Chapter 1: The Unexpected Text
The phone buzzed against the black countertop, a harsh, mechanical vibration in the quiet kitchen. Billie ignored it, watching the last dark drops of espresso fall into the ceramic cup. The sound was more real than the text probably was.
It buzzed again. And then a third time, insistent.
With a sigh, she picked it up. The screen glowed in the monochrome room: Dad.
That was unusual. Their chats were sporadic, mostly logistics, sometimes a stray article about her tour he’d forward with a thumbs-up emoji.
Dad: Hey kiddo. How was Lisbon?
Billie: Loud. Wet. The usual. You good?
Dad: Can’t complain. The knee’s acting up but what’re you gonna do. You back for a bit?
Billie: Couple weeks. Then Stockholm.
A pause. Three pulsing dots appeared, lingered, vanished, then came back. He was typing something long. Something complicated. A faint prickle crawled up the back of her neck.
Dad: Listen. The game’s tomorrow night. At my place. The guys are coming.
The “game” was his high-stakes poker night. Lawyers, a retired music exec, a guy who imported something vague but expensive. It was a ritual.
Billie: Cool. Have fun.
Dad: Thing is, Maria cancelled. The caterer. Her kid’s sick or something. We need someone to handle the drinks, keep the glasses full, you know. A waitress.
Billie stared at the word. Waitress. It felt foreign in her mouth, tasted like someone else’s life. She took a slow sip of espresso, bitter and hot.
Billie: And you’re texting me because…?
Dad: Thought you might be interested. Easy cash. Mostly just standing around. You’d be a hell of a lot better to look at than old Maria, that’s for sure.
The prickle became a cold trickle, tracing her spine. She set the cup down too hard, the sound a sharp clack in the sterile quiet. The faint, rhythmic thump of traffic from the 101 below seemed to grow louder.
Billie: You want me to serve drinks to your poker buddies.
Dad: It’s not a big deal. You’d just be in the background. They’d get a kick out of it. “Billie Eilish pouring my Scotch!” Kind of a fun story for them.
A fun story. Her, a story. A novelty act between flops and raises. She leaned against the counter, the cool stone seeping through her thin shirt. Her reflection in the dark window was a ghost—pale skin, dark hair, sharp features swallowed by the night outside.
Billie: What’s the dress code for this “not a big deal”?
Another pause. Longer this time. The dots pulsed like a weak heartbeat.
Dad: Well. You know how it is. The girls who usually do this… it’s part of the ambiance. Makes it feel like a real game. Think Vegas. Think classy, but… you know. Appealing.
The girls who usually do this. The chill settled in her bones. She knew. She’d never seen them, but she knew. Hired atmosphere. Part of the furniture. Pretty, silent, decorative.
Billie: Describe “appealing.”
Dad: Billie. Come on.
Billie: No, describe it. What do your usual waitresses wear?
A full minute passed. The phone was silent. Then, an image appeared. A link to a boutique on La Cienega. She clicked it.
It was a dress. Or the suggestion of one. Sleeveless, black, impossibly short. The model wore sheer stockings, heels that looked like weapons. The description read: Sophisticated Hostess Attire.
She laughed, a short, dry sound that evaporated in the vast, cold kitchen. Sophisticated. Hostess. Right.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. She could say no. Should say no. It was a weird, gross, transparent request that sat in a grey area between obliviousness and something else entirely. Her dad was many things, but he wasn’t stupid. He had to know what he was asking.
But.
There was the other thing. The quiet, hollow space that had grown between them ever since the world blew up and she stopped being just his kid. The invitations that had slowly dried up. The way he talked about her life like it was a business he wasn't a shareholder in anymore. This was an invitation. A messed up, back-door, deeply uncomfortable invitation into his world. A world where she wouldn't be the headline act. She’d be part of the scenery. For one night, she could be invisible in plain sight. Or visible in a way she controlled.
A perverse curiosity uncoiled in her gut. What did that room look like through those eyes? Not Billie Eilish the phenomenon, but the girl with the tray? What did her dad look like in that context?
Billie: What time.
Dad: 8. I’ll have the dress here. Your size, right?
He remembered her size. She didn’t know if that was better or worse.
Billie: Yeah.
Dad: Great. Thanks, kiddo. It’ll be fun. Wear your hair down.
She didn’t reply. She placed the phone back on the counter, screen-down. The hum of the Sub-Zero fridge filled the silence. She walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. The city glittered, indifferent.
Tomorrow night, she’d put on a uniform. She’d walk into a room of men who knew her, or thought they did. She’d serve them liquor and listen to their jokes. She’d be a fun story.
But she’d also be watching. Listening. Seeing her father, and that room, and herself, from a brand new, terrifying angle.
The espresso was cold now. She drank it anyway, the bitterness grounding. It was just a night. A role. An experiment.
She just had to decide who, exactly, she was experimenting on.