Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
From the neck up, I look like myself. From the neck down, I look like a cocktail waitress at a mafia-run casino.
I try a spin in the full-length mirror, checking all the angles. The black skirt is clingy, shorter than anything I ever wore in LA, and has a habit of riding up whenever I move. There’s no hiding my hips or my ass. Both of them are present, accounted for, and, at this moment, staring back at me in the reflective glass with more confidence than I actually feel.
The moment is interrupted by the unmistakable thump of my mother’s footsteps pounding up the stairs. June Bardot does not tiptoe, she invades. Her fists rap once on my door before she bursts in with the energy of a woman who has spent a lifetime herding daughters and putting out the emotional fires they start.
“God above, Naomi, is that the skirt they issued you?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. She’s already halfway across the room, hands reaching out to pinch the hem between her fingers. “This is a cocktail napkin, not a skirt. Are you sure they don’t have you confused with the entertainment?”
I dodge her hands and snatch at the waistband, laughing. “It’s the uniform, Mom. It’s required. They want ‘upscale, non-threatening, and on brand.’” I do jazz hands on the last phrase. “And before you ask, no, I do not get tips for showing extra thigh.”
My mother squints at me, skeptical. “I’m going to find your old ballet tights,” she mutters, already mentally ransacking the deepest recesses of my closet. “Hopefully they can hide a little of what that skirt is displaying.” She tugs the skirt down another half-inch, as if the fabric will surrender to pure maternal will.
My mother and I look nothing alike, except for the hair. She’s all soft edges and a faded prettiness that hints at prom queens and picnic dates, a gentle fortitude radiating from her every pore. I am not gentle. My figure is the definition of “problematic.”
She steps back, hands on hips, and gives me the kind of head-to-toe scan usually reserved for drug sniffing dogs at the airport. “Wear a cardigan,” she decrees. “You’ll thank me. It gets cold in air conditioning and some of those rich weirdos will get ideas.”
I roll my eyes, digging around my closet for the ancient black cardigan I haven’t worn since the third week of community college. “I’m working, not dating,” I remind her. “And the dress code is non-negotiable.”
My mother doesn’t buy it, but she’s distracted by the parade of shoes lined up under my bed. She bends down to straighten a pair of boots, then stands and smooths the front of her own slacks with a sigh.
The doorway darkens as Casey appears, grinning at the familiar scene. My little sister has always been the queen of entrances, and tonight she’s in rare form. I can’t believe she got the bleach-blonde hair with pink tips past June Bardot. More power to her, I guess. Her ripped vintage t-shirt, and tight jeans looks like they might be cutting off circulation. I’m not surprised to see the glittery phone case clutched in one hand.
“Well, well, well,” she purrs, arms folded and leaning against the doorframe, “if it isn’t the grand debut of Silver Spoon Falls’ very own cocktail dominatrix.”
Our mother snorts in exasperation, slapping her palm against her forehead. “Casey, for heaven’s sake.”
“Just saying what we’re all thinking,” Casey chirps, then points at my shoes. “You wearing those clunky flats? You’ll never catch a sugar daddy in orthopedic footwear, Nomes.”
“That’s the whole point,” I roll my eyes dramatically. “I’m there to serve drinks, not audition for The Bachelor Leather and Lace Edition.”
Casey giggles, which makes me want to both punch her and hug her, and in our family, that’s basically how we say I love you. She flops onto my unmade bed, catlike, and starts scrolling her phone without breaking eye contact. “You’re gonna see so much weird shit tonight,” she announces, her voice pure delight. “Is it true that they have, like, a dungeon?”
“That’s the rumor.” I tell my sister. “But I won’t really be seeing any of that stuff. My job is to serve drinks in the bar area. The rest of the club and the play areas are all off limits to the bar staff.” I regurgitate the spiel Roman Sterling gave me.
My mother ignores me as her voice drops into her, I really don’t want to hear this tone. “Casey Lynnette, stop with your questions. This is a respectable job—”
I choke on my own spit. “The ad said ‘exclusive’ and ‘private club,’” I interject. “They didn’t say respectable.”
My mother shoots me a death glare. “You know what I mean. It’s honest work. There’s nothing wrong with waitressing. It paid my way through college.”