A bad day

VALERIE's POV

{Ding}

Eviction Notice:

Dear Valerie, we regret to inform you that your rent is overdue. Please be advised that if the outstanding amount is not settled within the next three months, we will have no choice but to terminate your lease.

Thank you,

Your Lessor.

Oh no, not again. It’s only Wednesday, and this is already the third reminder this week. I'm at my wit's end trying to figure out how I'll make the payment in time. Despite juggling two jobs—yes, you heard right—I'm working as a waitress by day and doubling as a stripper by night just to scrape together enough to survive. As an orphan, it’s just me against the world.

Valerie!

I'm on my way, boss!

Apologies for not introducing myself properly. I’m Valerie Sanchez, and you've just witnessed a snippet of my life; that was my boss calling. I should hurry to see what he wants before I risk losing my job.

Here I am, sir.

"Were you daydreaming? Can't you see there are customers waiting to be served? That's five dollars off your wages today. Now get moving and see to table seven."

Yes, that's Mr. Felix, my uncompromising boss. His constant deductions are a big reason I'm struggling to pay rent. How can I possibly save up when every minor slip-up costs me?

I work in North Hill's most prestigious restaurant—a haunt for the rich and famous—yet I take home barely enough to get by. It's exasperating but beats the alternative of unemployment, which, in this city, feels like a looming specter.

And, as luck would have it, he's sent me to serve the notorious table seven, where it seems my unfortunate fate is to encounter one lecherous creep after another.

This time, a group of friends commandeered the table, likely spoiled heirs to vast fortunes. I silently hoped they'd prove to be different.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Welcome to Felix’s. What can I get for you today?"

"Why don't you start by serving me... in my bed?" snickered one of the guys, triggering laughter from his friends.

His words ignited an urge to deliver a punch strong enough to reshape that smug face, but what chance did I stand against their privilege? Instead, I bit back the retort, reminding myself that these wealthy patrons often left generous tips.

Perhaps today would be lucrative, and I could recoup the deduction from my pay.

"I'm sorry, sir, but here at Felix’s, we pride ourselves on serving exceptional cuisine at the table. Please take a look at today's specials and let me know your order."

"Just bring us waffles, scrambled eggs, bacon, and two bottles of non-alcoholic wine," interjected another, thankfully choosing a more appropriate response.

"Your order will be right out." I turned away, relieved, to attend to other diners.

The service went smoothly, and only one out of the bunch bothered to leave a tip. Time flew,

The day sped past, and before I knew it, dusk was upon us.

Glancing at my wristwatch, my heart skipped a beat – I was terribly late for my night gig. Mrs. Lucy's tolerance for tardiness was notoriously thin.

With haste, I collected my earnings and darted for the restroom to don my evening attire. Slipping out of my waitress uniform, I revealed the daring ensemble beneath: snug denim shorts paired with a sheer top that left little to the imagination, all complemented by a pair of striking high leather boots.

I relished the solitude afforded by being the last to leave the diner; it allowed me to transition into my nocturnal persona undisturbed.

Arriving at the club in the nick of time, I braced myself for the inevitable reprimand from Mrs. Lucy.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the belle of North Hill, our star attraction for the night!"

"Valenchez!"

True, I balked at using my given name. The thought of patrons who frequent both the diner and the club joining the dots and jeopardizing my day job was too much to bear.

Hence the alias and the costume.

A roar of approval erupted from the crowd as they awaited my act.

Striding onto the stage with a sultry gait, I acknowledged my admirers. As the DJ cued up my anthem, I let loose, my movements weaving spells in rhythm with the pulsating beats.

Midway through my set, an enigmatic, dashing figure emerged from the throng, his entrance marked by a phalanx of bodyguards. He exuded affluence from every pore, settling into a VIP seat that offered an unobstructed view of the platform. His gaze never wavered from me throughout my performance; at one point, he even appeared to dispatch a discreet message to one of his guards. Shortly after, a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills made its way to Mrs. Lucy.

Was I the object of some clandestine transaction? Why the hefty tip to Mrs. Lucy?

Silently, I yearned for a fair share of that bounty to alleviate my rent woes.

Once my routine concluded, I sought out Mrs. Lucy for my cut, only to receive ten thousand dollars.

"Mrs. Lucy, is this the sum total for tonight?" I queried, puzzled.

"Yes, dear. Your stellar performance warranted a bonus," she replied nonchalantly.

"But what about the generous handout from that affluent gentleman?" I pressed.

Her demeanor shifted instantly. "Ungrateful wretch! Take it or leave it – perhaps my generosity was misplaced today."

I accepted the payment without further dispute, unwilling to stir the pot any further.

Exhausted, I arrived home, washed away the grime of the day, and surrendered to slumber, hoping for a brighter morrow.