Page 41 of Betting on the Brainiac

Outside, the still-hot night air makes me wish I’d taken off my blazer in the car, and I’m about to get into my car and leave when a shout of laughter from the club entrance drifts over to me. I pause, listening.

This place feels so different at night. The building exterior is lit up, the play of shadow and light making it look like somewhere you can choose to flaunt yourself fully or tuck yourself away in private pockets for murmured conversations.

Madison is in there. I wonder how different she is when she’s on the job, and the lure of curiosity is too strong. The desire to see her in this same-but-different Gatsby’s pulls me around the corner to the line of clubgoers waiting to get in. Most of them already have their masks on, and everyone is dressed to impress.The men are in button-downs or splashy polo shirts with trendy patterns.

The women . . . this is definitely not like the college bars I hung out in. As I pass them to speak to the bouncer, I see everything from a classic little black dress to a neon green neck-to-knee sheer bodysuit worn over a matching neon pushup bra and thong. It’s like a theater costume closet exploded and spit out everything from gold sequins to—I pause and squint at another outfit—strategically placed peacock feathers?

I hope that peacock knows his feathers went to averyworthy cause.

“Back of the line,” the bouncer says when I reach the door, not even glancing up from the ID he’s inspecting. “Ten dollars extra if you didn’t bring your own mask.”

“I’m not here for the event,” I say. “I work here during the day.”

He looks at me blankly. “We’re closed during the day.”

“Right, but Madison and I have an arrangement where I come in for—”

“Fine, buddy. You meet the dress code, you don’t have to wait in line, but you gotta pay the cover charge and wear a mask like everyone else.”

He’s definitely not interested in my backstory of kittens and workspace. As much as I want to go home and take out my contacts and wash the gel out of my hair, my curiosity is stronger, so I hand him a twenty.

“Ten more for a mask or no entry.”

I hand him another ten, and he shoves a mask at me. It’s plain black and covers my entire forehead down to the end of my nose. It’s borderline Batman territory, and I wonder how many dudes are in there trying to talk in raspy Dark Knight voices.

The bouncer waves me through, and I step into a place that is nothing like the space I’ve been spending my days the last threeweeks. The dance floor pulses with bodies bathed in flashing lights, and the wall of sound presses in from every direction, swallowing me up until I can’t feel my own heartbeat inside the percussive bass, not even with my hand against my chest.

I move to the side to let the people behind me in, but I stay away from the dance floor, trying to adjust. Do I even want to find Madison in all of this? I can see people all around me yelling in conversation but I can’t hear them over the music. I doubt Madison and I could have even a short conversation. But my body turns itself toward the stairs without consulting my brain, ready to find Madison on its own.

According to Madison, the first floor and third floor are the most expensive tables, where people sit to see but mostly be seen. First floor table patrons want to be where the action is. It’s louder, hotter, and more crowded. The midlevel, the mezzanine, is the cheapest level, and the top level is where the true VIPs lounge. They like to be around the action but separate from it, peering down and observing the churning mass of bodies, lazily calling over their bottle girl for more of what they’re drinking.

On the top floor, VIPs order champagne that costs enough per bottle to cover my monthly rent, plus their spirit of choice, tequila or vodka being most popular. Sometimes whoever is footing the bill at a table will send a friend down to invite up someone they’ve deemed attractive to join the table. Yesterday while she counted a delivery of Polish vodka magnums that light up, Madison told me both genders do it—the point and fetch. Guess that’s why the club can charge fifteen hundred for a table reservation. Peak hunting spot.

No wonder they only need to be open three nights a week.

I take the stairs up to the balcony level, hoping it’ll be easier to spot Madison. If not, maybe I’ll take it as a sign to check in with her Monday.

Even as I step onto the third floor, I snort. There’s no way I’ll leave without seeing her. Not sure why I lied to myself when I’m the first person who will spot the lie.

It’s crowded up here too, but people mostly stand in knots talking or hanging on the railing, watching the action below. Again, that feeling of stepping into a different timeline flickers over me as I spot the table where I worked before I moved to a table near the cats. A mixed crowd of around eight people sit around it now, the top littered with half-empty glasses and crumpled cocktail napkins. It looks as if its only function ever has been to host beautiful people.

At least up here, it’s easy to spot the bottle girl uniforms right away. Ten tables spread around the balcony perimeter, and I spot four white fringe outfits. Two are in booty shorts and a halter top, one is in a backless one-piece shorts jumper thing with long sleeves, and then there’s Madison.

I should have been prepared for it. I’ve seen her in this outfit already. But she’s amped it up. The bottle girls all wear narrow white masks that look more like strips of lace, but she’s gone much heavier with her eye makeup, and her full red lips are stretched into a smile that reveals a shallow dimple in her right cheek I’ve never seen.

My head gets tight and hot, and the music sounds recede. I hear my own pulse for several beats before I realize I’m jealous because I’ve never seen that smile.

I force a slow, deep breath through my nose and step back, closer to the wall and out of the way while I get my mind right. I want that smile, and now it’s a goal to earn it from her.

I stay sidelined for a few minutes, watching how things work up here, and realize there’s no good way to interrupt her. She’s working fast but making it look easy as she tends to a table of about eight or so guys in their late thirties, the kind who look like they’ve been let off their leashes for the first time all year. Oneof them reaches around her and rests his hand on her hip, but before he can do anything else, she spins away and gives him a cheeky grin over her shoulder and does a little booty pop. I saw that move when she was doing her silent salsa, and I see why she practices it when the guy and his friends all laugh.

It’s all so Madison but turned up to eleven. The way she’s as comfortable in her body in her yoga clothes as she is in fringe and heels. The energy in her hustle while still making it look effortless. The way her customers subconsciously turn toward her when she’s near.

She moves to another table full of women around my age. I wonder if it’s a bachelorette party for them to have sprung for bottle service. Madison is equally at ease with them, and I’ve seen enough to satisfy my curiosity about what she’s like on the job. I’ll save any cat updates for a text after I check on them in the morning.

I’m about to step away from the wall and head back downstairs when Madison, who’d been leaning down to listen to one of the women, looks in my direction and locks her eyes on me. I freeze, watching a slow smile spread across her face before she nods at the woman who is also staring at me. Then Madison straightens and she’s on the move—directly toward me.

“Hey,” she says, stopping in front of me. “I’ve been asked to fetch you by that table of ladies over there. They would love your company.”

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