In His Sheet

Episode 009

The club was half-full, the usual Monday crowd, men with tired faces yet horny bastards, women in tight dresses, music just loud enough to keep people awake but not enough to make them forget their lives.

Joan and I were behind the counter, wiping down glasses while the bartender flirted with two regulars. Joan looked as exhausted as I felt, her hair pulled into the same messy bun she’d been using since nursing school ended.

My phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then again.

I frowned, pulling it from my pocket. Three new emails. I clicked the first one, and my heart almost stopped.

From: Allegra Events

Subject: Employment Contract – Mara Collins

My eyes widened. “Joan,” I breathed.

She turned. “What? Who died?”

“I—” I shoved the screen at her. “I got the job. Clara actually sent the contract.”

Joan blinked. Then squinted. Then blinked again.

“Wait. Wait. Allegra Events? As in that Allegra Events? The ones that host all those billionaire functions you stalk on i********:?”

“Yes!” I whisper-yelled, bouncing on my toes like a fool. “That one!”

She slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from squealing too loudly. “Oh my God, Mara! What happened? Tell me everything!”

I leaned closer, lowering my voice. “Joan… it worked. All of it worked. I went in as an assistant, as you know, did the job well, and Clara offered to hire me permanently. And Elise—the rich girl? The one in the silver dress I told you about? I met her. We talked. I lied, badly, but she believed me!”

Joan’s eyes went wide with equal parts excitement and dread. “Mara… you lied about being her niece?”

“I panicked! It came out before I could think. But it didn’t blow up. And if I’m working for Clara now? It’s even more believable.”

“Mara,” Joan whispered, dragging both hands down her face. “This is how people get caught.”

I swatted her arm. “Oh, shut up. This is my chance. My way out. You saw how sick my mom was last night.”

Joan’s expression softened, her smile falling into something gentler. “Yeah… yeah, I saw.”

“That job pays triple what we make here combined,” I continued. “And Clara likes me. If this works out, I can put my mom in a better hospital. I can save up. Maybe move to somewhere without rats in the ceiling.”

Joan exhaled, a long, shaky breath. “Okay. Fine. I’m terrified, but also proud. And if anyone tries to expose you, I’ll grab a bottle and break it over their head.”

I laughed. “That’s why you’re the only friend I have.”

She grinned, bumping my shoulder. “So when do you start?”

“Tomorrow,” I said, showing her the email again. “She wants me at the office by 10 a.m. And Joan… the contract—this is real. She’s actually paying me like a real staff.”

Joan’s brows shot up. “Girl… you’re about to enter rich-people-land.”

“Exactly.” I smiled, and for the first time in a long time, the smile felt real.

Joan shook her head with a small laugh. “Just don’t forget me when you marry a millionaire.”

“Please, I’ll bring you along as my maid of honor.”

“You better!”

A customer slapped the counter, interrupting us. “Hey! Two more mojitos!”

Joan groaned. “Ugh. Who orders that in a club?” she whispered to me before putting on her fake I-love-my-customer smile.

I hid my grin and handed her the mint leaves.

We were very much understaffed, as our boss, Victor, refused to hire anyone to avoid handing out another paycheck. So it's just me, Joan, and two other girls that run the whole shift, and on weekends like that we definitely double our strength and paychecks.

Joan and I moved up and down the bar, filling drink orders and dodging sleazy comments. A group of college guys kept asking for tequila shots they clearly couldn’t afford, and one of the older regulars was already two beers past reasonable behavior.

“Table seven needs another round,” Joan said, sliding a tray toward me.

I nodded, balancing the glasses and weaving through the crowd. “Here you go,” I said, placing the drinks down as the men barely acknowledged me, eyes glued to a basketball replay on the screen.

Tips were trash tonight.

Energy? Worse.

After another hour of serving and forcing smiles, the pressure in my bladder finally won.

“Joan!” I called over the music. “Bathroom break!”

“Hurry! It’s getting crazy!” she shouted back, shaking a cocktail shaker like it owed her money.

I ducked through the hallway toward the restrooms, pushing the door open with my hip.

Finally, a moment to breathe. I rolled my shoulders, washed my hands, and checked my reflection. Lip gloss smudged. Hair escaping from its clip. Eyes tired, back pain of an eight-year-old woman.

I turned to leave. But the door barely cracked open before something blocked it. Or rather… someone.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” a voice slurred.

My stomach tightened.

Tom. The fat, red-faced, very married truck driver who had been drinking here since before I started working. Always too handsy, always too friendly, always reeking of beer and cheap cigarettes.

Great.

“Evening, Tom,” I said politely, trying to slip past.

He stepped to the side just enough to pretend he was letting me pass, but not enough to actually let me through. “Didn’t see you all night,” he said, his breath hot and sour. “Thought maybe you were avoiding me.”

“Just working,” I replied. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

He leaned an elbow on the wall, blocking the way completely. “Ya’know… I've been thinking… You always smile so nicely at me. Thought maybe tonight you could show a little extra kindness.” His eyes dragged over me in a way that made my skin crawl.

I kept my voice even. Calm.

“Tom, move.”

“Awwn, come on, doll.” He grinned, his face too close, too eager. “Don’t be shy.”

Every alarm bell in my body went off.

“Tom,” I said again, firmer this time, “move.”

He didn’t.

Instead, he reached out and brushed a knuckle down my arm, slow and greasy. My jaw tightened. I stepped back into the bathroom, creating space, keeping my voice cold but steady. “Tom. I’m not joking. Get out of the doorway.”

He chuckled, the sound thick with beer. “Why are you acting like you’re too good for me tonight? Thought we were friends—”

“Hey!”

Joan’s voice sliced through the hallway. She marched toward us, face set, tray in hand, like she was ready to smash it over his head.

“What the hell are you doing blocking my girl?” she snapped. “Move it, Tom. You’re drunk.”

Tom glared, but Joan wasn’t the type you argued with. With a grunt, he stepped aside, muttering under his breath.

“Fine. Whatever. Didn’t want her anyway.”

I walked past him quickly, Joan right behind me, her presence like a shield.

“Are you okay?” she whispered once he was out of earshot.

“Yeah,” I exhaled. “Just another night in paradise.”

Joan scoffed. “One day we’re getting out of this dump, I swear.”

I swallowed, nodding. “One day,” I echoed.

But after tonight, for the first time in a long time… I actually believed it.