Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 92254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“Seriously, what’s up with you?” Vadim asks, nudging me with an elbow. “You said it was just acid reflux.”
“I know. I have to get some of that Prilosec stuff.”
“Need money?”
I snort and wave him away. “Like you have any.”
“I’ve got stuff cooking.”
“I’m fine. Thanks though.” I finish the toast and look at him. “You want me to make you something?”
He grins. My older brother’s a lot of things, but he can be charming sometimes. “Nah, I’m good.”
Club Shade’s too damn loud. My head’s pounding after an hour of running drinks. Two drunk guys are shouting their order into my ear and one leans in close enough to put a hand on my ass.
The fucker. I gently extract it, but he puts it there again. He’s leering at me, but so far, he’s already given me fifty bucks in tips.
“Vodka tonic,” he screams over the music. “And your number.”
“I’ll be back with that drink.”
“And the number!” This time, he straight up palms my left butt cheek while his friend gawks, practically swaying on his feet.
I take the hand off my ass and return it to the drunk idiot. “If you touch me again, I’m going to break a bottle and shove it straight up your fucking rectum, do you hear me? You’ll shit blood until you expire in your own filth.”
His mouth drops open and I walk away before he can say anything.
That was probably a little too graphic and not a smart move, but I feel like crap and I’m tired of taking it from these grabby dickweeds. Not everyone that comes to this club tries to sexually harass the staff, but some of them definitely do.
I swear, the owner practically invites these people. He’s my age, only twenty years old, a loudmouth named Saro that thinks it’s cool to flaunt his guns and his money. Shade’s one of the worst-run businesses in the world, and yet it still manages to turn a profit every month, almost like money’s getting funneled in here from somewhere else.
Not my problem. I mean, I’m definitely curious, but not my problem.
I order the drinks at the bar and give myself a little break while they’re made. The place is crowded tonight with the usual crowd. Young people out for a good time, hustlers looking for a mark, girls looking for husbands, addicts and dealers looking for a score. Shade’s decorated like a crypto bro’s fever dream ideal of a Euro group sex club. Lots of glitter, lots of mirrors, and sticky stinking floors.
“You’re looking a little pale!” Enrico the bartender shouts as he plops the drinks on my tray. “You good tonight?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him, getting sick of defending myself. But he’s right. I’m sweaty and shaky, and I can feel myself fighting against the need to evacuate my stomach contents yet again.
I carry the drinks over to my customers but they’re not at the high top anymore. I dump the drinks there and catch sight of a cigarette floating in a martini glass stained with red lipstick, and that sends me over the edge. I don’t even know why, but my stomach twists, and I have to basically run toward the back of the building.
The bathrooms in Shade are hell. Seriously, they’re the worst place in the world. The stalls are only cleaned once a day and basically anything goes inside of them. I can’t guess how many blowjobs have happened on those disgusting toilets or how many girls have ridden drunk morons right there on the toilet seat, and I don’t want to know. Instead, I bang into the Staff Only door and spring into the boss’s private office.
He’s never here, thank God, but he’s got his own little powder room. I slam the door, lock it, and proceed to lose it for the next few minutes.
I’m covered in a sheen of sweat when I finish. I have no idea what’s happening with me. I want to splash water on my face, but that’ll only ruin my makeup. Instead, I fan myself with paper towels and lean up against the wall.
Mom’s right. I need to see a doctor. But what Vadim said starts to bother me.
I know he was joking—but what if he’s right?
I haven’t had sex since that night with Arsen, and I haven’t seen him around the building since.
We weren’t careful though, and what if I really did get pregnant?
I push the thought away. No way in hell is that happening. Mom’s my focus right now, and I’m not letting myself get distracted by some stupid what-ifs.
Instead, I remind myself why I put up with this horrible job—money, Mom’s cancer—and slip out of the bathroom.
The thing about Saro’s office is it’s in the very back of the building. The music’s not as loud and he’s got his own exit into the alley right outside in the hall. The door’s open and light spills in from outside. Cool spring air blows against the little hairs on my arms. I’ve never actually seen this door open before, and my God, I should just head back to the dance floor and start slinging overpriced alcohol some more.