I take the lipstick, swiping the color over my lips, and then brushing my fingers through my hair while Kacey pulls out a pair of black heels for me to borrow.
"Being late doesn't help." She's not being cruel, just honest. Something I've always loved about my best friend. But right now? Her honesty feels like a punch to the gut.
Part of the reason Candace hates me is because I'm always late.
I don't do it on purpose. Tonight, I was moping back at our apartment after I calculated the bills, rent, and student loan payments that are all due, only to look at my bank account and realize the numbers are too far apart, and not in a good way. I need $312 dollars by Friday if I want to avoid late fees.
And then the rejection letter…
"The subway doesn't help."
She chuckles at that. The New York City subway is my personal nightmare. But buying a car and trying to drive to work might actually be worse.
I know she's just trying to help me. It's all she's done for the past eight months. We graduated from NYU in the spring; me with a degree in creative writing and Kacey with one in psychology. Her specialty? Sex.
She was a member of a dungeon all throughout college. TeachingBDSM 101classes and mentoring women new to the lifestyle. And when she wasn't at the dungeon or in classes, she was filming videos for her social media to educate women. With her degree, she planned to be a sex therapist until one of the owners of Haven reached out to her with a job offer.
Director of Client Experience. Which is a fancy way of saying kink educator and professional BDSM practitioner.
It's honestly the perfect job for her. And she's been glowing since the day she started.
Me, on the other hand, I've done nothing but fail since the day we donned those caps and gowns.
"Stop feeling sad for yourself," she scolds me, as if it's obvious from the look on my face that I'm in a self-depreciating mood again. "Everything’s going to work out for you, Gracie. You just need to get up and take life by the balls."
Kacey's been holding me together for the last eight months, sitting with me as I've drained my savings account and watched my financial runway disappear. I was supposed to be a writer, and I thought I’d be published by now.
Becoming an author living in New York City is the dream I've had since I was a little girl who learned to write in full sentences. I've been crafting stories for as long as I can remember. That younger version of me thought I'd be a New York Times bestseller. And instead, I'm a broke postgrad with a mountain of student loans, an unfinished manuscript, and a waitressing job at a sex club.
Not to mention, I'm so unhirable that my best friend had to get me this job. If it wasn't for Kacey, I'd be back home, lying on my childhood bed in the small Michigan town where I grew up.
I inhale a deep breath. "You're right," I tell her, smiling at her BFF advice. "Everything's gonna be okay."
Fake it till you make it, right?
"Now get out there." She slaps my ass, making me yelp as I head out to the floor.
The bass hums through the floorboards as I push open the heavy velvet curtain into Haven's main lounge. Glittering strands of silver and gold cascade from the exposed beams, catching the warm amber lights and scattering sparkles across the brick walls. Reclaimed wooden tables gleam beneath sheer black cloths edged in metallic fringe, holding flutes of bubbling champagne.
A countdown clock projects onto the far wall in an elegant script:Two Hours Until Midnight.
The club is neverfull, given that its exclusivity limits the number of memberships. But tonight, it seems like every single member is here for the New Year’s Eve party.
“Right on time.” Candace looks up from her watch to greet me.“Section 2. We have a VIP at Table 12. Don't screw this up."
Truly, every member at Haven is a VIP, but Candace reserves the term for the elitist of the elite. Those with net worths so high I can't even fathom the number. I'm already anxious about serving senators, billionaires, and mafia bosses alike, but when there's a Candace-proclaimed VIP, my nerves dial up a notch. If Candace thinks they're important, the last thing I want to do is get myself fired for not appeasing some rich asshole.
I know from Kacey that Haven is owned by a billionaire's kid with a trust fund so deep he'll never see the bottom. Something about that thought rattles my stomach. What would it be like to never have to worry about money?
If I had a billion dollars, I’d never work again. I’d hide behind my laptop and write, but for fun, taking all the pressure off my art.
I silence the thoughts and refocus on the present. With a sigh, I muster up some fake courage and walk shakily on my borrowed high heels.
I try my best to ignore the displays of sex surrounding me. That's what people come here for, after all. They want the ability to practice their kinks in an open and judgement free environment.
My first day on the job, I couldn't help but stare, trying to make sense of the things I was seeing. A woman with a collar around her neck being walked around on a leash. Another, completely naked, kneeling at the feet of a man. And a man with some sort of cage locked onto his cock. That incident promptly got me reprimanded about not gawking at the members.
This job pays well because discretion costs extra, and the members value their privacy above all else. If I can manage to avoid pissing off Candace any further, I'll be able to cover all my bills. And that's more important than trying to figure out whatever is happening here.
