In His Sheet

Episode 002

The taxi dropped me two blocks from Club Verona. I didn’t want anyone to see me getting out in front. The bouncers had a habit of touching and talking, and in this city, gossip spread faster than disease. The moment I stepped onto the pavement, the air changed. The night smelled like extremely cheap perfume, cigarette smoke, and vomit. Neon lights from the sign above shimmered against puddles, turning everything pink and gold.

Inside, the bass thumped so deep it rattled in my ribs. Laughter mixed with the metallic clink of glasses, and the place already pulsed with money, the kind of money people spent when they wanted to forget something, or maybe just the type they spent because they had more than enough.

I smiled at Dani, the girl at the coat counter, also doubling as a pole dancer, nothing more than 19 years old, and probably coming from a shitty home, forcing her to work in this shittier place. I slipped into the back room, a would-be storage space that was turned into the girls’ dressing area, which was small and always crowded, mirrors lined with bulbs, air thick with hairspray and chatter, barely any space for leg movement.

“You’re late again,” someone muttered without looking up.

“I'm always late, it's kinda my thing now,” I replied, hanging my jacket on a hook.

I peeled off my jeans and crop top and slid into my uniform, a black velvet bodysuit and short skirt that screamed look but don’t touch. The manager said the outfit was “classy,” but the neckline disagreed. I adjusted the straps, checked my reflection, and gave myself one last tired smile.

At least the tips were good near the roulette tables.

When I stepped back into the main room, the atmosphere hit me like warm smoke. The low hum of conversations, the roll of dice, the spinning wheel, all of it felt like another world.

Men in tailored suits leaned close to whisper to women they didn’t know, cards flicked across tables, and gold champagne fizzed under chandeliers.

I grabbed my tray, balanced three glasses of whiskey, and made my way through the crowd.

“Mara!” Tony, the floor supervisor, waved me over. His voice was always half-yelling over the music. “Roulette section’s short. Take it.”

“Got it.”

The roulette corner was always busy; the high-rollers liked it there. I slipped behind the table, setting down drinks and brushing stray chips into neat piles.

“Another round, sir?” I asked one of the men, forcing the polite smile I’d practiced a hundred times.

He smirked, sliding a fifty across the green felt. “Only if you bring it yourself.”

It was against club policy for customers to interact physically with us, even though our stupid uniforms suggested otherwise, some men still tried to push their luck.

"I'll have my colleague bring up your order, sir," I said, mustering up the sweetest smile ever at the bald man.

"I don't want your f*ck*ng colleague, I need you to serve me as the sweet little c*nt you are."

Right now, I'm trying to remember what chapter in my anger management book said, "Do not hit a stupid man for attempting to be stupid."

I smile, keeping up the facade even though I desperately wanted to punch his nose. But I couldn’t. I needed this job. I needed every last dirty dollar that came with it, and one blown temper could mean being blacklisted from the whole circuit, and that wasn’t an option.

“I’ll have my colleagues bring up your order, sir,” I said slowly, like I was explaining to an extremely dumb child, as I walked away.

Behind my back, I rolled my eyes so hard I felt them twitch. The man mumbled something and thudded his fist on the table for attention; the dealer handed over another stack of chips, and the wheel kept turning, uncaring. The club smelled like sweat and perfume and too much money, the kind of smell that crawled under your skin and tried to convince you it was home. It wasn’t mine.

I topped off glasses, balanced a tray, moved between bodies and tables like I’d done it my whole life. Each smile was measured and calibrated. Each laugh was a currency I’d learned to spend sparingly. Dani waved me over once to help with a spill on her dress as it was almost her time to be onstage.

Tony barked orders from the corner like he thought the club ran on his breath alone. “Collins! Tables four and five, now. High rollers on four, keep them sweet.” He used my last name whenever things got serious. I wiped a lipstick smear from a crystal glass and shoved a napkin into my back pocket for later.

Between rounds, my phone buzzed against my hip. A text from Lara: All good. Mom slept through. Don’t worry. I stared at those words like they were a lifeline. For a second, I let myself believe them. Then another customer called my name, and the moment was gone.

The night moved in rhythms, the wheel, the laugh, the clink of glasses, drunken touchy men. A woman at the far table squealed at a win, and her friends shrieked with her like they’d been rescued. It was beautiful in a way that hurt. People came here to forget things they should’ve dealt with and paid handsomely to feel lighter for an hour. Meanwhile, my debts stacked themselves into neat, patient towers at home.

An old man tried to palm my hand as he asked for the check. I slid away before he got close, smile unchanged. “I’ll have the manager bring that for you, sir.” The man huffed but paid anyway.

At the end of the night, the tips smelled different, thick and heavy in my apron pocket, mostly singles and a few crumpled tens. Not enough to fix anything, but enough to keep the lights on for another week. I counted it twice in the back room, fingernails stained with makeup remover. David, the club's in-house bouncer and also my friend, whistled low. “Look at you, Queen of Hustle.”

“Don’t start, Dani,” I muttered, but I tucked the bills into my small wallet with a steadier hand than I felt.

"You know you could make double of that if you joined the dancers on stage. The men love you."

"I roll my eyes at him, "don't be delusional, they just love my *ss, besides, I have two left feet, I'd probably bring this whole building down if I should get my hands on that pole."

He threw his head back, laughing, "I mean, you do have a nice *ss," he says, as I shake my head, walking back into the dressing room.

The room hummed with tired laughter, human sweat, and the faint crackle of the old hair dryer someone had forgotten to unplug.

“Ugh, my feet are bleeding,” Dani groaned, kicking off her heels and collapsing onto the nearest bench. “If one more creep asks me if I’m ‘new here,’ I swear I’ll pour his drink on him.”

That earned a round of muffled giggles from the other girls. I sat in front of the mirror, wiping off the last of my lipstick with a tissue that looked like it had fought a battle.

Then Sasha, the loud, blonde, pretty, and always in the know, burst through the door, phone in hand and eyes wide. “You guys are not gonna believe this!”

We barely looked up at first; Sasha’s drama and gossip were a nightly routine I had come to silently enjoy. But then she said it—“Adrian Holt’s throwing a birthday party next weekend.”

That name got everyone’s attention.

Dani sat up. “The Adrian Holt? As in, the billionaire tech guy with the glass house and private island?”

“Uh-huh,” Sasha said, smugly flipping her hair. “That’s the one. I just saw the post on socials, apparently it’s going to be massive. Black-and-gold theme. Every important person in the city’s invited; models, CEOs, politicians, you name it.”

I tried not to look interested, but my reflection betrayed me; my brows lifted just a little.