Page 113 of Faking the Goal

"Another round?" I ask a table of suits who've been here since nine, their ties loose, their eyes glassy. One of them—balding, wedding ring—reaches for my wrist as I set down their drinks.

"Come sit with us for a minute, sweetheart."

"You can keep dreaming, handsome," I say with a grin, untangling my wrist from his hand. "I've still got other tables to charm."

They laugh. I'm not sure if they're laughing with me or at me, but it doesn't matter as long as they tip.

Gentlemen's Night is always a zoo, but tonight feels especially feral.

The club is still thumping with bass and blue-purple lights, the air thick with perfume, sweat, whiskey, and too many men with too much money and not enough boundaries. I've been smiling so hard for so long my cheeks feel numb. My feet are killing me. My back feels like it might actually split in half if one more man snaps his fingers at me for another drink.

And still, I smile.

Still, I laugh at jokes that aren't funny.

Still, I lean just enough into the flirting to keep the tips coming, because that's part of the job too.

Not the stripping part—I'm not one of the dancers. I work the floor, take orders, carry drinks, keep tables happy, and spend an alarming amount of time dodging wandering hands with a smile pasted on my face. The dancers have their own rules, their own stage, their own boundaries to set or blur however they choose. Me? I'm cocktail service and crowd management with lip gloss.

Unfortunately, half the men in here seem to hear cocktail waitress and translate it to woman who would love to be grabbed by a stranger for twenty dollars and a mediocre compliment.

Thankfully, Velvet's bouncers don't play about that.

Which is why I'm especially glad Conrad's on tonight.

All the girls love Conrad, and not in the "he's hot and mysterious, let's ruin our lives over him" way—though, to be fair, he does have that whole giant, tattooed, broody thing going for him. No, we love him because when Conrad's working, the entire place feels safer. He's built like someone who bench-presses motorcycles for fun, all broad shoulders and scarred knuckles and black ink curling down both arms. There's an old scar slashing through his right eyebrow and disappearing toward his temple, the kind that makes drunk men think twice before trying something stupid.

Which is good, because stupid men are basically Velvet's main export.

Conrad doesn't hover, doesn't posture, doesn't act like we're fragile little birds in need of saving every five minutes. He just watches like a hawk. And the second one of us looks uncomfortable, he's there, all six-foot-whatever of him materializing beside the table with that flat, terrifying stare that says try it again and see what happens.

Earlier tonight, he'd already had to step in when a group of wasted finance bros at table twelve kept whistling at me every time I walked by and insisting I give them lap dances. Which, for the record, is not a service I provide and also not a sentence I enjoy repeating seventeen times to grown men who should know better.

Conrad handled it the same way he handles everything—calm, cold, and one heartbeat away from violence if necessary.

They backed off after that.

By closing, my body is held together entirely by spite.

I finish wiping down the last stretch of bar, cash out my receipts, help lock the side entrance, and by the time everything is finally done, I'm so exhausted I could probably lie down on the sticky floor and sleep through the morning cleaning crew.

I've been running myself fucking ragged trying to keep up with everything. Between work, papers, the winter issue deadline, and studying for finals, I feel like every hour of every day already belongs to something.

I should probably be cutting back on shifts right now and using the extra time to study like a responsible college student with her priorities in order.

Cute idea.

Unfortunately, responsible college students still have rent, groceries, utilities, and a bank account that starts wheezing every time they open it.

So I've been doing what I always do. Juggling everything and hoping none of the balls hit me directly in the face.

Except I think I've finally pushed myself a little too fucking far.

I've felt increasingly shitty for the last few hours. It started with that heavy, sluggish feeling I blamed on being tired, but now my throat feels scratchy, my head has this dull pressure behind my eyes, and I'm alternating between feeling too warm and getting random little chills beneath my clothes.

Shit.

I know this feeling.