Page 3 of Saving Sophia

“But that wasn’t my fault. He grabbed me,” I said, panic tightening my throat. I looked up at the windows. The club owner, Tommy Roscoe, was a man known for wild parties and even wilder fits of temper. He must have seen my little incident and decided I was bad for business.

John stared down at me impassively then walked off toward a customer getting grabby with a dancer at table four. He wasn’t worried about me not going. I was obviously a girl who did what she was told.

So much for the mysterious Amber Jade. Callie would say she understood. She’d cover the rent, again. But who was I kidding? I had to face facts. Go home. Swallow my pride along with my father’s I-told-you-so’s and my mother’s embarrassment at having me for a daughter.

An unfamiliar flash of anger hit me, turning my skin hot. He already fired me. I had nothing to lose. This was my chance to be something besides a mouse, incapable of handling a drink order for frat boys. My beer-slippery shoes stomped themselves up the stairs to the VIP rooms before I could stop them. Amber Jade hadn’t helped me be mysterious and seductive, but maybe she could help me fight for my job.

I paused when I reached the gold lacquered VIP door, clutching my tray like a shield, my cheeks already burning, my bravado fading. What was I going to say? Was this me, urged on by Amber Jade to be brave and speak up for myself? Or had I gone completely insane?

Most likely guess was insanity.

I took a deep, shaky breath. That flash of anger drove me up those steps, but it cooled once I saw that imposing door. Maybe I could get a job at a second-hand toy shop. I could work in the back repairing broken dolls, hidden away, never having to talk to anyone who might talk back.

I was about to turn around when the door opened. A man looked down at me, clearly surprised to find someone standing there. He filled the doorway, big and shadowy and scary looking, with a sharp, protruding chin that made me picture the man in the moon for some reason. “Well, what do we have here?”

“Nothing … I … was just … never mind,” I stammered out, turning to leave.

“Hold on.” A beefy hand darted out to catch my shoulder in a pincer grip. “It’s not polite to lurk in doorways.” His voice reminded me of a villain who captured stray cats to torture. “Come in.”

“Who is it?” an annoyed voice called out.

I stumbled in, propelled by the moon-faced man’s fingers digging into my shoulder.

Electric blue light filled the space, and a wall of windows overlooked the main floor below. Anyone in here would have a perfect view of table eight, where I so recently embarrassed myself. Several more Renaissance-themed statues stood in alcoves around the room, staring emptily at the blue velvet couches and round chairs. The glass and chrome tables looked jarring against the wall frescoes of Italian countrysides, and the blue light reflected in a glass chandelier turned everything lurid and strange.

A small stage with flashing lights in the center of the room threw a disco element into the confusing mix of themes. Two dancers were grinding around on it, twisting their bodies to the music.

Two men lounged on couches near the stage. One was the owner, Tommy Roscoe, relaxed in an expensive Armani suit, his eyes locked on the man seated across from him. His arms stretched out along the back of the couch, and a cold smile played across his lips.

I didn’t recognize the other man. He was thin and wiry with slicked back, dark hair. His suit looked expensive too, but ill-fitting, as if it were wearing him and not the other way around.

Mr. Roscoe slowly panned a predatory gaze from his guest to the doorway where I was standing. I was a mouse again, only this time I wasn’t hiding from a hawk. I was staring into the eyes of a cobra.

“Well?” His body shifted slightly, balancing his attention between me and the other man.

I had no idea what to say. Amber Jade brought me here only to abandon me. My mouth opened, but I was helpless to control what words might fall out. “I … Mr. Roscoe … Sir … I … my … rent’s due … please … they grabbed me.” I snapped my mouth closed. That was worse than I’d expected.

“Oh. The clumsy one.” His insult sat in the air between us like a boulder.

I shifted on my feet. My default words popped out before I could stop them. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Roscoe, I didn’t?—”

“Come here.”

I stepped forward automatically, compelled by those two words. My sandals made embarrassing squelching noises.

He curled his lip in disgust. “Stop.” He glared at my feet. “Take those off. I can smell them from here.”

“It’s beer,” I said, my face burning. I bent down to unbuckle the clasps and stepped out of the shoes, leaving them in a heap by the door.

“You look like a maid.” His eyes raked over me, noting every flaw. “Take your hair down.”

My hand twitched at my side, then reached up to obey, the mouse in me eager to appease. “I’m sorry,” I muttered, my cheeks flaming.

As I pulled out the hair tie, one of the dancers snickered. I turned my eyes toward the noise. They were watching me, still dancing. One bent over, holding onto the pole in the middle of the stage with legs spread while the other gyrated with the music. My already raging blush intensified.

“Like what you see?” Mr. Roscoe sneered. His friend laughed.

“What? Oh. No. I just … I’m sorry. I … I need this job and I?—”

---