a sucky little thing called the stress of life.
Beck has been bugging me to hit up his party, and while I’m not much of a partier, I decide to go and attempt to let my hair down for a few hours.
At work, I count down the hours until I’m off while trying to decide what to wear since Beck insisted that the party was definitely a strict black-dress dress code. I cracked a joke when he reminded me of that, telling him I was excited to see what dress he was going to wear. Beck, being the goofball that he is, replied with a, “Just you wait. It’s really sexy. Probably even sexier than yours.” I laughed, already feeling better and growing even more eager to get away from the soul-draining apartment.
My eagerness takes a nosedive when Van, my thirty-year-old manager, informs me that we need to talk.
“Come back into my office for a second, Willow,” he tells me as I’m passing by the bar, carrying an empty tray. He’s behind the bar with his long-sleeved shirt rolled up, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, and a contemplative look on his face.
“Okay.” I set the tray down on the countertop, wrestling back my anxiety.
I’m sure it’s nothing. You haven’t done anything wrong.
Part of me wishes I’ve messed up, that he’ll fire me or force me to quit. But it’s the only job I’ve been able to get over the last six months that can pay all the bills, my tuition, and support my mom.
I follow Van past the stage, the neon pink lights flickering as the song switches and a set of new dancers enter. A group of guys catcall and make obscene gestures while waving money in the air. The girls onstage don’t seem too bothered. Me? My stomach constricts to the point that I feel sick. In fact, for the last month of working here, I’ve had a constant stomachache, either from the environment or from my guilt.
When Van and I reach the back hallway, he motions for me to follow him into his office. Then he closes the door.
“Have a seat,” he says, plopping down into the chair behind his cluttered desk.
I sit down, resisting the urge to tug on the bottom of my shorts as his eyes sweep over me. He’s silent as he lights up a cigarette and takes a long drag.
“So,” he starts, a cloud of smoke puffing from his lips, “you’re probably wondering why I asked you back here.”
I nervously nod. “I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?”
He ashes the cigarette into a dark green ashtray, causing flakes of ash to circle the smoky air. “No, not at all. You’re doing a great job, sweetheart.”
I cringe at the sweetheart reference then hold my breath, sensing a but coming.
“But I’d really like to move you on stage. You’re a beautiful girl.” His eyes drink in the cleavage peeking out of my top. “It’s such a waste to have you down on the floor. You deserve to be in the spotlight.”
Deserve. As if it’s a reward.
“I’m not sure I’d be very good up there.” I wipe my damp palms on the tops of my legs. Stay calm, Willow. “I don’t even know how to dance.”
He sucks in another long drag from the cigarette. “It’s not really about the dancing. All you need to do is show some skin and work the pole. I can have the girls teach you a few moves if that makes you feel more comfortable.”
More comfortable? Yeah, like that’d ever happen.
“I appreciate the offer, Van.” I will my voice steady. “But I really would just prefer to stay on as a waitress.”
He grazes his thumb along the end of the cigarette. “You’d probably make triple what you’re bringing in now.”
For an insanely stupid moment, I consider his offer. Triple what I’m making? That’d be enough to pay for my mom’s rent and get my own place. Then I picture getting up on stage, wearing pretty much nothing, and vomit burns at the back of my throat.
I cross my arms and legs, feeling too exposed. “I think I’ll just stay on as a waitress if that’s okay.”
He puts out the cigarette and leans forward. “Look, Willow, you seem like a sweet girl, which is why I think you’d be so great on stage. Guys love the whole innocent, tortured act you’ve got going on.”
That’s how he sees me?
“But, when I hire my waitresses,” he continues, overlapping his hands on his desk, “it’s