Nightlife ✓

01 | trinity

A / N :

Welcome to Nightlife!

This story is a stand-alone that is part of my larger contemporary fiction universe. You don't need to have read any other of my stories to get the full experience, but there are easter eggs in here. Just like if you read Nightlife first and go to other books, there will be easter eggs for you there, too. This is a rewritten version so some of the inline comments have vanished :(( 

All this to say: please comment as you read! I love vocal readers and love responding to you all.

Let's start the ride,

Aimee x

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A BAD HABIT OF MINE was being five minutes late everywhere I went.

Lectures, brunches, phone calls. It wasn't dire enough to be ten minutes late and actually miss conversations or points of substance. Didn't matter if I had ample time to prepare, or rushed there in my car.

Punctuality and I just didn't get along.

But I figured, since I was diligent in all other areas, whichever god created me had to give me a flaw—for humility's sake.

Another case in point: Tuesday night. Halston's cringiest nightclub, also known as Topaz, also known as work. Five minutes late, again.

My shift had started at nine-thirty. That's when my payroll started counting from, though I wouldn't be late-late until ten. But so long as Krista Ming stepped out onto the dance floor at ten p.m. sharp, my manager would be happy.

I parked in the staff car park of Topaz, staring at the dumpster and the white-painted brick wall behind it. For three perfect seconds, the dashboard air conditioner whirred like a warm breath. My car's engine creaked and clicked as it cooled down. And outside my little bubble of tranquility, the bass thumped. Ever heard music that sounds like an apocalyptic siren?

Topaz already threatened to give me a headache.

Topaz' staffroom was tiny. Zachary wanted as much space as possible dedicated to gyrating twenty-somethings. Olive green walls, plastered with The Office memes, and a high coffee table had three stools set around it. One corner of the room housed a kitchenette with sparse cabinets, a sink, and a microwave. The other corner housed some coat hooks. I could cross the floor with two steps, which—at five-feet-five—was saying something.

Though I suppose my four-inch stilettos gave me an unfair advantage.

"Your skirts get shorter and shorter each time I see you," Zachary, my manager, marvelled. "Are you still growing?"

Zach fell somewhere between a father figure and an older brother. On one hand, he had a mustache, glasses, and protective tendencies. On the other hand, he kept offering to sneak me liquor on the job. Zach was also the best manager I'd ever had.

"That is the illusion of the heels," I hummed, kicking one pin-like stiletto into the air. "And I have bike shorts underneath."

He jerked his chin toward the personnel door. "You know there are creeps who take liberties out there."

Through that door came the pounding bass that rattled the frames of this building. But maybe that was the dozens of students all jumping in unison.