Page 23 of Break You

I swatted at the phone to pull up the message. It was from a number I didn’t recognize.

Random number: Ms. Gordon, this is to advise you of an urgent booking for this evening at the Swan Club. You will be required to provide waitressing services at a private function. Arrival time is 7.30 p.m. for an 8.00 p.m. start. You will be required to work for two hours. Remuneration for this booking will be $1000, paid in cash at the event.

Holy shit, what? A thousand bucks? The whole thing seemed weird. It had to be some kind of a joke. Nobody paid that kind of money for anything.

Random number: Dress requirements: a clean and laundered white shirt with a black skirt no shorter than knee-length, black panty-hose, and low-heeled black shoes. No pants or running shoes (or similar) are to be worn. Hair past shoulder-length must be worn in a ponytail or bun.

All standard procedure, but something in my gut just didn’t sit well. I had no idea who the booking was with—as it clearly wasn’t from the agency. How had whoever it was even got my number?

Random number: Please text YES by 3 p.m. to accept this booking.

Hell. No. As if I was going to accept any random job with no background and no idea who I was even going to be working for. I finished up my “food” and went outside to make some calls, without the noise of one thousand people chatting and eating in the background.

I called the number from the text.

“Good afternoon. Mr. Cob is currently unavailable, you’re speaking with Grace. How may I assist you?”

“Oh, hi, Grace. My name is Rukiya. I had a message from this number regarding some waitressing work this evening, and I wanted to confirm the details.”

“Oh, I see. Well, this is the Swan Club. Mr. Cob is busy all day in meetings. He has all his calls diverted to our reception. I don’t have any information regarding the function being held here this evening—Mr. Cob is hiring the space only, and taking care of all the details directly, I’m afraid. May I take a message and have him call you?”

“No, that’s okay, thank you.”

We wound up the call, and I was left reeling. What the actual fuck?

I had a quick brainwave and googled the phone number for the Swan Club. Setting my number to private, I dialed again.

“Good afternoon, this is the Swan Club. Grace speaking, how may I help you?”

I hung up, still in shock, but reassured that The Swan Club part at least checked out. I re-read the message carefully, looking for more clues. There were none, but the possibility of a one-thousand-dollar paycheck was extremely compelling.

I texted Prinnie.

Me: Hey boo. You booked for this last minute gig at the Swan Club tonight?

Prinnie: Nope. What are you talking about?

I screenshotted the message and sent it to her, along with a rundown of the conversations I’d had with the Swan Club.

My phone rang instantly.

“One thousand motherfucking dollars? What the actual fuckety fuck is that?”

“I have no idea.” I told her what I knew so for. “One thousand dollars would really help me out right now.”

“Sounds sketchy AF, all this mystery, and shit. Then, you try to talk to him, and he’s not answering. It kinda comes over like one of those ‘if it seems too good to be true, it probably is’ situations. What does your gut say?”

“Same as yours, but my brain and my bank account are screaming for that G. I could get my car out of the pound, pay rent and put the rest on my maxed-out credit card. It might be too good to be true, but I feel like I can’t say no.”

“Ugh. How about you respond to the text and see if you can speak to this dude, or call the club back and leave a message.”

“Okay, good idea.”

I tried the club several times, leaving a message only the first time. I also left a very similar message via text, saying I’d like to speak in person about the booking. Of course, I got no answer there, either.

At 2.58 p.m. I gave up and bit the bullet, and texted “yes,” to the number. I got an instant ping back, simply saying “confirmed.” I texted Prinnie back.

Me: I couldn’t say no to that much money. If I’m never seen or heard of again, give the police the screenshots, and tell my brother I love him. Oh, and I love you, too.

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