The boss's handprint still burns on my thigh an hour after he touched me there in front of everyone. I weave through slot machines toward the next section, and those bills he shoved down my shirt crinkle against my bra with every step. I'm not pulling them out where people can see me do it because that's exactly what he wants—me humiliated. He's still watching me from across the casino floor, and I feel his stare drilling into my spine.
My tray shifts in my hands, and I adjust my grip while forcing myself to breathe through my nose. My body won't stop reacting to him, and I hate it because it proves him right about something. His hand wasn't wandering by accident and we both know it. He touched me to stake a claim in front of those men at the baccarat table, and my God, does it piss me off.
I don't belong to anyone, and I never will as long as there's air in my lungs.
Roulette is packed with drunk players who've been here since the afternoon shift started hours ago. After a pit stop in thekitchen to refill, I set my tray down on the service stand next to three men in their fifties who lean against felt yelling at a dealer who looks ready to quit. One wears a gold chain thick enough to choke someone and his shirt hangs open to his sternum. Sweat shines on his chest and vodka stench rolls off him in waves that mix with too much cologne.
"Shots." He barks it without looking at me while he shoves chips across felt. "Bring us doubles because I'm about to win big."
I set the other drinks down and turn toward the bar, but his hand shoots out and grabs my forearm before I take a single step. Fingers dig into my skin hard enough to make my bones ache. I freeze and my pulse hammers against my throat as I give him a hard glare.
"Did you hear me?" His thumb presses circles into the soft flesh above my wrist. "Doubles, sweetheart, and don't take your sweet time."
I yank my arm back and his fingers slide off, but the ghost sensation of being assaulted lingers. What the fuck is wrong with these men thinking they can just go around grabbing women? I guess if the casino owner does it, they think they can too.
My tray rattles when I lift it and my jaw locks as I force words out through clenched teeth.
"Keep your hands to yourself." I meet his bloodshot eyes without flinching once. "I'll get your drinks, but don't touch me again or security will escort you out."
He laughs, and it scrapes against my ears how nails drag down a chalkboard.
His friends join in, and their laughter blends into a wall of noise that makes my skull throb as I turn away and walk toward the bar before he can reach for me a second time. Six hours on my feet without a real break, and my lower back aches so badly, I can't stand up straight anymore.
The service bar is crowded with waitresses calling out orders to the bartender who zips around behind the counter. I slip between two other women and lean against the bar top while I wait. The wood is sticky beneath my forearms, and I smell spilled beer mixed with lime juice and grenadine. My stomach turns, and I swallow hard to keep nausea from rising past my chest.
Zoya stands beside me with an empty tray against her hip, and she looks as exhausted as I feel. Dark circles shadow her eyes, and her lipstick has worn off except for a faint pink stain along her mouth. She glances at me and then back at bartenders shaking cocktails and pouring rows of shots.
"This night won't end." She shifts her weight from one foot to another. "I've been serving the same group of assholes for three hours and they haven't tipped me once."
I nod because I know exactly what she means and there's nothing else to say. We do this same dance every evening—jerks who don't tip, men who grope you. It's not an easy job, but the tips pay my rent.
Still, every shift feels longer than before and tips get worse each week. Men here expect us to smile and laugh at their jokes and let them touch us whenever they feel entitled to it. We're supposed to be grateful for attention because we're waitresses and they're spending money at tables.
I'm so tired of pretending to be grateful that my face hurts from holding smiles all night.
"I'm thinking about quitting soon." Zoya reaches past me to grab a tray one of the bartenders slides across the bar. "Money isn't worth this anymore, and I'm sick of having my ass grabbed every five minutes by some drunk who thinks I owe him."
"If I had another option, I'd leave too…" I grimace as she picks up her tray and balances it on her shoulder and walks off, then I wait for my next order to come up.
If I admit I want to quit, then I have to face facts that I don't have anywhere else to go. This job pays my rent and keeps food on my table, and I can't afford to walk away, no matter how much I hate being here. My cousin depends on me to help with his medical bills and my mother calls twice a month asking if I can send money for groceries.
Quitting isn't an option right now, even though I fantasize about it every single shift.
The bartender finally looks my way, and I order doubles without specifying which vodka brand they want. They're too drunk to taste the difference and I'm too tired to care about making their drinks perfect. Not to mention, the top shelf stuff only gets them drunker faster. He pours shots and sets them on my tray, and I lift it carefully to avoid spilling anything.
Gold Chain grabs his glass before I even set the tray down on the table and he throws back vodka and slams the glass onto felt hard enough that the dealer flinches. I hand out the rest of the drinks and turn to leave before any of them can stop me or demand more. My section's finally slowing down, and I need a break before my legs give out.
I catch Linda's eye near blackjack tables and point toward the back exit to let her know I'm stepping out. She nods and turns back to a player waving her over with a fifty-dollar bill in his fist. I weave through rows of slot machines and push open the heavy door that leads to the employee hallway. Noise from the casino floor fades behind me, and the sudden quiet shows just how badly my ears are ringing.
My feet carry me past the break room and storage closets until I reach the back door that opens into the alley. I shove it open and step outside into air that's hotter than the frigid air conditioning trapped inside. The door swings shut behind me, and I lean against the brick wall while I dig through my apron pocket for cigarettes and lighter. I flick the lighter, but it takes three tries before the flame catches.
The first drag fills my lungs with smoke, and I hold it there for a long moment before exhaling slowly through my nose. Nicotine rushes through my bloodstream and my muscles start to relax one by one, from my neck down to my calves. I close my eyes and tip my head back against the rough brick that scrapes through my hair and presses into my scalp.
Dimitri's hand on my thigh flashes through my mind again, and I can still feel the heat of his palm. He squeezed my flesh how someone tests fruit at a market to see if it's ripe. If it were a wanted advance, I'd have had butterflies or a zing of arousal, but in that environment, it was repulsive. Not that Dimitri is repulsive—fuck that. No one would ever accuse the boss of that. He's a goddamn masterpiece, a masculine specimen so perfect, any woman would fall to his feet in worship if he turned his attention on her, and there I was, pushing him away.
But isn't that what I'm supposed to do when a man at work gropes me?
Voices drift around the corner from somewhere deeper in the alley near the dumpsters, and I open my eyes but don't move away from the wall because people cut through here all time. The voices get louder, and I hear footsteps scraping against concrete mixed with someone breathing hard through their mouth.
