You Never Asked
1524 Words
Marcus’s office smelled like cold air and cologne, sharp, masculine, a little intimidating. He motioned to the chair across from him as soon as Jasmine entered, his face carved into that stern, unreadable expression he always wore whenever someone was in serious trouble.
“Sit.”
Jasmine swallowed, her stomach tight, her palms cold. She lowered herself slowly into the chair, trying to make herself small, invisible anything but the center of attention.
Marcus folded his arms. “The only reason you’re here right now… is because Scott called me.”
Her head jerked up. “Scott?”
Marcus nodded, studying her face like he was trying to decipher a code. “Yes. Scott, my very busy boss. He called me personally. Tell me specifically to call you back.”
Jasmine blinked. She had never spoken more than two words to Scott. He barely even looked at the bottle girls unless absolutely necessary. He owned the club after all.
“Why would he…?” she murmured under her breath.
But what shook her even more was the way Marcus was staring at her, not like a manager addressing a staff member. No. He was staring at her like someone evaluating a suspect, someone guilty, someone hiding something.
His next words made her chest tighten.
“Tell me…” he said, leaning back, “how did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“How did you convince him to ask me to take you back even after… all this?” He gestured toward the door toward the club, toward the chaos she now carried like a curse. “Because this isn’t your first chance, Jasmine. Not your second. You’ve had warnings. Plenty of them. And still your boyfriend or whatever he is, keeps walking in here, disrupting my business.”
His voice hardened.
“It is unacceptable.”
Jasmine flinched. Her throat tightened with shame. She had no defense. No explanation that would make any of this sound any less pathetic.
“I know,” she said quietly. “I know you’re right. I’m sorry. What Denzel did… it wasn’t just embarrassing. It was wrong. And I’m really, really sorry that my personal life spilled into the club.”
Marcus’s expression didn’t soften. Not even a fraction.
“You can apologize all you want,” he said, “but the truth is… this isn’t a good look. Not for you. Not for me. Not for the club. People are already talking. Staff. Security. Even the customers. And honestly if it were up to me, you’d be gone.”
She lifted her eyes, heart pounding.
“But…” he added, dragging out the word, “apparently, even if I fired you, Scott would just call and ask me to bring you back anyways.”
The way he said it, coated with insinuation made Jasmine’s stomach twist. Was he implying she did something for the boss?
Her voice came out small. “I didn’t… I mean… I don’t know why he would…”
Marcus cut her off with a small, humorless laugh. “Relax. I don’t actually care what you did. I just care that you don’t do it here.”
His eyes leveled with hers.
“You’re on probation.”
She nodded immediately. “Of course.”
“One wrong move,” he said slowly, “and you’re out. Not suspended. Not benched. Gone.”
“I understand,” she whispered.
He handed her back her badge, her access card, the small ID tag she clipped to her bustier during shifts.
“Thank you,” she said, getting up.
Marcus didn’t respond. He simply looked at her for a long, heavy second like he was still trying to figure out what she wasn’t telling him before turning away.
Jasmine stepped out of the office, her pulse thundering in her ears.
And then it hit her.
Scott? Calling for her? It made no sense.
But someone had spoken to him, someone who would do that for her. Her chest tightened.
“Sofia.”
She replayed her tone from that morning the attitude, the irritation, the dismissiveness and humiliation washed over her in a hot wave.
She owed that girl an apology bigger than anything she’d given anyone in a long time. She hurried down the hallway, gripping her badge, ready to go look for her.
But before she reached the main floor, someone stepped directly into her path.
“Well, look who crawled back.”
Belinda.
Of course.
Flanked by her two shadows Mara and Keisha, their arms crossed, their faces twisted into identical smug grins. They always moved together, always hungry for drama, like high school mean girls with glitter lashes and stripper heels.
Jasmine exhaled. “Not now, Belinda. Please move.”
Belinda c****d her head dramatically. “So you weren’t fired after all? Shame.” She shrugged. “Even Marcus swore you weren’t allowed through those doors, but here you are.”
Jasmine clenched her jaw but kept walking.
Belinda slid right, blocking her again.
“What happened?” Belinda asked sweetly. “Did you beg? Cry? Or…”
Her eyes glinted.
“…did you suck something or ride it?”
Jasmine froze.
Belinda moved closer, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper.
“You were in his office for a while. Come on, baby. Tell us what you did.”
Anger shot through Jasmine like electricity but she swallowed it. She had just gotten her job back. She could not afford a scene.
“Belinda,” she said, her voice tight, “move. Please.”
Belinda smirked. “Or what? You’ll call your boyfriend to throw chairs at me?” The girls behind her laughed.
Jasmine stepped back, her fists curling then she saw movement behind Belinda.
Sophia.
Thank God.
Without wasting another second, Jasmine turned and walked straight past the trio, ignoring Belinda’s mocking laugh.
She caught up with Sophia near the VIP corridor.
“Sophia!” Jasmine called.
Sophia didn’t turn.
“Sophia, please. Can we talk?”
Sophia finally stopped but didn’t look at her. “Jas, I’m working.”
“I know,” Jasmine said quickly. “And I’m… I’m really sorry. For this morning. For everything. And I know you spoke to Scott.”
Sophia inhaled sharply, still not turning. “Jasmine, please. Let’s talk when we get home.”
Jasmine nodded immediately. “Okay. Yeah. Of course.”
Sophia walked away, and Jasmine’s chest tightened with guilt. She walked back to the dressing room to strip and get to work.
Meanwhile, Sophia carried a tray of champagne flutes up the small steps to one of the VIP booths.
Then she saw him. Tonight, he looked different. His posture wasn’t as rigid. His eyes weren’t as hollow. There was something warmer there. Sophia straightened her shoulders, put on her professional smile, and approached him.
“Good evening, Sir,” she said gently.
He lifted his eyes to hers, and for the first time since she’d met him he actually smiled. A small one, but real.
“Hey.”
“You look a little better today,” she said softly.
“I feel a little better,” he replied.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked.
He considered it, then nodded.
“Yes. Bring me the usual. And…” His voice hesitated. “Bring two glasses.”
Sophia blinked. “Two?”
“Yes.” His gaze flicked to the empty space beside him. “You’ll sit with me.”
“Oh… um… sir, I’m actually not supposed to…”
“Please.”
The word came out soft. Not commanding. Not flirtatious.
She exhaled and nodded. “All right. Fifteen minutes. Then I have to get back.”
“That’s enough.”
She returned with the bottle and glasses, pouring the drink carefully. She handed him one glass and set the other down. He tapped the rim of his glass gently toward her.
“For joining me,” he said.
She took a sip. “You’re welcome.”
He leaned back, watching the slow swirl of amber liquid in his glass.
“You know,” he said quietly, “the last time I was here, I think I talked too much.”
“Not at all,” she said. “You needed it.”
He nodded slowly. “I did.”
Silence settled for a moment, comfortable, not heavy.
Sophia looked at him. “How are you holding up? Really?”
He breathed out. “Today was the first day I didn’t wake up feeling like someone was sitting on my chest.”
“That’s good,” she said softly.
He nodded again. “It is.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the bass from the club thumping faintly through the velvet walls of the VIP room. Then he looked at her, something curious in his eyes.
“You never asked,” he said quietly. “Not once.”
“Asked what?”
“Who I am.”
She shrugged. “I figured if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.”
For the first time, the corner of his mouth lifted.
- Writer
