Page 34 of Resist

“Let’s hope that means we get some serious tips.” She winks as she steps up beside me to the mirror and pulls out a tube of red lipstick to reapply to her full lips. She’s petite, with her strawberry-blonde hair in a pixie cut, and has a killer personality that helps to earn her those tips.

“Tips are always welcome.”

“You’re in the west pods tonight,” she says, referring to my area assignment for the night. Looking her way, I raise an eyebrow because I typically work in the south pods.

“Why the change?”

“Someone in yours requested me tonight.”

“Lucky you.” A requested server usually means it’s a repeat customer, and repeats always spend money like water and make tips fall like rain. But while that may be good for her, that means I’ll be stuck in a different section with people who might be all new.

And all new means you never know what you’re going to get.

“Yeah, yeah. Lucky me that the tips are good, but fuck if this guy isn’t handsy as hell.” Melissa rolls her eyes and lifts her hands up to mock a man grabbing a woman’s breasts. “He comes here, gets all horny with me because I giggle and swat his hands away, and then probably goes home and disappoints his wife because he’s so drunk he can’t stay hard.”

“Sounds about right.” I glance up at the clock on the wall. “Time for me to clock in.”

“Have a good shift,” she says as I open the door.

“You too.”

I walk onto the floor of Apropos. The light is dim and filtered a pale blue. It’s crowded tonight for a Thursday. Some women dance on the floor while men sit around the outside near the bar area, unwinding after a long day, wondering if they have a shot at a one-night stand with any of them. Their ties are pulled looser, sleeves are rolled up some, and jackets are hung on the backs of barstools.

I move up the stairs to the pods where I typically work. The top tier overlooks the dance floor, but it is divided up into twelve private areas called pods. Each server is responsible for three pods at a time. These areas are reserved in advance and are typically booked by repeat customers here to relax under the guise of a business meeting, almost always to cater to their clients’ needs that they don’t always subscribe to themselves personally. Either that or to screw around on their significant others.

Privacy and service is what they pay for.

Privacy and service is what I give them.

Moving into the Seven Pod, I assess the two men in deep conversation, one obviously angry despite the two women fawning all over him, and the other one more smug. I gather the glasses, empties left behind still half-full with a complete disregard for the wasted money spent on expensive alcohol. Living life in excess. A quick meeting of eyes with the smug one, and the quick shake of his head tells me not now.

The Eight Pod has been hard at work drinking, but judging by the women milling around in the private space versus the three men huddled over something at the table, it’s the women who are consuming the alcohol.

The lighting is faint in this pod, the couches a dark-blue velvet, the view of the rest of the club unhindered. Keeping my eyes averted, I look down to the dance floor below. Hips are swinging, and the soft lights illuminate their movements. The music isn’t obnoxiously loud like at other clubs as the owners of Apropos know business is being conducted, wheeling and dealing commenced, and they like to keep their customers happy so they come back and rent these pods at their ridiculous price tags.

I pick up all the empties I can access on the periphery and place them on the tray just inside the pod where a dumbwaiter will move them to the kitchen two floors below for cleaning. It’s when I turn my focus to the gentlemen in discussion that I’m completely knocked off my stride.

The three men are still sitting on the couches, heads down in discussion over something on a mess of papers cluttering the tables in between glasses dripping with condensation, but even before the one sitting in the middle lifts his head, I know it’s him.

And just as the thought crosses my mind, the man looks up.

Ryker Lockhart must feel the weight of my surprised stare—or maybe he’s just thirsty—but when he lifts his eyes and locks with mine, I feel like we both stutter to a halt.

Him for obvious reasons: the escort who insulted and then ran out on him—the one he accused of also being the madam—is now standing in front of him dressed in the unmistakable Apropos server’s uniform.

And me, because this is me here. I am Vaughn Sanders. Just an everyday woman at work, trying to make a living, who isn’t hiding behind a black wig or a sultry voice on the phone. A woman who, regardless of any of that, freaked out on him over sex and is now standing before him with nothing to mask her emotions or her true identity.

In that split second, the small world I live in suddenly just closed in on me. My decision to meet with Ryker as a version of myself instead of in disguise just became ten times worse.

How did he find me? Is he here to out me? To get his revenge for the things I said to him?

Recognition fires in those brandy-colored eyes of his, but when he opens his mouth to speak, for some reason he thinks better of it and closes it in favor of simply staring. His eyes scrape over my outfit. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. He angles his head to the side, making no effort to hide how he studies me.

His sudden absence from his conversation pulls his counterparts’ attention, and they both lift their heads, look at him, and then turn to see what he’s staring at.

Emotions are a turbulent ocean inside me. Everything I’ve worked so hard for, everything I want so desperately, is suddenly at stake in a way I naively never thought possible.

The music switches to a softer, subtler beat that is no match for the blood whooshing through my eardrums right now.