Page 33 of To Her

Geri

"Hey, it's Tasha from the Underground. Got a minute?"

"Yeah, of course," I'd replied, stepping away from my workstation at the restaurant, ignoring James's questioning glance.

I'd felt a smile spread across my face, the first genuine one in days. "Definitely interested. When do I start?"

"This Friday work for you? I can show you the ropes before we open."

"Perfect," I'd said, already mentally planning my outfit, calculating how this would fit with my new day job that started Monday. "I'll be there at eight-thirty."

"Looking forward to it," she'd replied, and I could hear the smile in her voice. "See you Friday, Geri."

I'd hung up feeling a strange mix of excitement and relief. The Underground job wasn't just extra money—it was an anchor, a guaranteed reason to be out three nights a week, surrounded by noise and people and distractions. It was exactly what I needed.

I'd texted Alex immediately:

Got the door job at Underground. Start Friday. Meet me there when my shift ends at 1?

His response had been immediate:

Hell yes. Congrats! I'll bring the celebration.

I'd known exactly what kind of "celebration" he meant, and the thought had sent a pleasant shiver down my spine. More pills, more dancing, more mindless pleasure to drown out the emptiness. I couldn't wait.

Friday had arrived with agonizing slowness.

My last few shifts at the restaurant had been exercises in avoidance—ducking James's concerned glances, deflecting questions about my new jobs, keeping conversations superficial and brief.

By the time I'd clocked out on Friday afternoon, the tension between us had been thick enough to cut with a knife.

"So, tonight's your first night at that club?" he'd asked as I'd untied my apron, his tone carefully neutral.

"Yeah," I'd replied, not meeting his eyes. "Just working the door, taking money. Easy stuff."

He'd been quiet for a moment, and I'd felt his eyes on me, searching for something—what, I wasn't sure. "Be careful, Geri," he'd finally said, his voice soft. "That scene can get... intense."

I'd looked up then, irritation flaring. "I'm not a child, James. I can handle myself."

"I know you're not a child," he'd said, echoing our conversation from weeks before. "But I also know you're not in a great place right now."

"I'm fine," I'd snapped, the lie so familiar it had rolled off my tongue without thought. "And even if I wasn't, it's not your problem."

He'd flinched slightly at that, hurt flashing across his face before he'd schooled his expression back to neutral. "Right. Well, have fun tonight."

"I will," I'd replied, grabbing my bag and heading for the door without a backward glance.

The guilt had hit me halfway home—a brief, sharp pang that I'd quickly suppressed. James meant well, I knew that. But his concern felt like a weight, a responsibility I hadn't asked for and didn't want. It was easier to push him away, to burn that bridge like I'd burned so many others.

I'd arrived at The Underground at exactly 8:30, dressed in tight black jeans and a low-cut top that showed just enough cleavage to be distracting but not enough to be unprofessional.

My makeup had been heavier than usual, my hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail that emphasized my cheekbones and the long line of my neck.

Tasha had been waiting at the entrance, looking effortlessly cool in ripped jeans and a vintage band t-shirt, her tattoos on full display. She'd given me an appreciative once-over before nodding in approval.

"You'll do," she'd said with a small smile. "Come on, I'll show you around."

The tour had been brief—the main floor I'd already seen, plus a small office in the back where the night's take was counted, a staff room with lockers for personal belongings, and the VIP area upstairs that was only open on special occasions.

Then she'd walked me through my duties: taking the cover charge, stamping hands, checking IDs, keeping the line moving, and radioing security if there was any trouble.

"Most nights are pretty smooth," she'd explained as we'd set up the cash box at the entrance. "But some can get rowdy, especially around holidays. Don't be afraid to call for backup if someone gives you shit."

"Got it," I'd said, feeling a flutter of nervousness mixed with excitement. This was real—a new job, a new scene, a new version of myself taking shape.

"Oh, and one more thing," Tasha had added, her expression turning serious. "I know what goes on in clubs like this. I'm not naive. But keep your own shit under control, okay? I don't care what you do on your own time, but when you're on the clock, you're representing The Underground."

I'd nodded, understanding the unspoken warning. "Absolutely. I'm here to work."

She'd held my gaze for a moment longer, then nodded, apparently satisfied. "Good. Let's open up."

The first night had passed in a blur of faces and cash and the steady thump of bass from inside. I'd fallen into a rhythm quickly—take money, stamp hand, check ID, next. The hours had flown by, and before I knew it, it was 1 am and Tasha was coming to relieve me.

"Not bad for your first night," she'd said, counting the cash in the box. "You're a natural."

"Thanks," I'd replied, feeling a glow of satisfaction that had nothing to do with the job itself and everything to do with the approval in her eyes.

"Go have fun," she'd said, nodding toward the club's interior. "You've earned it."

I'd spotted Alex immediately, lounging at the bar with a drink in hand, his eyes scanning the crowd. When he'd seen me, his face had lit up with a smile that had sent a jolt of desire straight to my core.

"Look at you, all professional," he'd teased as I'd approached, his eyes roaming appreciatively over my body. "How was it?"

"Good," I'd replied, sliding onto the stool beside him. "But I'm ready for that celebration now."

His smile had turned knowing, and he'd reached into his pocket, discreetly pressing a small pill into my palm. "Happy first day."

I'd swallowed it without hesitation, chasing it with the drink he'd ordered for me. The familiar warmth had started to spread through my veins within minutes, the edges of reality softening, colours becoming more vibrant, sounds more textured.

"Dance with me," I'd said, pulling him toward the crowded floor, already feeling the music pulsing through me like a second heartbeat.

We'd moved together in the press of bodies, his hands on my hips, my arms around his neck, the space between us charged with electricity.

The drug had heightened every sensation—the slide of his hands down my back, the brush of his lips against my ear, the hardness of him pressing against me through our clothes.

"God, you're beautiful," he'd murmured, his breath hot against my skin. "Want to get out of here?"

I'd nodded, too far gone to form words, desire coursing through me like liquid fire. We'd stumbled out of the club and into a waiting taxi, hands wandering, mouths hungry, the ride to his place a blur of sensation and need.

The sex had been frantic, desperate—clothes torn off and discarded, bodies colliding with bruising force, pleasure so intense it had bordered on pain. I'd lost myself in it, in the pure physical sensation that drowned out all thought, all emotion except the building pressure of release.

When it had finally come, it had been explosive, leaving me trembling and gasping for breath, my body slick with sweat, my mind blissfully, temporarily empty of everything except the afterglow of pleasure.

I'd fallen asleep in his arms, the drug still humming through my system, and for once, I hadn't dreamed of Con.

I started taking more drugs, and had finished up working with James at the restaurant. I started my new job in the city and worked Friday, Saturday, and Sunday at The Underground, where I got on pills after work and danced all night long.

The pattern had established itself quickly—weekdays at the medical call centre, taking appointments and fielding complaints with mechanical efficiency, weekends at The Underground, collecting cover charges and stamping hands before diving into a night of chemical bliss and physical abandon.

The call centre job had been exactly as mind-numbing as I'd hoped—a steady stream of irritated patients and harried doctors, all wanting something immediately, none of them caring about the person on the other end of the line.

I'd excelled at it precisely because it required nothing of me emotionally.

I'd show up, do my job, go home. No attachments, no expectations, no one looking at me with concern or disappointment.

My coworkers had been pleasant enough, in a distant sort of way.

We'd exchanged pleasantries in the break room, complained about difficult callers, occasionally shared lunch orders.

But none of them had tried to get close, to really know me, and I'd kept it that way deliberately—answering personal questions with vague generalities, declining invitations to after-work drinks, keeping my weekends to myself.

"You're so mysterious," one of the receptionists, a bubbly blonde named Megan, had commented one day. "Always rushing off on Fridays. Hot date?"

"Something like that," I'd replied with a noncommittal smile, not bothering to correct her assumption.

The truth—that I spent my weekends in a haze of drugs and anonymous sex—would have shocked her, I was sure.

Sweet, proper Megan with her engagement ring and her weekend plans with her fiancé.

She lived in a different world than I did, one where people made plans and kept promises and built futures together.

My world had narrowed to the cycle of work and escape, each day bleeding into the next with little to distinguish them except the intensity of the high, the face of the stranger in my bed, the depth of the emptiness that followed.