Concrete & Crystal

Night Shift

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Maya murmured, her voice barely rising above the clatter of plastic trays and the dull roar of a thousand workers eating in shifts. She picked at a dry, cellophane-wrapped sandwich she’d grabbed from the canteen, her appetite non-existent.

Fred sat opposite her, unwrapping a chocolate bar with nervous energy. “Well, let's look at it from another angle,” he began, leaning in closer to avoid being overheard. “What if we are overthinking this? Maybe the boss’s client is taking good care of her. Maybe she decided to cut ties with her old life, including us. She might have even invited her brother over to share in the wealth. It is possible, right?”

“She would have at least called one of us,” Maya cut in, her blue eyes sharp with skepticism. “Angel isn’t like that.”

“What if the billionaire asked her not to reach out? You know how it is,” Fred whispered, gesturing vaguely with his chocolate. “When money speaks, you answer without questioning. Maybe it’s an NDA thing.”

They fell into a heavy silence, chewing mechanically, weighing the terrifying reality against Fred’s flimsy optimism.

“I don’t think we should bother ourselves with Angel,” Fred said finally, his voice lacking conviction. “All we can do is hope she is doing great.”

Maya sighed, looking down at her uneaten lunch. She hoped so, too. But the silence from Angel's brother was a loose thread that threatened to unravel the whole tapestry of Fred’s theory. She wished she knew of an aunt, a cousin or anyone else to call.

Maybe Fred was right. Maybe Angel was drowning in champagne and silk sheets, absorbing a good life she had only ever dreamed of. Maya clung to that image, however fragile, as the factory whistle blew. They finished their snacks in silence and returned to the roar of the machines.

The transition from day to night was a blur of exhaustion. Maya rushed home the moment her shift ended, a brief, frantic interlude to check on her mother’s vitals and administer her evening meds. She didn't have the luxury of time anymore, the evening shift at the club loomed over her like a storm cloud.

As she commuted to the club, her stomach churned. It wasn't just fatigue, it was dread. She recalled the previous night. The thick smell of cologne and desperation, the way men looked at her as if she were on the menu alongside the cocktails. Her striking blue eyes, usually her best feature, felt like a beacon for unwanted attention. One patron had been particularly aggressive, sliding a napkin with his number across the sticky bar, insisting they meet after hours.

Her manager’s voice echoed in her head, greasy and suggestive, “You might utilize this opportunity to make more bucks for yourself without stress.” He had grinned, his eyes raking over her in a way that made her want to shower.

She sighed, shaking the memory away as the club’s neon sign flickered into view. “So far it foots my bills...” she murmured to the empty pavement. “I don’t have a problem with that.” She patted her pocket, remembering the weight of the tips from the first night. It was more money than she made in three days at the factory. She smiled grimly. At least something good could be wrung from this sponge of a place.

She arrived at the club early. It was her second night, and she was determined to be invisible and efficient. The club was quiet, smelling of bleach and stale beer, the scent of the morning after, lingering into the evening.

Maya pulled out the small checklist she had scribbled the night before. The manager had given her a whirlwind tour, rattling off obligations that she was now determined to master. She moved behind the bar, checking inventory, slicing lemons, and wiping down the counter with rhythmic precision.

“You’re new!”

The voice was bright, slicing through the ambient hum of the ice machine. Maya looked up from polishing a highball glass to see a woman standing at the end of the bar.

“Hi! I’m Kathrine. You are?” The woman stretched out a hand, her nails long and painted a vibrant crimson.

“Maya,” she replied, taking the hand briefly. Her own palm felt rough and calloused against Kathrine’s soft skin. She quickly returned to polishing.

“It’s nice to meet you, Maya,” Kathrine said, leaning against the bar with easy grace. “You're not dressed as a steward or a bottle girl, so what will you be doing here?”

Maya paused, finally taking a proper look at her new colleague. The contrast was jarring.

Maya was dressed for utility. A crisp, buttoned-up white shirt, practical black trousers, and non-slip shoes. Her hair was pulled back into a severe, functional ponytail to prevent any loose strands from falling into drinks, just as the handbook directed.

Kathrine, however, was dressed to be seen. She wore a shimmering, skin-tight hose that caught the dim light, and a miniskirt so short it seemed to defy physics, barely covering the curve of her hips. Her top was a dazzling bikini-style bustier with intricate, beaded sleeves that left her midriff bare. Her blonde hair was a cascade of perfect waves, and her makeup was flawless, designed to catch the eye from across a crowded, smoky room.

Maya looked down at her own plain clothes, then back at Kathrine’s glittering armor.

“I’m the bartender,” Maya said, wiping a spot off the counter. “I stay behind the wood. You’re... out on the floor?”

“That’s right,” Kathrine beamed, adjusting her strap. “Front lines. Well, good luck back here, Maya. Try not to let the animals bite.”

Maya watched Kathrine glide back to the plush velvet booth where the other hostesses were gathered, waiting for the night to thicken. They looked like a flock of exotic, dangerous birds in their bright plumage. Maya saw heads lean together, followed by a ripple of giggles and sharp glances thrown in her direction. It felt as if Kathrine had delivered a punchline, and Maya was the joke.

Maya ignored the sting, forcing her attention back to the bar. She had work to do.

Gradually, the club transformed. The ambient lounge music was replaced by a heavy, thumping bass that vibrated on the floorboards. The air grew hot and thick, perfumed with expensive cologne, sweat, and spilled alcohol. The manager prowled the perimeter like a shark, popping up at random intervals to check the till or critique the speed of service, his eyes always calculating the night's take.

Then, she saw him.

The man from yesterday. The one with the heavy gaze.

Maya suppressed a groan, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling before fixing a neutral mask back onto her face. He navigated the growing crowd with a slow, heavy gait and claimed a tall stool directly in front of her station.

He didn't speak. He didn't even look at her initially. He sat slumped, his elbows on the polished wood, staring out at the floor where the stewards were weaving through the crowd and dancers were beginning their gyrations on the small stages. His expression was hollow, watching the spectacle with a mix of hunger and exhaustion.

Maya finished mixing a tray of margaritas for a waiter, wiped her hands, and finally turned to him. The silence was becoming awkward.

"What would you like to have?" she asked, her voice cutting through his trance.

It was as if she had snapped a hypnotist's fingers. He blinked, slowly turning his head back to the bar, though his eyes seemed to look through the bottles behind her rather than at them.

"I hate my life," he muttered. It wasn't a cry for help but a flat, factual statement delivered on the countertop.

Maya didn't flinch. She leaned one hand on the bar, maintaining a safe distance. "I don't have a bottle for that. But what would you like to have to chill the hate down?"

A slow, creeping smile spread across his face. He finally looked up, locking eyes with her.

"You know, I came back here just to look at your eyes," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming intimate in the noisy room. "They’re beautiful. Like ice."

Maya smirked. A cold, professional curvature of the lips that didn't reach her eyes. She turned away without a word to attend to a breathless steward girl who had slapped an order ticket onto the counter.

As she worked, she could feel his gaze on her. It was a physical weight, like a damp hand on the back of her neck. He wasn't just looking but dissecting.

While the other men in the club were busy ogling the exposed skin of the dancers and stewards, this man was fixated on what Maya wasn't showing. She felt him tracing the lines of her buttoned-up shirt, the loose trousers, wondering what lay beneath the bartender's armor. It was a cerebral kind of lust, far creepier than the overt groping happening on the dance floor. He seemed fascinated by the fact that she was the only woman in the room not on display.

He waited with the patience of a predator at a watering hole. He didn't wave or shout. He simply waited for the lull.

When Maya finally cleared the rush of orders, she felt obligated to return to him. He motioned for her to come closer, tapping the wood with a manicured fingernail.

"Pour me a whiskey. Neat. The good stuff," he commanded softly.

Maya grabbed the bottle of Macallan, poured the amber liquid with a steady hand, and slid the glass onto a coaster in front of him. Drink it and leave, she prayed silently. Just drink it and go.

He didn't touch the glass. He leaned forward, encroaching on her personal space over the bar.

"What’s your name?" he asked.

Maya looked at him, letting a flash of disdain crack her professional facade before smoothing it over. She didn't want him to know her name. She didn't want him to know she existed outside this room.

She leaned in slightly, keeping the heavy bar top between them as a barricade, and decided to flip the script. If he wanted to play games, she needed to hold the cards.

"I make it a policy not to give out my name to strangers," she said, her voice dropping to a polite, icy whisper. "But I’d be interested to know yours... Mr.?"