Page 22

Chapter Twenty-One

Tasha

It’s only my fourth shift at The Oasis, but it already feels like I’ve been doing this forever.

I step into the back room, the harsh fluorescent lights flickering above me as I make my way to the rows of beat-up metal lockers.

My feet are already aching, and the night hasn’t even started yet.

Opening my locker, I toss in my purse and quickly change into the uniform. The tight, low-cut tank top hugs the swells of my breasts and the black shorts ride a little too high for comfort.

As I tie my frilly apron around my waist, that familiar queasiness hits me again.

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath to calm my stomach.

Glancing down at my belly, I smooth my hand over it.

Is it just my imagination, or am I starting to show already?

It feels impossible. It’s too early, isn’t it?

But then again, I am carrying three babies.

Shaking my head, I try to brush the thought away. I don’t have time to worry about that right now. I’ve got bills to pay, and this job is the only thing keeping me afloat.

I slam my locker shut, steeling myself for yet another long night.

I can do this , I tell myself. I have to.

I step out onto the casino floor, bombarded by the sounds of clinking glasses, slot machines, and laughter.

The Oasis is a world unto itself, a wild attempt to recreate the beaches of Jamaica inside the heart of Vegas’s desert.

Huge faux palm trees are scattered around, their green plastic fronds swaying in the breeze from ceiling fans.

The walls are painted with vivid murals of beaches at sunset and crashing waves. The warm, orange-colored overhead lights add to the effect.

The air is thick with the scent of coconut and rum, mingling with the tang of spilled beer.

Tiki torches cast a soft glow over the bar area, where bartenders are already whipping up a colorful array of tropical cocktails in giant glass goblets.

Everything is designed to make patrons forget they’re in the middle of the desert. It’s all meant to trick them into thinking they’ve been whisked away to a tropical paradise.

I plaster on a smile as I approach my first table, a group of eight guys, already halfway through a pitcher of something neon-colored.

“Hey there, gentlemen! What can I get started for you tonight?” I ask, my voice bright and cheerful.

They laugh and joke as I take their orders, most of them opting for the bar’s signature drink, the “Oasis Punch”.

One of them tries to make a joke about getting “extra punch” if I bring it myself, and I force a laugh, scribbling their orders down on my notepad.

Just as I’m about to walk away from the table, one of the men, a guy in a red Hawaiian shirt with graying hair, slides his hand across my ass. The sudden touch makes my skin crawl, but I force myself to keep that bright, fake smile plastered on my face.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, his voice low and sleazy. “If you’re a good girl, maybe we’ll leave you a big tip tonight.”

He winks, his eyes lingering on my chest in a way that makes my stomach turn.

I want to tell him off, to throw his drink in his face, but instead, I swallow down the anger. I’ve learned that confronting these kinds of guys doesn’t help—it just cuts into my tips.

I pull away from him, taking a step back, my smile never faltering.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I say lightly, turning on my heel before he can say anything else.

As I walk away, my hands are shaking, and I feel a surge of anger mixed with disgust. This job may pay the bills, but it comes with a cost; one that’s wearing me down a little more every day.

I punch the order into the computer, my fingers tapping a little harder than necessary.

Stephanie, one of the other waitresses, sidles up next to me, her bright pink lipstick and blonde hair making her look like she stepped out of a 90s music video.

“Everything okay?” she asks, chewing her gum with a loud snap.

I sigh, rolling my eyes. “Table six, the guy in the red shirt. Got a little too handsy,” I mutter under my breath.

Stephanie lets out a sympathetic groan. “Ugh, I know the type. They think just because they’re spending money, they can treat us like we’re part of the menu.”

She smirks, giving me a nudge with her hip. “You want me to keep an eye on them while you take a quick break?”

I nod, grateful for the momentary reprieve. “Thanks, Steph. I just need to run to the bathroom.”

“Take your time,” she says with a wink. “I got this.”

I head toward the back hallway, my mind racing. As much as I want to trust Stephanie, I know she’s not exactly the most reliable coworker.

I wouldn’t put it past her to get distracted or wander off, leaving the table unattended. But right now, I can’t worry about that.

I need a minute to catch my breath, to stop the nauseous churning in my stomach before I end up puking in the middle of the casino floor.

I try to shake off the feeling that everything’s spiraling out of control, but it’s getting harder to convince myself that I’m holding it all together, especially when I see the creep from my table staring at me as I walk away.

I push through the bathroom door, grateful to find that it’s a single-person arrangement. The fluorescent light flickers as I step inside, the harsh white tiles almost too bright against the dingy walls.

It’s small but clean enough. There’s a toilet, a sink, and a mirror with a crack running through it. I turn to shut the door behind me, needing just a few moments to breathe, to pull myself together before I head back out.

But as I turn, my heart leaps into my throat. Standing in the doorway, blocking my only exit, is the guy from table six, the one in the red Hawaiian shirt.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he slurs, his breath heavy with the stench of alcohol.

Panic shoots through me like a lightning bolt. My instincts scream at me to run, but there’s nowhere to go. I open my mouth to scream, but before I can make a sound, his hand clamps over my lips, muffling the noise.

I try to pull away, my hands flailing, but he’s too strong. He shoves me backward, slamming the door shut behind him with a loud thud that seems to echo in the tiny space. The sound of the lock clicking into place makes my blood run cold.

My heart races, pounding so hard it feels like it’s about to burst out of my chest. I struggle against him, but his grip is iron-tight, his fingers digging painfully into my face.

Fear consumes me, a cold sweat breaking out on my skin. Oh God, someone help me!

Just as I’m about to scream again, the door behind me explodes open with a deafening crash, the lock splintering from the wood frame.

The sudden rush of air hits my face, and the pressure of the man’s hand on my mouth vanishes. I stumble forward, gasping for breath, my pulse thundering in my ears.

Before I can even process what’s happening, I hear a furious roar.

I whirl around to see Brody – Brody – charging into the tiny bathroom like an unstoppable force. His thick fist connects with the guy’s jaw with a sickening crunch, the impact sending the creep flying across the floor.

The man crumples against the tiles, groaning, blood already trickling from his nose.

Brody’s eyes are ablaze, wild with fury as he stands over the man, fists clenched like he’s ready to strike again.

But then his gaze falls to me, and the rage in his expression melts into concern, desperation, and fear.

“Tasha…are you okay?” he asks, his voice shaky.

I try to nod, but the adrenaline, the shock, the exhaustion: all of it hits me like a tidal wave. My vision blurs, the edges of the room turning fuzzy and dark.

The nausea I’ve been holding back all day surges, but there’s no strength left in me to fight it.

“Brody…” I whisper, reaching out for him, but my knees give way.

The world tilts, and the last thing I see are Brody’s arms reaching out to catch me as everything goes black.