Page 7 of The Senator: Raphael

I open the attachment the professor sent and find a scan of my paper with a circled red A+ at the top and notes about books I should read to dig deeper into the topic. I write down the titles and hope to find some student online willing to sell me a copy.

I type and delete my answer five times before stopping and closing my laptop. What I want to say I can’t write in an email. It’s not even a conversation I could have in person in a public place. It would have to be confessed in a whisper in the privacy of someone’s home, and even there it wouldn’t be safe.

I move into the living room and grab some grapes to eat while I watch TV. There’s nothing much on, but I catch the end of a special about the upcoming elections showing Raphael Wyden shaking hands with the president of a women’s charity organization. I have mixed feeling about that guy. He seems genuinely committed to helping people, the only politician who doesn’t give me the creeps. But I always see him coming and going at the nightclub, conversing and leaving with a redhead who Lola says is an escort. At least he doesn’t have a girlfriend or a wife. I give him credit for not cheating on some poor woman like most of the guys who frequent the club.

***

I walk into the changing room at the nightclub and put on my latest purchase. The bustier looks good on my slim waist and the sequined shorts are sexy but still cover me adequately.

“You look gorgeous. Are you trying to steal all our men?” Sabrina, one of the baristas, slaps my butt jokingly.

“Oh, no. They’re all yours!” I smile as I put my phone in my locker and walk out with her.

“One day you’ll realize how much more money you’d make if you gave them more of your time, and then we’ll all be screwed.” She winks at me before entering the main room where the lights are dim, making the place look more luxurious.

The girls always make fun of me for being one of the few that don’t go out with clients. All the bartenders here, men and women, top up their wages at the end of their shift by meeting some client’s expectation. I’m not comfortable doing that.

I walk behind the bar and let Elvira know she can take off. She smiles at me, blows a kiss in my direction and sways her way toward a tall man in his mid-forties that I know has a wife waiting for him at home. I saw pictures of them online on vacation at some Aruba resort not even two weeks ago.

I put some ice in the container in front of me and busy myself rearranging the bottles behind the bar. This place is strange. It’s a nightclub, so people spend most of their time in the main area where the bar is, but we’re in the VIP restricted area upstairs, where people come not to dance but to relax a bit on the couches before going back to the main area to dance or somewhere more private with the girl they choose. There’s music coming from downstairs but it’s not so loud you can’t talk.

Basically, this is where everyone comes to chill and relax. I’m okay with this because it means I don’t have to rush with the orders. The bar is never crowded, and people don’t complain much if you take too long to prepare a drink. They’re usually fine with ogling our outfits and dumping a load of cash for our tips. More money, less work. The girls downstairs have it much worse.

“Sweetie, when do you finish working tonight?” A slurry voice I unfortunately recognize makes me turn around.

One of the usual clients, a man in his fifties with a small beer belly and a big wallet, sits on the stool in front of me. He’s drunk, and I don’t know why Seb, the bouncer at the VIP door tonight, let him in. One of the rules about this place is we don’t serve alcohol to someone who seems tipsy. They don’t want to deal with drunk asses harassing other clients. Which is why I’m perplexed about the bouncer sending up someone who’s already drunk.

“What can I get you, honey?” I ask him with a smile, cringing inside.

“You can start by giving me head, as a warm up.” He smirks and I have difficulty refraining from rolling my eyes.

“I’m just a bartender. I can only give you a cocktail.” Every time he comes, he asks me for sex.

It’s useless explaining I’m just a bartender, not an escort. He completely dismisses my explanation, always proposes more money, and I tell him every time that I wouldn’t do it for even a million bucks. Usually, he laughs it off and comes back again the next time he sets foot in this place.

I start to prepare a non-alcoholic drink for him, shaking and make a scene preparing it, so he doesn’t ask what it is.

I place it in front of him and he sips, making a face. “Fuck, you should stick to sucking dicks because this thing sucks,” he slurs loudly, attracting some of the other clients’ attention.

My heart starts pounding in my chest, partly because I don’t want to deal with his drunk ass, partly because I want to punch him in the face. I hate my job sometimes.

“Feel free to leave it here if you don’t like it. It’s on the house.” I try to smooth out the situation.

“Or, you could let me fuck you to make up for this shitty cocktail.” He’s more angry than drunk now.

“I told you, I’m just a bartender here.” My voice is resolute, but I’m starting to think it might be better if I call security.

We don’t have bouncers inside the VIP area, but we do have security guys ready to intervene as soon as we press a button under the counter. We don’t need to use it often, but sometimes we can’t deescalate a situation and we have to kick someone out. Once he’s out, he can’t come back again, and his name gets put on the blacklist. Which is why clients usually don’t make a fuss.

He pushes the drink toward me roughly and topples the glass over, and I have to jump back to avoid getting splashed. Elvira, the bartender who just ended her shift and had been chatting with a client, looks at me, worried. I smile at her, hoping she won’t call security. One thing about getting help is that you alert Ice, the owner of the place. He doesn’t care if you’re in danger, it’s the clients who are more important to him, and you don’t want to find yourself on the receiving end of his angry tirade.

“You’re just a whore like the others in here. You’re just too stupid to admit it,” he rants, and I don’t even have time to respond because Elvira is at his side, clinging to him.

“Hi, sweetheart. Do you want some company?” she coyly asks. “I can show you a good time.”

He switches his glassy eyes from me to the brunette with long legs at his side and smirks. “Sure, you can.”

“Wait for me on the couch over there and I’ll take care of you.” She gestures at one of the sofas in the main area. The man wobbles to the couch but finally sits down.

---