MAYA, a girl who goes through life with an unwavering smile-around other people that is. While juggling four jobs to support her father and a side hobby of modelling, Maya is rarely at home-to her content. Even through the mental and physical turmoi...
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"ANA." THE NASAL voice forces a laugh, one of those awkward, practiced ones. "My name is Ana."
I don't bother correcting her. "That's what I said," I reply flatly, though I know full well I called her Ava. It doesn't matter, and I want this exchange to end as quickly as possible.
She nods, plastering on some flirty smile, and twirls a piece of hair to the front. It's almost sad how predictable it all is. "Well, what can I help you with?" She bats her lashes, like that's supposed to work on me.
"Where's Lacey?" The words come out sharper than intended, but I don't care. I've been showing up every day since she left Nisha's place, and it's been a month without a trace. "Why isn't she on the schedule?"
Ana laughs nervously, shifting from foot to foot in that way insecure people do when they know they're out of their depth.
Lacey does that. I think to myself, but this girl doesn't come close.
"I don't make the schedule, Ian... I'm just a waitress now."
"Sir," I correct her automatically. It's an impulse, a reminder of the boundaries. I'm not here to be her friend.
She blinks, looking at me with confusion. Not the cute kind, like when Lacey does it. No, this is just dense, like she's trying to work through basic math. "Boss... Sir, or don't address me at all," I add, letting my tone grow colder. "I'm not ian, i'm not your friend."
She swallows hard, the cocky attitude slipping, before she tries to lean into that hip again, desperately clinging to her performance. "Who's Lacey, anyway? I've never seen that name on the locker room schedule."
"Maya." I say it slow this time, like explaining to a child. "The one you've been so insistent on being a bitch to."
She rolls her eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh. "She quit a while back. Didn't even give two weeks' notice," she scoffs. "I hate that. Such a bitchy thing to do. We all had to cover her—"
"That's enough." My voice cuts through her whining. I don't need to hear her complaints about Maya. "Get back to work."
She scurries away like a scared rabbit, and I lean back against the couch, arms crossed. My mind races.
Why would she quit?
Was it something I said?
Did I push too hard?
I didn't mean to make her cry.
Frustration builds. I don't care about people. They're distractions, liabilities. And yet... Maya is different. She's the one person who slipped through my armor, and now I don't know where the hell she is.
I'm about to shoo off another dancer when my phone rings, interrupting the thought. I don't recognize the number, and since it's my personal phone, it's not a client. I ignore it.
