Page 4 of R Is For Revenge: Part One
“Jules, right?” he says with a wink. He sets down a bottle of Macmillan and leans forward with a smile.
“That’s me. Thanks for letting me stop by.”
“No problem. Anything for Henry. We don’t hire new staff often because our turnover is practically zero. No one likes to leave once they’re in, which for us, is great. Because of that, we’re picky.” He pauses and nods. “But I think you’ll do fine. As you can imagine we have an exclusive clientele and working here is a great opportunity for the right person.”
“I’m that person,” I say, hoping I sound convincing.
He grabs a clipboard and slides it across the bar. “Fill this out. You’ll still meet with management, but I’ll fast-track your file. You’ve got experience?”
“Yeah. Mostly smaller places. Diners. Cafés.” Places where a good tip was five bucks and the fanciest thing on the menu was a milkshake. Maybe a cheeseburger with bacon.
“We all have to start somewhere.” Brent grins knowingly. “This is something else entirely, but you’ll figure it out.” He nods to the right. “There’s a table through those doors for the staff. You can fill this out there.”
I nod and walk around the bar, then through the double doors. I can hear the sounds of the kitchen and smile at the curious looks I get from a couple girls who walk past with plates of food.
Quickly, I fill out the form. Name. Birthdate. Address. All good so far. When I get to the “emergency contact” line, I hesitate. Shit. I could add Shelli, but I suppose I should ask her first. I leave it blank and hope that it won’t be a problem.
When I’m done I walk back to the main room and hand the application to Brent. I glance around. The crowd feels untouchable, like bad things just slide off them. Like their livesare encased in gold. For a second, I remember what that felt like because it wasn’t so long ago that I lived this life. I had the black Amex. The cars and jewels. People who say money doesn’t buy happiness don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. It might not buy it, but it sure as shit helps.
I sigh and roll my neck, then slowly look up.
There’s a long, tinted window on the upper level, overlooking the floor. It’s dark behind the glass, but something about it makes me nervous. I know what it is, of course. I had my sweet sixteen birthday party here. I know the window is two-way. I’m being watched and I don’t like it.
I look away, casually, take a step back. I don’t want to draw attention to myself. Instead, I focus on Brent again. “Think I’ve actually got a shot?”
“Pretty sure with that face you’ve never been turned down for a job before,” Brent says with a grin.
If only he knew. No experience is no experience.
I nod and force a smile, even as the weight from above lingers. Sweat breaks out across my skin leaving goosebumps in its wake. I don’t like this feeling. I tell myself it’s just nerves. That I’m imagining it. But deep down, something tells me I just stepped into something I don’t understand. Maybe I should go. Find something else. I take another step away, trying to decide what to do.
Brent glances toward the end of the bar, where one of the hosts is motioning to him. He mutters something under his breath, then turns back to me.
“I gotta deal with this, but hang tight for a sec, Jules. Management wants to meet you tonight instead of tomorrow.”
My stomach dips. “Now? I thought this was just paperwork?—”
“It is,” he says, but he looks a little too careful when he adds, “He likes to make the call early if he’s interested. Means you don’t waste your time, you know?”
I nod, though unease curls low in my gut. The way he sayshemakes it sound like I’m about to meet more than a manager.
“Give me a moment.” He confers with the host about some problem and then grabs a keycard from behind the bar. He motions for me to follow. “Come on. Private suite upstairs.”
Okay. Upstairs. Two-way window. That weird feeling of being watched. This makes almost pull back. Makes me almost tell Brent this isn’t for me. But then I think about the pile of bills I need to pay and swallow my fear.
Can’t be as bad as selling myself to strangers.
I trail Brent through a side hallway, away from the hum of music and conversation. The sound fades behind us, replaced by the quiet thud of our footsteps and the faint hum of the elevator we step into. The doors close and I know there’s no turning back.
Brent doesn’t make conversation on the ride up and I’m more than happy to keep my thoughts to myself.
The elevator dings softly, and when the doors slide open, the space beyond feels familiar, but different. Warmer, yes, but heavier. The lighting is softer, the music a faint echo from below. The floor is dark hardwood, and the light walls are lined with expensive art. A few of the pieces I recognize because they used to belong to my father.
I don’t know how to feel about that, so I push all thoughts of my father out of my head and try to concentrate on not making an ass out of myself.
Brent steps out first. Why do I feel as if I’m being offered up as some kind of sacrifice? My heart is in my mouth and beats so fast I feel slightly dizzy. At the end of the hall, a set of double doors stands open, spilling a glow of amber light into the corridor. Voices drift out—low, male, punctuated by laughter.
Brent pauses just outside. “He’s expecting you. Just… be polite. Answer his questions. Don’t overthink it and you should be fine.” He offers a small smile and steps back.
