It shouldn’t bother me. I knew I didn’t come first when I started dating him, but somehow, someway, I believed he would change over time.
Sometimes, I really wish he wouldn’t call me while I was at work. But it’s really his shtick not to care about my times. Just like he doesn’t care about virtually anything I do … or say … or want. Sometimes, I wonder why we’re together at all. Or if he even likes me beyond the sex—which isn’t even that great, if you ask me. In and out, wham bam, thank you, ma’am. That’s it.
And he always gets so angry with me for no apparent reason—mismatched socks, burned food, missing keys—all of which he takes out on me. But then he comes home with these gifts again and again and reminds me that he loves me, so I forgive him.
“Amelia,” the bartender calls, pulling me from my thoughts, “table sixteen. In the back.”
“Got it,” I reply. Picking up the glass and bowl of nuts, I move between all the customers eagerly watching the show on stage. Some of them slap my bum when I walk past, but it doesn’t even faze me anymore. When I first started out here, it took me a long time to feel comfortable in my own skin wearing these skimpy clothes and having all these men stare at my boobs and touch my ass, but I’ve grown used to it.
At least here I get touched. At home, not so much.
I walk up to my first customer of the day, smile happily, and say, “Here you go, sir.” I place the drink and bowl of nuts in front of him.
“Oh … the other girl gone or something?” he asks, grabbing a handful of nuts and shoving them in his mouth, chewing loudly.
“I’m taking over her shift,” I reply, clearing my throat. “But don’t worry, I’m more than happy to serve you.”
He looks me up and down and licks his lips, then swallows. “Yeah … you’ll do …”
Suddenly, he grabs my waist and pulls me closer, forcing me down on his lap.
“Sir, please,” I say, still trying to stay polite even though he’s manhandling me. “Don’t.”
“What’s your problem? This’s what you’re here for, right?” He fiddles with my top to try to get the buttons to pop, but I move away out of his arms. However, he forces me right back down onto his lap again, his grip too strong for me.
“C’mon, just a peek.”
“Sir, please, stop. I am just a waitress,” I say, turning around to look at him so I can reason with him. “There are plenty of girls on and off stage who—”
“Fuck those girls, I want a private dancer,” he murmurs in my ear, clearly already intoxicated. “C’mon, do a little lap dance for me, will you?”
Sometimes I give them to customers, yes, but not guys who are so drunk and rowdy they can’t keep their hands off. I don’t want to fight him, but if I have no choice … should I do it? Knowing I could lose my job?
“Let her go.”
His booming voice is the first thing I hear before I actually see him. The man who was seated in the adjacent booth is now leaning against this booth. A buff man in a suit with slick brown hair, a strong, square jaw, and smoldering green eyes. A man who instantly takes my breath away … because it’s him. The guy I saw at the library.
I’ve seen plenty of guys come and go in this club, but none quite as expensive-looking as him, and he seems totally out of place.
I freeze even though I’m still seated on the lap of a drunken stranger.
Something about this man feels dangerous … almost exciting.
“What the fuck do you want?” the guy holding my waist says to the man.
The man’s thin lips twitch, almost as if he intended to smirk but then stopped himself right before he did. His eyes narrow, and he reaches into his pocket. Slowly, he takes out a gun with a silencer on it and points it right at the stranger.
My eyes widen, and I gasp in shock.
He puts a finger to his lips and shushes me.
“We can do this the hard way if you want,” he says, raising his brows at the stranger.
The drunk immediately takes his hands off my body.
“I’m not looking for trouble,” he says, hands in the air.
The man in the suit beckons me to get up, so I do, and I quickly move away from the guy.
“Now. Get up and go,” the stranger tells the touchy-feely drunk.
“What? Why? What did I do?” he whines.
The stranger doesn’t reply. Instead, he takes off the safety.
Sweat drips down the drunken guy’s forehead, and my nails dig into the leather seating.
“Leave,” the guy in the suit hisses.