The waitressing gigs also were out of my element. I tried a couple places and they said my height would be a problem or I wasn’t the “right fit”—which John said was the subtle way of telling me that I wasn’t “hot enough” for the men there.
But I strangely get it. A lot of the waitresses here are aspiring models. I’m just not the illusion this city wants to create. Nikolai wouldn’t tell me who he talked to or who he called, but he still has no potential leads.
So here I am.
At Phantom, dressed in black lingerie beneath my sweats.
I wait for Roger by the employee lockers, rocking on the balls of my feet, my nerves escalating. I exhale a measured breath. “You can do this,” I mutter. I probably look like the crazy girl, talking to herself.
My cliché pep talk is all I have right now. I can’t welch.
When I see the mop of red hair, my spirits simultaneously lift and fall. My feet glue to the ground. You can do this. Move forward. My soles are still cemented.
Roger approaches me, making it easy. He scrolls through his phone and says, “Looks like you’re off for the night. The client cancelled.”
“Cancelled?” My shoulders drop in relief. You can’t be relieved, Thora. You needed this money. My eyes begin to burn.
“Did I stutter?” he shoots back. “This happens sometimes.” My resting bitch face must be going strong because he holds up a hand. “Look, I can try to get you another gig in a couple days.”
A couple days…
This isn’t a salary-paying job. I don’t see a check unless I work.
His phone rings. “I have to take this. You’re done for the night.” He slides past me.
I check my phone. It’s still early, and Nikolai has a show. But now I have more time to research. For a better job than this one.
* * *
I sit at a penny slot, betting about twenty cents every two minutes. I’ve taken gambling to a whole new slow level. My excuse is my cellphone in hand. I scroll through job openings in Vegas, not picky on the exact location since I’ve become used to public transportation.
Unfortunately, most are dealers and bartenders.
I click into the Masquerade’s website and search for full-time jobs within the hotel. Assistant chef, baker for the pastry shop, master sushi cook, sous chef. In another life, I’m without a doubt becoming a chef.
I rub my temples the more I read. An elderly woman with a fanny pack scowls at me as she passes. I guess I’m not concentrating enough on the machine. Fine.
I hit the “bet” button. Lines start popping up on the screen, forming many zig-zags. Wait…
My heart lifts. I won something. Right? Fate is finally on my—
Fifty cents.
Fifty cents? I have to stare at the number for thirty full seconds to digest this. But there were so many damn lines. And that’s all I won. This is rigged. I don’t even know what the lines are pointing to or what they mean. I scan the machine for instructions.
Nothing.
Stupid machine. I focus back on my phone and notice another job position. Assistant housekeeper. It’s full-time. My shoulders rise with hope, only to be squashed with the words “one-year experience in housekeeping for large casino or hotel required.”
Apparently people don’t start their on-the-job training in places like The Masquerade.
When I accepted the private aerialist gig at Phantom, Roger told me that many girls want this job and even fewer are ever hired. So I should realize how lucky I am—that he’d even offer it to me. That he wouldn’t have if I didn’t work there before.
It puts things into perspective. Like how hard it may be to find something else.
My phone vibrates.
Call me when you can. I care about you, and I just thought they’d be able to help you. I’m really sorry. – Shay
I click out of the text, a pit in my stomach. He’s been trying to call since my parents flew back to Ohio. I think he expected me to be on the plane with them. I haven’t had the courage to respond to his voicemails or messages. Not yet at least.
I know what Shay did wasn’t out of malice, but it doesn’t change the fact that there’s still a knife wedged between my shoulder blades.
My cell rumbles again.
Amour ended. Where are you? – Nikolai
At a penny machine near the black and gold bar.
We agreed to meet up after work, to discuss my first night at my “new” job. I try to rehearse what I’ll say, but I’m blank for a good while. Just kind of wishing I won a jackpot right now.
You and everyone else, Thora James.
“Hey.”
I spin on the leather stool. Nikolai stands a few feet away, in a pair of drawstring pants. His makeup is all washed off except for a thin purple streak by his hairline, like he rushed to be here.
“I won fifty cents.” I motion to the machine.
“Thora.” My name sounds raw off his tongue, and he studies my body language for signs that I’ve come out without a scar.
“It was cancelled,” I say quickly, so he can stop worrying. “I have a couple more days until I work. So…it’s pretty good, I think. Extra time.”
He hardly relaxes, but he does nod in agreement. That’s a good sign. Right? Most definitely. I exhale a tight breath.
I wait for him to speak, but he stares off, as though he’s thinking about the inevitable. Me working a private show.
“Do you…maybe want to see my apartment?” I suddenly ask.
I catch him off guard. His head whips to me, surprise coating his face. In the months that we’ve been together, he’s yet to even see my apartment complex.
“I mean, you don’t have to. It’s not much, or anything.” Nerves swarm, especially as his gaze bores through me, heating my core. “It’s, um, small. But I have a bed.” Of course you have a bed. Why wouldn’t I have a bed? I made this weird.
His lips curve upwards. “I’m glad you have a bed, myshka.” His voice is sex. I swear it.
“Thank you…” Lame. So lame.
He laughs into a bigger smile. “You lead the way.”
Something tells me that we’re going to switch to his speed tonight.
Act Thirty-Seven
During the taxi ride to my apartment, Nikolai keeps his focus on the street, trying to determine where we’re headed. He has no clue what part of town I live in, not until the taxi rolls to a stop at the building. And he seems to exhale for the first time.
After climbing out of the car, he places his hand on the small of my back, walking towards the stucco 5-story apartment complex, plenty of bikes locked and chained to a nearby rack.
“You live farther away than I thought.” He finally speaks as we ascend the staircase.
“Safe area though, right?” I holster the urge to fill the pregnant pauses.
He digs in his pocket for his phone. “Relatively speaking.” He hates me living here. I know it. I watch him text someone. “I’m making sure Katya knows she’s alone tonight.”
“She won’t go out or anything…will she?” I remember the 2 a.m. hunt for Katya Kotova. If there’s been another chase, I haven’t been a part of it.
“No she’s still at practice,” he says. “She’ll be too tired.”
I almost smile, not at her being tired, but for her trying harder. She’s been working on landing a full-in, full-out on the Russian bar for a while. Extra practice has been helping her a lot, Nikolai said.