Chapter 2: Her first days
The uniform was a confession in orange spandex. Dave presented it to her the next afternoon with a theatrical flourish, his earlier nervousness replaced by a smooth, appraising confidence. “Had to dig through the archives for this one,” he said, a grin playing on his lips. “Vintage. Thought it might suit your… proactive approach to customer service.”
Suki took the hanger. The shorts were obscenely brief, the white tank top cut high enough to show a sliver of midriff. She raised an eyebrow. “Corporate approved this?”
“Consider it a management discretion.” He leaned against the office doorframe, arms crossed, his gaze warm and unapologetic as it traveled over her. “You made quite an impression yesterday. I’m just facilitating the vibe.”
She changed in the same cracked-tile bathroom. The shorts did, indeed, display half of her ass; the bottom curve of each cheek was plainly visible, the fabric doing little more than framing the skin. She twisted, checking the reflection. A thrill, cold and sharp, shot through her. Perfect. It wasn’t just attention she wanted now—it was a reaction, a consequence. She needed to see how far the line could bend before it truly snapped.
When she walked out, Dave let out a low, appreciative whistle. Melissa, rolling silverware at the wait station, paused, her face a blank mask. “You’ll get sent home,” she said simply.
“Not if the manager says it’s fine,” Suki replied, her voice sweet as syrup.
“It’s fine,” Dave echoed, not looking away from Suki. “In fact, Suki, why don’t you take section three tonight? Those guys just ordered a second pitcher. They’re… enthusiastic tippers.”
Section three was the cluster of high-top tables near the jukebox, currently occupied by a loud group of guys in university sweatshirts, their voices already slurry with beer. They were exactly the kind of difficult she’d asked for. “My pleasure,” she said, grabbing a notepad.
The shift unfolded like a dance she’d choreographed in her head. The boys whooped when she approached, their eyes widening at the uniform. “Hell-o! New recruit?” one shouted, his hand slapping the table.
“Something like that,” she said, smiling. She leaned between two of them to clear empty glasses, letting her body brush against their shoulders. The one on the right, a broad guy with a red beard, didn’t move away. His hand came up and patted her lower back, his fingers splaying, his thumb dipping just below the waistband of the shorts onto bare skin. The touch was bold, possessive.
Suki didn’t flinch. She shifted, letting the contact linger for a heartbeat before straightening up. “You guys ready for another round, or just trying to get me in trouble?”
“Oh, we can do both,” Redbeard laughed, his hand finally dropping.
She moved through the section, a pinball of calculated provocations. A ‘stumble’ on a slick patch of floor that sent her hip bumping into another customer’s chair, her hand landing on his shoulder. A deep, prolonged bend to wipe a spill, the short-shorts riding up further, the entire room behind her holding its breath. She felt eyes like physical pressure—from the college boys, from the lone businessmen at the bar, from Dave watching from the shadows by the kitchen. Each glance was a point on a scoreboard only she could see.
Later, a different table—older men in tradesman’s clothes, their hands rough and calloused—called her over. One, with a tattooed neck, reached out and pinched the fabric of her shorts, tugging playfully. “These things legal, darlin’?”
“Why, you turning me in?” she fired back, filling his glass slowly, letting the beer foam.
“I’m thinkin’ of committing a crime myself,” he chuckled, his friends joining in.
The laughter was coarse, the touches invasive, the comments tinged with a threat that never quite materialized. It was a game of chicken, and Suki refused to blink. Every graze, every slap on the backside disguised as a joke, every lewd compliment was a trophy. It filled the hollow space the trust fund money carved inside her. This was value, immediate and undeniable.
During a lull, Dave sidled up to her at the service well. “You’re a natural. They’re spending triple what they usually do.”
“Told you,” she said, not looking at him, counting her cash tips. They were already substantial, mostly ones and fives, damp with condensation.
“The suit guy from yesterday is back,” Dave nodded toward a corner booth. “Asked if you were working.”
Her head snapped up. There he was, the man with the cool blue eyes, watching her over the rim of a water glass. He wore another impeccable suit, a sharp gray today. He’d been watching, and he hadn’t approached. The controlled hunger was back, and it was more intriguing than all the grabbing hands in the room.
“I’ll take care of him,” she said.
But first, the jukebox. She fed it a few quarters, selected a song with a grinding, insistent bassline. The opening notes cut through the din. She looked at Dave, then at the room, and gave a slight shrug. What was a trial shift for, if not trialing?
She didn’t go to a stage—there wasn’t one. She simply used the open space near the jukebox, under the flickering neon. It wasn’t a professional dance, just a series of movements she’d practiced in her vast, empty living room: hip rolls, a slow, arching backbend that made her tank top ride up, a turn where she glanced over her shoulder, catching every eye in the place.
The room roared. Whistles cut the air. A chant of her name—or a version of it—started at the college boys’ table. She locked eyes with the suit man. He wasn’t cheering. He was observing, as if studying a fascinating specimen. His calm was a dare.
She ended the impromptu performance with a deep, forward bend, her palms flat on the polished floor, her head tilted back to look at the room upside down. The applause was physical, a wall of sound that vibrated in her chest.
When she stood, flushed and breathing quickly, Dave was there, his hand on her arm. His touch was firmer now, confident. “Okay, that was… next level. But maybe save it for later. Suit guy’s waiting.”
She collected a pitcher of water, her heart still pounding from the dance, and walked to the corner booth. The noise faded to a background hum. “Water refill?” she asked, her voice a little huskier than usual.
“I think you’ve refilled everything in here twice over,” he said. His voice was dry, quiet. He gestured for her to sit across from him. An unusual request. She slid into the booth, the vinyl cool through the thin shorts.
“You’re a student,” he stated.
“How’d you guess?”
“You carry yourself like you’re conducting a social experiment. The uniform is your lab coat. The…” he gestured vaguely toward the raucous room, “…the stimuli are your subjects.”
Suki felt a flicker of unease. He was seeing the mechanism, not the show. “Maybe I just like the tips.”
“I saw you arrive yesterday. You drive a car worth more than this restaurant. Your watch is a Patek Philippe.” He took a sip of water. “You don’t need tips.”
The hollow feeling yawned open again, right on schedule. He had punctured the game. “What do you want?” she asked, the playful lilt gone from her voice.
“To understand the experiment. What’s the dependent variable? What are you measuring?”
“Reactions,” she said flatly.
“And mine?”
“Yours is annoying. You’re not reacting. You’re… dissecting.”
He smiled, a genuine one that reached his eyes. “My reaction is intellectual curiosity. It’s still a reaction. My name is Charles, by the way.”
She didn’t offer hers. He already knew it. The noise of the restaurant swelled back into focus—a crash of glasses, a bray of laughter, Dave calling her name from across the room. The real, messy, grasping world was right there.
“Your audience awaits,” Charles said, nodding toward the college boys, who were waving frantically for another pitcher. One of them mimed spanking himself.
Suki stood up, the moment of piercing clarity fading, replaced by the familiar, comforting hunger for a simpler validation. “Gotta go. The stimuli need watering.”
“Until next time, Suki,” Charles said, returning to his tablet.
She walked back into the heat and the noise, her skin buzzing. Dave intercepted her, his hand landing firmly on the small of her back, his thumb tracing her spine. “You’re a gold mine,” he murmured into her hair, his breath smelling of peppermint and cheap whiskey. “A total gold mine.”
His touch was different now. Bolder, claiming. A direct result of the dance, of the uniform, of her own requests. She had bent the line, and it was curling back around her, and the feeling was not fear, but a profound, exhilarating sense of things finally beginning. The night was still young, the cash in her apron was heavy, and every eye in the neon-lit room was a mirror reflecting a version of herself she desperately needed to see.