post. Mixing drinks was her job, after all.
"Sir, what would you like to drink?" she asked evenly.
"I don't know much about cocktails. Just make something light. I still have to drive back later—I'm from Winthrop," Jiang Hai said with a casual smile.
"Of course," she replied smoothly. She reached for bottles, glasses, and ingredients, her hands moving with practiced flair.
It was Jiang Hai's first time watching someone mix drinks so closely, and for a while, he studied her movements with curiosity. But the novelty soon wore off. His eyes began to drift—inevitably drawn to her slightly open shirt. Whether from the heat or habit, she had left the top three buttons undone.
Now Jiang Hai noticed more: the rise and fall of her chest, the deep purple of her vest beneath, and a small tattoo peeking from the edge of the fabric.
Tattoos were common, both in the East and West. In China, they often carried a stigma, associated with gangsters or outlaws. In America, they were seen as expressions of toughness, memory, or style.
At first, Jiang Hai thought nothing of it. But then, his eyes widened. Something about the pattern struck a chord—something familiar.
"It looks… similar," he muttered under his breath. A spark lit in his mind. Could it be related to the mark he had been searching for all this time?
As if aware of his gaze, the bartender smiled playfully. Her role was to mix drinks, but she didn't mind entertaining guests if the chance arose. Unlike the girls downstairs, though, her purpose was different.
"Sir, Flaming Red Lips," she said as she placed the cocktail before him with a charming smile.
Jiang Hai accepted the glass but couldn't suppress his curiosity. "May I ask, where are you from?"
"Me?" She tilted her head. "California. And you—you look Asian. Chinese? Japanese? Korean?" she teased, still busy with the next drink, her body swaying as she worked.
"Chinese," Jiang Hai replied with a nod. Then, after a pause, he leaned closer. "After you finish that one, you don't need to mix anymore. Could you come with me somewhere?"
His tone was steady, but his heart raced. That tattoo might be tied to his golden finger—his secret.
The bartender chuckled softly, eyes narrowing with amusement. "Oh? Sir, in my line of work, if you want me to go elsewhere, the price is different." Her smile deepened, playful but calculating.
At least for now, her goal was simple: money.
(To be continued.)