Zara Harper
1185 Words
“Seventeen!”
Zara flinched at the sound of her number being called for the third time. The voice cut through the thumping music and thick cloud of cigarette smoke hovering in the bar. She adjusted her short, black skirt and grabbed the tray of drinks, weaving through swaying bodies and flashing lights like a dancer on autopilot.
Her long legs moved swiftly, her dark brown curls bouncing with each step. Her face—soft but striking, with high cheekbones and full lips—carried the look of someone who used to live a different life. One where she didn’t serve drinks to drunk men at 1 a.m. One where she didn’t smile when she wanted to scream.
She turned the corner too fast, and it happened.
The glass slipped. The liquid flew. And before she could steady herself, the cocktail splashed all over the expensive black suit of a man standing by the bar.
“s**t—I'm so sorry!” Zara gasped, her hand already reaching for napkins as the man turned slowly.
She barely had time to blink before a broad-shouldered man—clearly a bodyguard—stepped between them and shoved her back, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to push her off the way.
Zara stumbled slightly, her heart pounding. But the man she spilled the drink on didn’t move. He just stood there, his dark blue eyes locked on her like he could see through her.
Zara muttered another apology before she turned on her heels, and marched back to the bar, her chest tightening as she walked.
“Leah,” she hissed, grabbing her friend by the wrist, “do you know that guy over there? The one who just got baptized in tequila?”
Leah didn’t even look up. She just chuckled. “Mr. C.”
Zara blinked. “Mr. C? Who the hell is that?”
“Yeah. That’s what they call him. His is regular but I think he has been out for months. Don’t ask questions, girl. Just avoid him.”
Zara raised an eyebrow. “Is he some kind of mob boss or something?”
Leah’s lips pressed into a line. “I said don’t ask.”
Before Zara could push, the bar manager appeared out of nowhere like a summoned demon. “Zara. VIP. Now.”
Zara’s stomach sank. “Why me again?”
She sighed. VIP. The den of drunk, rich brats who thought flashing a black card gave them license to touch anything in a skirt.
She picked up her notepad and pen, straightened her spine, and headed up the stairs, her heels clicking on the glossy floor.
She bowed slightly as she entered the VIP section, trying to ignore the wave of laughter that followed her in.
“Hey, hey, look who’s back,” one of the regulars chuckled as she entered. “Shake it for us, sweetheart.”
“Try not to trip over that skirt. Looks like it’s trying to escape.”
Zara gritted her teeth. She was on her fifth replacement skirt in two months. She didn’t bother replying. She took orders swiftly, her pen scribbling while their laughter buzzed around her like flies.
Then a hand caught her wrist.
“Go and take Mr. C’s order,” the man said with a smirk, pointing toward the VVIP lounge like it was a death sentence.
Her blood turned cold. Mr. C. Again?
Leah’s warning echoed in her head. Still, she nodded and made her way to the VVIP door.
A different bodyguard stood by the door, arms crossed. He looked her up and down before disappearing inside. When he returned, he stepped aside without a word.
She entered slowly.
The room was dimly lit, private, and suffocatingly silent.
And him.
Mr. C sat alone, legs crossed like a king lounging on his throne.
Zara cleared her throat, trying not to meet his gaze. “Good evening, sir. Can I—”
Still no response.
She tried again. “Sir?”
“Brandy.” he said, his voice so deep that it sent shivers to her skin.
Zara nodded and fled, returning moments later with the drink, her hand trembling as she set it down. She turned to leave—
“Dance for us!” someone jeered from across the room.
“Come on, Miss Za,” another voice slurred, “show us those hips.”
“I am sure Mr. C would love to see you dance,” another said.
Her eyes darted to her manager, who glared from across the room, his jaw tightening.
She needed this job.
So she grabbed a half-empty drink off a nearby table, swallowed the burn, and stepped onto the makeshift dance floor.
The music pulsed through her bones as she moved—slowly at first, then surrendering to the beat. Her body flowed like smoke, her hips rolling, her arms swaying, her eyes fixed on a point above their heads. She didn’t want to see their eyes.
But she felt his.
He wasn’t cheering. He wasn’t even smiling.
He was watching.
Too closely.
When the song ended, Zara rushed downstairs, her heart still racing.
Leah pulled her aside. “You okay?”
“I feel like I need a shower,” Zara muttered, pulling a few wrinkled bills from her pocket.
Leah glanced at them. “Cheap bastards.”
Later, as they dressed to leave, the manager called her over and handed her a small folded paper. Inside, she found several crisp hundred-dollar bills.
Zara froze. “This has to be a mistake—”
Leah snatched it before she could move. “Girl. Don’t even. You’ve got bills. Debts. You want to return this? For what? A gold star?”
Zara hesitated. Her pride screamed no. Her reality whispered yes.
She sighed and pocketed the cash.
Outside, her boots clicked against cracked pavement, her phone screen blinking as she calculated what a cab would cost.
Too much.
She started walking toward the bus stop which was way cheaper.
Then a sleek black car rolled up beside her.
The tinted window came down just a bit.
“Get in,” a voice said, she recognized the voice.
“Not interested.” she said without looking at the owner of the voice.
Zara turned down a narrow alley, a shortcut to the bus stop. But halfway through, she sensed them.
Shadows. Footsteps. Laughter.
Three men stepped out from the dark.
“Well, well, what do we have here?”
Zara’s pulse spiked. She turned, but two more blocked the way.
“Back off,” she said, voice shaking.
One reached for her.
She spun to run—
But suddenly, shouts erupted. Fists flew. Bodies slammed.
Zara tripped, falling back—
But strong arms caught her.
Her eyes met his.
“You?” she whispered, stunned.
She pushed away from him, brushing off her clothes.
“I didn’t need your help,” she said sharply, her voice rising. “I had it under control.”
Then she stormed off into the night, leaving him standing in the alley’s broken light.
- Writer
