Skylar... you can do this. You've been doing this every day. It's not the first time.
I scolded myself for hesitating, forcing my feet to move as I stepped out of the washroom.
My uniform was too damn short, barely grazing my thighs, and the irritation of it gnawed at me. Mr. Lance had requested me to serve in the VIP section tonight.
I didn't know why—I'd never worked there before, always sticking to the regular areas.
Except for the one time I covered for a friend. And that was a mess in itself.
But now, the anger coiled tighter in my stomach. I was already sick of working here.
The harassment was relentless, the hands that reached, the eyes that lingered too long. And Mr. Lance? He didn't care.
He turned a blind eye to it all. Hell, the man once fired someone for turning down a customer's advances. What the hell would the VIP section be like? I didn't want to find out. But I had no choice—my rent had to be paid or I'd be out on the streets.
I cursed under my breath as I adjusted the skirt, a desperate attempt to make it a little longer, though I knew it wouldn't do much.
This job—this life—was suffocating me, and the weight of it was crushing. One wrong move, one more touch, and I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold myself together.
"Skylar!" I snapped out of my thoughts at the sound of her voice. It was Riley, my best friend, her eyes filled with concern.
"Where have you been? Mr. Lance's been looking for you," she said, shoving a tray of drinks into my hands. "He said the guest in VIP is of great importance. You know what that means," she added, the word 'importance' hanging in the air like a noose.
I sighed, exhaustion seeping deep into my bones. "Fine. But don't expect any promises." I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to go to that hellhole, but I had no choice. Not anymore.
I could feel her eyes on me as I walked away, but there was nothing she could say that would change my mind.
This job was a nightmare I couldn't wake up from. I just had to make it through.
When I reached the VIP section,
the bouncers parted like I was royalty, but it didn't feel like power. It felt like a cage.
The lounge was everything I expected: dim red lights, rich, opulent furniture, and that sickly sweet scent of excess. A lone glowing box of wine sat on a silver stand, mocking me with its shiny façade.
I set the trays down quickly, my hands shaking as I rearranged the bottles.
"You're one of the pretty ones," a voice rumbled, thick with lechery.
I glanced up. A man in his late 50s, gray hair slicked back with too much product, leered at me from his seat.
His gaze was predatory, and the woman on his arm was too busy playing with her hair to notice the disgust on my face.
I turned to leave, but before I could, I felt his cold fingers clamp down on my arm.
The next thing I knew, I was thrown onto his lap. My stomach churned with disgust. I struggled, every muscle in my body screaming to break free, but his grip was unyielding.
"What do you say, Mami?" he purred, his rancid breath hot against my ear. "Come with me tonight. I can make all the reservations you want."
I gagged inwardly, the urge to puke rising in my throat. This was the moment, the breaking point. I couldn't let him do this—not again, not ever.
I acted without thinking. Spitting in his face, I kicked his shin with all the force I could muster. He released me with a curse, his hand flying to his face, rage flashing across his features.
"Go to hell," I spat, my voice cold, void of fear. The weight of my dignity mattered more than this damn job. More than whatever punishment Mr. Lance would mete out.
Just as I turned to leave, a voice sliced through the tension. "What's going on here?"
I froze. The anger in that voice was unmistakable. And I knew, at that moment, I was in so much troube.