Collide

Wren

“Look who just strolled in at her own convenience,” a sultry voice I recognize all too well, says, the minute I step into the club and head to the bar area.

I spin around, coming face to face with Teri. Teri manages the cocktail waitresses, making sure to keep them in line under the rules and guidance of the club manager, Mr. Grayson.

“I’m sorry, Teri. It was raining and—“

“Oh, shut up, Wren. It’s always one excuse or another with you. I don’t care if it was raining, or you got hit by an airplane. All I care about is for you to show up on time, and do your fucking job. Or do you want me to give your job to somebody else since you think you’re too big to come on time?” Teri asks.

She can’t do that. It’s not her job to fire or replace an employee, but I don’t have to tell her that. I know she’s sleeping with Mr. Bryson, and one flash of her tits at him, that man would bend over.

So I do what I do best, put my head down and obey.

“I’m sorry, Teri. It won’t happen again,” I say, avoiding eye contact.

“Oh, it better not. Or you’re gonna have to kiss this job goodbye and take your shitty attitude outside.”

I just nod.

She eyes me up and down and scoffs, her gaze lingering a little too long as she settles her gaze back on me.

“You’re working the VIP section today. Try not to throw yourself at the patron. You and I both know you can get slutty when you want.” She eyes me one last time before strutting away, swaying her hips side to side as she disappears.

I sigh, another reason I desperately want to quit this job. But I can’t, not with student loans piling, rent, bills, and my father’s constant need to spend all the money I’ve been saving to have a better life.

But who am I kidding? I may not belong here, with half the debauchery going on here a new thing to me, but I need the paycheck, because honestly, it’s a decent paycheck.

I remember my first night in this place. I was sinking in debt (most of them my father’s) and I was job hunting when I stumbled upon the flyer in a subway station, plastered between two other flyers. It was plain and simple. Female Waitress Needed. Requirements: Young, easy to follow rules, with no former experience necessary.

I don’t know why, but I had tore down the poster, taken it home, and gave them a call. They’d responded immediately. Asked me to come in that weekend, dress code: a black dress. It was simple.

The first thing that went through my mind when I stood outside the abandoned theater was that this was a joke. It couldn’t be real, because this place was long abandoned and it wasn’t functioning. But the orders were simple, I was meeting them there.

I had walked into the theater and two people were waiting for me. A man and a woman. They led me into a room in the corner and asked me a few questions, most of them concerning if I know what a sex club is and if I’d been willing to work inside one without questions. I pondered for a bit. I may have had a few idea about what a sex club is from the few erotic romance books I have read, but nothing prepared me for what was really going on in Sovereign. They gave me a list of information, rules, and regulations, and an NDA form to sign.

I didn’t think it through really. The only thing ringing through my head three months ago was that I needed money and I needed it fast. I just signed the form, went through the rules which were simple enough, and I was told I’ll be starting the following day.

Now three months later, it still feels like I’m way over my head. I try not to ask questions about what really goes on in the private rooms, I’ve learned not to make eye contact with anyone who can afford a private room, and I try not to look at the upstairs lounge where the rules don’t matter. Employees here call it “The Throne Room”. Nico Ravelli’s throne room.

I’ve never seen it—only caught glimpses when I glance up and spot the tinted glass high above the club floor. It’s like a watchtower, shadowed and silent, tucked behind blackout panels and one-way mirrors.

That’s where Nico Ravelli sits. Watches. Judges.

No one’s ever been summoned there, not even Teri with all her medically altered tits, and broad hips, even though she likes to lie that she’s been there once.

Desperate much.

I balance my tray in my hip, trying not to fall on my face in these ridiculous high heels as I make my way toward booth nine tucked away in the corner of the bar area. As I walk past, head up, eyes forward, I try to ignore the whistles and cat calls of these male patrons.

I stop by booth nine, and like all other VIP booths, they tease the idea of privacy, with blackout privacy curtains. It smells like cigar, perfume, secrets, and lust here, with two suited wealthy men occupying the booth and a woman in their middle.

The VIP booths are velvet booths and ultra exclusive, with each booth labeled with gold Roman numerals. Most of the people who gets the VIP booths are elite patrons, and wealthy clients. They tease, they flirt, they socialize. Because the rules in the lounge area is simple and clear. No sex and nudity allowed. You break any of these rules, you get kicked out, worse you get banned.

I settle the drinks on the table gracefully, trying not to let the heavy gazes of these men bother me. One of them throws a couple hundred dollar bills on the floor.

“Pick it up nice and slow,” one of the man says. He’s blonde, sharp jawline and a pouty lips. He’s obviously a spoiled brat who’s never worked a day in his life.

“Make sure to bend down and arch your back,” the second man says, brown eyes and dark hair, with a shit eating grin.

I want to throw the bottle at them, but I know better than to try. One, because I don’t have it in me, and two, these men could make me disappear. Just like that. Poof.

Perks of being a cocktail waitress is that these rich assholes would always throw degrading insults at you, and all you can do about it is smile and pretend you’re flattered. If they get handsy, which rarely ever happens because of the rules of the club which clearly forbids patrons from touching the staff, they get thrown out and banned.

Sovereign don’t play with their rules. They’re put there to protect everyone, including the staff and the clients. If you’re told not to do this, you’re expected to obey and not complain.

I don’t flinch, I don’t throw insults or glare at them. I plaster up a smile, like I’m not raging inside.

“If this is the part where I’m supposed to be humiliated, you gotta have to try harder next time,” I say, still flashing that smile as I bend down gracefully to pick up the money, one bill at a time.

Not because I want to. Not because I’m grateful. But because rent’s due, my dad’s a mess, and this place pays in power games and hundred-dollar bills. And if I’m going to sell pieces of myself to survive—might as well make them pay full price.

I stand to my full height, tucking the money, almost a thousand dollars, into my tray holster as I look these disgusting men in the eye.

“Also, your mommies called, you’re due back by 11,” and without another word, I strut off, shoulders held high and without looking back.

For the next few hours, I serve drinks to VIP booths, smiling as often as I can, and trying to act like I enjoy their overused pick up lines.

Finally break time comes, and I make my way toward the locker room. I open my locker, the steel door light in my hand as I look over my shoulder, careful one of the girls doesn’t see me or worse, Teri doesn’t catch me as I pull out my phone, slipping it between my breasts, and behind my corset top.

Shutting the door to my locker, I slip out of the locker room, in desperate need to breathe in natural air as I make my way toward the elevator. I swipe in my access card, press the floor button as I lean against the wall, counting the buttons as I ascend.

The elevators slide open and I step out into the lobby of the abandoned theater, and head toward the exit door reserved for staff. Unfortunately, it is locked. I twist the door knob again, pulling and twisting, all to no avail.

Fuck.

I sigh, hands on my waist as I briefly glance around before turning toward the hallway reserved for management and VIPs. I know I’m not supppsed to be here, I know that, but I also know that staff members are not allowed with their phones during work hours. But right now, I need to know my father is not in another mess like I suspected he is. Or worse, some hospital has been calling me that they found my father in a ditch, limbs broken, and maybe they’ve been trying to reach me but my phone’s off.

The private hallway is dimly lit, the air smells of cologne and something faint that I can’t point out, as I hasten my pace, desperate to breathe something that isn’t desire or lust, or sin.

I stop in front of the door, twisting the knob and it’s locked. I shut my eyes, trying to calm my nerves as I try my access card, it flashes red, denied. What was I thinking? That this door reserved for very important clientele of Sovereign would be easily accessible by cocktail waitress.

I groan, pulling my foot back to kick the door, but suddenly, the door opens before my foot can make contact. I step back immediately, out of instinct, trying and failing to come up with a lie for what I’m doing here, but my brain stops dead as I lock eyes with a pair of gray eyes.