Huh?
I pull my wrist up to check the time on my watch, and sure as shit, it’s well past five. She wasn’t bringing me lunch, she was bringing me supper. I’ve spent the entire damn day trying to track down information on this Ethan guy and find a way to get Noelle out of that club. I didn’t even do a second of actual fucking work today. Shit.
“Just got busy, I suppose.”
“Do you wanna share with the class?”
I look behind her to make sure that the hallway is empty, weighing my options. “I found my girl last night,” I tell her. “So now I’m—”
The sound that comes out of the woman could shatter fucking glass.
She flies behind the desk and throws her arms around my middle, practically jogging in place in her excitement, and I worry for a second that she’s going to make herself pass clean out, getting so worked up.
“Where was she?!” She demands, slapping her little hands against my chest.
“At Envy, working for fucking Nash Montgomery this whole time,” I tell her. “She was right under my nose and I had no idea. I’m working on getting her out of there, though.”
“I’ll get Colt,” she says, and I hold up a hand to cut her off.
“Not yet. Give me some time to figure out how I wanna do this and I’ll let him know about it.”
As much as I appreciate her enthusiasm, I don’t want to drag them too deep into this until I know if I’m going about this legally or otherwise – and it’s probably going to be the latter, because it’s fucking Nash Montgomery’s club. And this Ethan guy could prove to be a real pain in my ass.
They’ve got kids, they don’t need to be in this until I know it’s okay for them to be.
EIGHTEEN
Sophia
“How long are you gonna make this guy suffer?” My roommate asks with a laugh, walking into my room with a large vase filled with flowers tucked neatly into the crook of his arm.
I’ve only known Casey for a couple of years, as long as I’ve lived in this apartment. I assumed when he wrote to me that he was a girl, so I was pretty taken aback when I was met with a buzzed-haired, keyboard playing, video game nut.
He wound up being the perfect match for the place, though, so we’ve been roommates and friends ever since. He’s basically like a brother to me, now.
“Until he can actually use his words like a grown up and apologize for being an asshole,” I shrug, pulling my flat iron through a section of hair.
They say that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but I would argue that a woman slutshamed by her boyfriend is a pretty damn good contender in that race.
I swipe the flat iron through my hair a couple more times, making sure that the ends are nice and straight, no fly-aways sticking out from the rest, and I reach for the can of hairspray in my bathroom cabinet, giving my head a good misting with it to lock in the style.
On my way out of the door, I grab the flowers that Ethan sent over – he didn’t even bring them to me, he had themdelivered. No note. No text message. Not a damn thing. Isn’t that just enraging? I toss them into the garbage can next to the kitchen counter, dusting my hands off on each other when I’m done.
•
The club doesn’t usually get too busy on weeknights; maybe a few hundred people rotating through for the entire time that we’re open, but we usually get to use these nights as a bit of a breather. The weekends are when things really get wild and overwhelming.
When thecustomersget overwhelming.
I make my way toward the employee lounge and shrug my bag off of my shoulder at my locker, following by kicking off my little rubber clogs that everyone I know gives me hell for wearing, but they’re the most comfortable thing to slip into after six hours on my feet in five-to-six-inch heels.
“Sophia!” I turn to find my manager waddling toward me, flailing his hands. “You’re just in time. Get into your blues and head upstairs.”
I groan, throwing my head back. “Can I just work the regular tables tonight? Please?”
“Sorry,” he shakes his head. “You, specifically, have been requested. Chop, chop, get up there!”
It’s not unheard of for one of us to be asked for by name – or by description, but it doesn’t happen as often as it used to. There are only three people who request me anymore, and it’s always on weekends. I rack my brain, trying to figure out who else could have had such a good time that they called in to make a request, but I come up empty. I put on a good show, sure, but I can’t say that I make any effort to be all that memorable. I’d rathernotget called back by the majority of our customers.
