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Sabrina
Ican feel the bass in my bones as I weave between tables, balancing a tray of overpriced champagne flutes like I’ve done this a thousand times before… because I have. Two hours into my shift at Haus Modesto, and I’m already counting down until last call.
The dress Maya picked out for me tonight clings to every curve. It’s a black number that’s supposed to make me look sophisticated but mostly just makes me feel exposed. The heels are at least three inches too high, and my feet are already screaming in protest.
I get a lot of looks, but at what cost?
I’m working the VIP section tonight, which means bigger tips, but also bigger egos and wandering hands that think a hundred-dollar bottle service gives them the right to treat me like part of the entertainment.
I deliver champagne to table twelve, occupied by three investment bankers who’ve been here since happy hour, their ties loosened and inhibitions long gone. One of them grabs my wrist as I set down his glass, his grip sticky with sweat and entitlement. “What time do you get off, beautiful?”
I extract my wrist smoothly, keeping my smile plastered in place. “Sorry, I’ve got plans.”
“Come on, don’t be like that. We’re having a good time here.”
“I’m sure you are.” I step back, putting distance between us. “Can I get you gentlemen anything else?”
They wave me off, already distracted by whatever crude joke one of them is telling. I turn away, releasing a shaky breath. Three years of this job, and I still haven’t perfected the art of deflecting without completely killing the mood. The mood that pays my rent.
I’m scanning the room for my next table when something makes me pause. A shift in the atmosphere. Like the yellow cloudy moment before a storm breaks.
In the far corner, where the lighting dims to almost nothing, sits a table I hadn’t noticed before, occupied by four men in suits, but they’re not like the usual clientele. These aren’t tech bros trying to impress dates or real estate agents celebrating a sale. They sit with the kind of stillness that suggests violence is always an option, even when they’re drinking thousand-dollar scotch.
The one at the head of the table commands attention without trying. In a black suit and black tie, with black hair swept back from a face that could’ve been carved from marble, he holds my attention longer than is appropriate. He’s not laughing at hiscompanions’ conversation or checking his phone or scanning the room for entertainment.
He’s watching me.
Heat crawls up my spine, and I force myself to look away. He’s just another wealthy asshole, who thinks his money makes him interesting. I’ve served plenty of them. Yet when I steal another glance, those gray eyes are still fixed on me with an intensity that makes my heart stutter and contradicts my dismissive assessment.
I grab an empty tray from the bar and head toward the restrooms, needing a moment to collect myself. The hallway back here is dimmer and quieter, a pocket of relative calm in the chaos of the club. I lean against the wall and close my eyes, trying to shake off the feeling of being watched.
“Sabrina.”
I know that voice before I turn around. Carter Williams, a local wannabe entrepreneur, thinks owning two food trucks makes him some kind of business mogul. He’s been coming to Haus Modesto for months, always sitting at the bar, always ordering the same whiskey sour, and always trying to convince whoever will listen that he’s about to “disrupt the mobile dining industry.”
Tonight, he’s had too much to drink. I can tell by the way he’s swaying slightly, his usually perfectly styled hair mussed and his shirt untucked.
“Hey, Carter.” I keep my voice light, professional. “Having a good night?”
“Would be better if you’d finally let me take you out.” He steps closer, crowding me against the wall. “Come on, babe. You’ve been playing hard to get for months. When are you gonna give a guy a chance?”
The alcohol on his breath makes me wince, but I maintain my smile. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not really dating anyone right now.”
“That’s not what I heard.” His hand comes up to rest against the wall beside my head. “Heard you’re just picky. Think you’re too good for a guy like me.”
“That’s not?—”
“I’ve got money, Sabrina. Real money. Not like these tech assholes throwing daddy’s cash around. I built something from nothing.”
I try not to wrinkle my noise as his alcohol-laced breath blasts my face. “I know you did, and that’s really impressive, but?—”
His other hand lands on my waist, and I freeze. This isn’t the first time a customer has crossed the line, but something about Carter’s desperation tonight feels different. Dangerous.
“Just one date,” he says insistently, tightening his fingers. “One night, and I promise you’ll see what you’ve been missing.”
“Carter, I need you to step back.” I put my hands against his chest, trying to create distance without escalating the situation. “You’re drunk, and you’re making me uncomfortable.”