Laura

 

 

 

Tonight is a four-hour event. Four long, draining hours full of pretentious assholes, leering glances assessing and undressing me, and ungrateful ignorance, while I serve the richest of the rich, hurrying around in an uncomfortably tight uniform. The short pencil skirt moves up my thigh with every step I take, forcing me to constantly adjust it as I graciously balance a small, round serving tray. The starched white blouse and the black vest are so tight on my diaphragm that I can hardly breathe. The material is heavy, and I start breaking into a sweat after only a few minutes on the floor. I hate wearing this uniform and can’t wait to get out of it.

But the event just started. The waiters are lined up behind the bar, ready to serve, each of us shifting around as we try to get comfortable in the restrictive outfits we’ve been forced to wear. The girls had been asked to wear black heels, and I got scolded for my choice of shoes as soon as I walked in the door. Because I’m so tall, I don’t even own a pair of high heels, and I refuse to spend any of my limited savings on fancy shoes that I would only ever wear for this job. Even in my black ballerina flats, I tower several inches above every other serving girl here, and most of the guests. If I wore heels, I’d likely be the tallest person here, man or woman. My friend Layla, who’s standing next to me, is a petite girl. She‘s trying to make up for her small stature by wearing five-inch stilettos. They may make her almost as tall as me, but it also adds a tremendous amount of physical pain to an already strenuous evening.

We watch in silence as the room starts filling with guests, waiting anxiously to be called upon by Angelo, our boss tonight. He’s standing across the festive hall, his hands locked behind his back and his chin up, a focused smile unique to him affixed on his face.

“Ten bucks says he’s hoping to go home with one of the moneybags tonight,” Layla whispers. She winks at me, and we giggle.

“We should make a bet on who it’s going to be,” I whisper back, careful to make sure that she’s the only one who can hear me. “Most of them are going to be old as dirt.”

“Pretty sure he likes that,” Layla retorts. “To have himself a silver fox sugar daddy.”

I bite my lips to suppress another giggle. Getting up to nonsense with Layla makes this job way more bearable, especially when it includes making fun of Angelo, who tends to be overly strict about minor things. I don’t know what I would do without Layla. She’s my very best friend and always there, and I’m glad to know that she’ll come with me, ready to take on another town, another chance. We’ve been planning our escape for a while now, but lately things have started really falling into place.

This city holds nothing but dark memories for me. It has become an even more sorrowful place since my mother died.

It’s time to move on.

But first I need to save up a little more money in my bank account. I’m getting there, albeit slowly. I’ve been working as a hostess and server with this company for almost a year now. The money isn’t great, but it’s better than what I used to make as an ordinary waitress at a restaurant, and if it wasn’t for these uncomfortable uniforms, I would even go as far as to say this job is less exhausting and stressful, especially when it comes to occasions like tonight.

Tonight’s event is a fundraiser hosted by the Onyx Corporation, the biggest business empire in town. I don’t know much about Onyx because it doesn’t interest me, but I do know they oversee at least two very upscale hotel chains. They’re places I will never be able to afford and only get to see from behind the scenes when I’m serving at one of their events.

Like tonight. Even though I don’t get to enjoy any of it firsthand, jobs like this provide me with a dreamy glimpse of a life I will never have. A life full of lavish amenities, pricey champagne, and ridiculously small hors d’oeuvres passed around on silver platters by girls like me.

We’re always eyeing the food and drinks, hoping to snag some of the leftovers, just like starving dogs on the street. It’s not that I can’t afford to buy my own food, but every penny I don’t have to spend on basics is one more I can save towards a little luxury, once I’ve paid my monthly debt installment. Like a new pair of pants. Or paying my cell phone bill.

I never said I dream big, did I?

More and more guests are arriving, filling the hall with fancy evening gowns and tailored suits, a fancy mass of human obstacles for us to meander through as we serve drinks. Layla and I always manage to steal a bottle for ourselves. We’re the only ones on the team sneaky enough to do it, and no one ever seems to notice. Sometimes we stash the bottle away in one of our bags and bring it home unopened, but on other nights, we open it while still on the job, sneaking out once every so often to catch a little break and sip from the bottle, like the classy ladies we are.

Tonight is one of those nights. Both our cheeks are glowing from champagne-induced heat. We exchange mischievous grins every time our paths cross. The wealthy guests barely notice us. We’re faceless servants to them. I smile at them, knowing they will forget my face as soon as I turn to the next guest. Most of them don’t even looks at us, let alone say ‘Thank you’ when I offer a glass of champagne or a Mimosa. Many of those who do make eye contact only do so to complain about something.

I don’t care. I’m used to it, and I’m here to make money, not friends.

I glance up at the clock. Three hours and eleven minutes to go.

My tray is empty except a single glass of champagne, when I’m stopped so abruptly that I almost let the glass tip and spill the liquid on one of the many costly suits.

A suit hugging the broad shoulders of the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life.

The collision was so sudden, I have to tilt my head back to find the man‘s eyes. I start to utter the customary apology, almost stopping mid-sentence when I’m faced with his rugged handsomeness. He’s tall, a couple inches taller than me. Next to his height, it’s his stance and confident carriage of his broad shoulders that draw my attention. His suit jacket fits snuggly around his upper arms, suggesting a strong set of muscles underneath the designer brand fabric. The deep blue hue of his eyes seems surreal, but it blends nearly perfectly with the navy blue of his suit, and his charcoal black hair only emphasizes the vibrant color of his eyes. His strong, chiseled jaw is shaved clean, and the hint of a smile plays around the corner of his mouth as he looks down on my surprised expression.

He’s unsettlingly gorgeous. I almost follow the urge bubbling inside me to touch him, just to see if he’s real.

“If I may,” he says, his deep voice churning the inside of my chest into heated goo, and he reaches for the last glass on my tray.

I know I’m gawking, but I can’t help it. He’s so freaking beautiful that it almost feels like an insult to be standing next to him.

“I… I’m sorry,” I stutter again, wishing for nothing more than to get away from him before his good looks completely absorb my soul.

“For what?” he asks. “For almost spilling that drink on me, or for gawking?”

Shit.

Oh my God, I have to get out of here.

I feel inclined to say sorry for the third time, but realize that it would only worsen my predicament.

So instead, I opt for the grown-up thing to do and scurry away.