Page 4 of Saving Sophia

“Join them.” He pointed toward the dancers.

“Oh. I … I just serve drinks. I’m not a dancer.”

The girls paused, waiting. Everyone in the room watched me, even the silent statues.

“If you want this job, you do what I tell you.”

My fingers clung to my serving tray in a white-knuckled grip. “I … can’t.” The last word dried up in my throat and came out cracked and small, a strangled, squeaking whisper.

The other man let out another nasty laugh.

Mr. Roscoe’s attention pivoted from me to him like a whip. “Something to say, Nikki?”

The man with the ill-worn suit shifted uncomfortably under Mr. Roscoe’s aggressive gaze, his face souring. “I thought we were here to talk business,” he snarled.

“The only business we have to discuss,” Mr. Roscoe said in a cool voice, “is what you and your bitch wife owe me.”

I tugged at my clammy tube top and shifted from foot to foot, unsure what to do.

“Go home, maid,” Mr. Roscoe said to me without taking his eyes from the man. “If you can’t entertain our guests, you’re useless here.”

I hesitated, grasping for something to say.

Mr. Roscoe jerked his chin toward the door. The moon-faced man turned me around forcibly and gave me a shove. He snapped his fingers at the dancers. “You two. Get back out on the floor.”

The dancers brushed past me on the way out. As we retreated, I heard Mr. Roscoe say, “I thought I made myself very clear before, Nikki. Or should I be talking to your wife directly?”

Nikki let out a snort. “Valerie doesn’t call the shots. She just thinks she does.”

“Does she?, Mr. Roscoe said. “Perhaps you can help me solve that problem once and for all.”

The moon-faced man shoved me through the door and slammed it closed.

* * *

So, still fired.

I walked past the bar on my way to the dressing rooms. “Tough luck, space mouse,” Brad said. “Mr. Roscoe just did you a favor.” I dropped my tray on the counter and tried to glare at him. He ignored it and kept going, his smug mustache twitching.

“Callie should never have brought you here.” He wiped a cloth over the bar and watched Callie, who was now dancing for a group of businessmen, his eyes glowering. “You got no sense of self-worth. It’s bad for business.” Then he looked at my feet. “Where the fuck are your shoes?”

Shoot.

I’d catch hell from Barb, the manager, if I didn’t return the uniform intact. I looked miserably up at the VIP room’s shadowed windows.

“No sense at all,” Brad muttered, turning away to fill another drink order.

Barefoot, I trudged back up the stairs and stood in front of that gold lacquered door for the second time. The music blared around me, making my teeth rattle. The sandals were right inside the door. I wouldn’t have to say a word. Just a quick step in to grab them and back out. They might not even notice me.

I turned the knob and pushed the door open, my eyes staying low, aimed at where I left the shoes. My troublesome mouth couldn’t help itself and decided to blurt out an explanation as I reached forward, grabbing the sandals by their straps. I didn’t look up until the words were half-spoken. “I’m sorry to bother you again. I left my?—”

Then my eyes connected with my brain, filling me in on what I was seeing.

Mr. Roscoe. Standing. A big black gun in his hand.

Nikki, slumped over one of the rounded, blue velvet chairs. A dark stain pooled beneath his body.

His body.

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