Chapter 4: The Incident

This day sucks coconuts.

Why in the hell did I agree to work a double shift at the Starlight Lounge? And on a Saturday no less. I started at 4 pm, it’s now 9, so that means I’m halfway done. I just have to keep reminding myself this means more money and more money is never a bad thing. Thankfully, it’s break time.

The microwave dings and I eagerly pull out my container of homemade sancocho. It’s basically a Dominican stew. Try as I might, I can’t make it as good as my madre, but I give it my best efforts. I’ve tried looking for Dominican restaurants in the area, but I only found one, and while they claimed to be ‘authentic’, I can tell you my madre would have been cussing the cooks out for disgracing our heritage.

I sit down at the table in the small, soundproof break room and begin digging into my food while I scroll on my phone to see what friends and family back home are posting online. I try to squash down the pang of sadness I feel seeing them all so happy without me. I know what you see on social media isn’t an accurate depiction of real life, but it still sucks.

As I take another bite of my food, Irina bursts in looking giddy as someone who just got off the Tilt-A-Whirl

“Lani, you will never guess who is in the club tonight,” she says with unveiled excitement, rushing to the mirror to touch up her makeup.

“I’m going to guess someone famous,” I say with disinterest.

“Julian Easton and Carter Chapman!” she squeals. I stare at her while I take slow bites of my food. She scoffs at my indifference. “How can you be twenty-eight, have lived in America for five years now and not know who Julian Easton or Carter Chapman are?”

“In my defence, I could have lived here for ten years and still not know who they are,” I say apathetically.

“They are the hottest actors in Hollywood right now. Julian just starred in that film Tackled about the openly gay quarterback, which he is totally going to be nominated for an Oscar for, and Carter was recently cast to play the Human Torch in the new Fantastic Four remake,” she says gleefully, adjusting her breasts to give herself more cleavage.

“Is Julian Easton gay?”

“No, why?”

“So once again the Academy would be rewarding a straight man for playing a gay man while still not honouring LGBTQIA actors. That figures,” I snort.

“Don’t be a buzzkill. They are the hottest names in Hollywood right now, just being associated with them could get me in the door. I need this, Lani,” she says with desperation. “I don’t want to be stuck here forever.”

“The grass isn’t always greener on the other side,” I remind her sympathetically.

“I’m not looking for greener. I just want the chance to write my songs and have the world hear them. Isn’t there anything you’ve dreamed of doing? Your dream can’t have been to come to America to earn money for your family,” she questions compassionately.

“No, it wasn’t. I wanted to become a teacher. I wanted to teach the children back home that they can aspire to great things, and I wanted to watch them grow and flourish. I didn’t dream of living away from my family, working two jobs to support myself and being perpetually exhausted, Irina.”

She sighs, walks over, and hugs me tightly. “I’m sorry, solnyshkuh. I didn’t mean to come off as offensive.”

I return her hug, rubbing her back. “I know. I respect you for fighting so hard for your dreams. I just don’t think you should put celebrities on a pedestal, that’s all.”

“I think that’s more than fair. But either way, if two rich hunks with connections are going to come into my place of work, you best believe I’m going to make it work in my favour,” she says, throwing me a wink as she saunters out of the room.

I shake my head and resume eating my dinner. I just don’t understand Americans and their obsession with fame and fortune. It’s this crazy cult that has created these disturbing parasocial relationships whereby simply following someone online, people can delude themselves into thinking they know someone or are best friends with them. Just because a celebrity likes your tweet or is kind enough to respond to a few messages, does not make them your friend. It’s utterly unhinged.

Sadly, I work in a place that puts these celebrities on that very pedestal I mentioned and goes out of its way to keep them there just to improve profits. It’s so unsavoury. It probably makes me a hypocrite for working here, but I’m not here to worship Hollywood A-listers. I’m here to work hard and get paid, not obsess over people who earn more in a year than I will in a lifetime.

Once I finish eating and break time is over, I make my way back out to the lounge.

“Oh, good, you’re back!” announces Chayton from behind the bar. “Can you go and take this tray up to the cigar room? Karen was meant to do it, but she’s vanished,” he says in vexation.

“Sure, not a problem. Which lounge?” I ask as I carefully pick up the tray of drinks off the bar top.

“Lounge two,” he says with a relieved smile.

I carry the tray, weaving through the tables of diners, and make my way to the staircase. There are two main staircases, one on the left of the club, and one on the right, each one leading to a large, private lounge area that is always in use by our more exclusive clientele. You either have to be someone to get into these or have a hell of a lot of money. You’re not really paying for a luxurious experience so much as you are paying for privacy and discretion.

I let myself into the lounge, still blown away by the extravagance. Walking in you're welcomed by gold carpet, black, plush leather sofas, black crystal chandeliers, a lavish private bar and an area sectioned off by a geometric feature wall for additional privacy. The room is dripping in opulence that I don't feel is ever truly appreciated by the patrons of this establishment. As I walk in, I notice two burly-looking men - who I presume are security guards - dressed in very expensive suits standing on each side of the door. A few people are standing by the bar, nursing their drinks, but their eyes are focused on the two men standing by the lounge area engaging in a shouting match.

“You just can’t fucking help yourself, can you, Julian? Doesn’t matter where we go, you have to make it about you,” acerbically spits a 6’5” muscular man with the blondest hair I’ve ever seen and muscles bulging with veins. Who wears a plain white shirt and ripped-up jeans to a 1930s bar? These people have no regard for decorum.

“Here we go again. Carter is going to have another bitch fit,” says the one named Julian, his voice dripping with condescension. He’s 6’7” with deep, sapphire blue eyes, skin the colour of island sand, strong chiselled features with stubble and warm brown hair. Just like his friend, he doesn’t seem to care for the dress code since he’s in a navy blue long-sleeve wool shirt and navy blue skinny jeans. He looks fit and toned, but he has to have the broadest shoulders on the planet. He must struggle to fit through doors.

So, these are the guys Irina was fawning over. Sure, they’re good-looking, but their attitudes suck. I distribute the drinks on the centre table as I continue to avoid bringing attention to myself.

“You wouldn’t even be looking at an Oscar nomination if I hadn’t turned down that role. You only got the offer because I rejected it!”

“So it’s my fault you rejected a script because you didn’t want to kiss a guy? Afraid you might realise you like it too much?” Julian taunts.

In the blink of an eye, Carter is lunging at Julian, shoving him as the two begin to brawl. It all happens so fast that I don’t have time to react. Before I know it, someone is slamming into me like a wrecking ball, and I feel my head connect hard with the wall behind me. I feel my body drop to the ground like a potato sack, the room spinning as a throbbing ache shoots through the back of my skull right into the front of my head. My tray falls from my hand as I reach up to cup the back of my head as the shouting voices get louder and start to sound more panicked, but the words they’re saying just begin to blur together, like trying to listen to someone talk from underwater.

I check my hand and feel relieved when I don’t see any blood, but it doesn’t make the pain lessen. I feel two large hands clasp my shoulders gently and comfortingly, my disoriented eyes meeting sapphire gemstones filled with concern. That's weird, jewels can't have emotions, can they?

“Are you okay?” his velvety voice asks, massaging my eardrums with its sound. He turns his head to look over at the other guy, held back by security and looking down at me with worry etched onto his face. “Look what you fucking did, what the fuck is your problem?!”

“Estoy bien,” I say as I slowly get to my feet, swaying a little as I stand.

Mr Easton rises with me, holding me steady, his hands never straying from my shoulders. “Do you speak English?” he carefully asks, that worried look still filling his face. That expression seems out of place on something so handsome.

“Huh?” I ask in confusion. “Oh, yes. Sorry.” Wow, hit my head so hard I defaulted back to Spanish.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, we’re the ones who are sorry. That never should have happened,” he insists ashamedly.

Mr Chapman shakes off the security and slowly walks over to me with a look of guilt and concern. “Miss? I’m so sorry, I never meant for that to happen. Are you alright?”

“My head hurts,” I groan, rubbing the back of my head.

“You might have a concussion, you might need to see a doctor,” urges Mr Easton.

“I don’t need a doctor but thank you.”

I look towards the door as I hear it open, Lamont walking in with the other security guard on his heel. He looks around the room until his eyes fall on me, filling with panic as he rushes over.

“Lani are you alright?” he asks, looking me over frantically.

“I’m alright,” I assure him.

“We’re so sorry, sir. Things got a little heated and unfortunately, the young lady here was knocked into the wall where she appears to have hit her head. If she requires medical assistance, I’ll be more than happy to pay for it,” Mr Easton declares.

“Me too,” adds Mr Chapman, the two shooting each other dirty looks like somehow my potential need for a doctor is now some kind of competition. Not interested.

“I said I’m alright and I don’t need a doctor,” I say with more force.

“I think it best you head home and get some rest. I’ll drive you,” says Monty.

“But what about my shift? What about my car?” I ask, getting worried that this stupid incident just screwed me out of a paycheck.

“I assure you; you’ll be getting paid a full night’s work. As for your car, I’ll have Irina drive it home for you.”

Wait, I get to go home early AND still get paid for a double shift? I should get injured on the job more often.

I nod, relenting and agreeing to head home. “Okay. I guess I’ll go pack up and clock out.” I look from Mr Easton to Mr Chapman and nod politely. “Thank you for the concern.”

“We really are sorry,” presses Mr Chapman. I give him a reassuring smile, though I don’t know why I’m trying to make him feel better when he’s the reason my head is killing me.

Monty escorts me to the door and guides me out, “You go get your things, I’ll meet you downstairs, he says before shutting the door to the lounge.

I don’t know what he’s saying to them, and I don’t care. I carefully make my way downstairs and to the staff room, put my apron in my locker and retrieve my bag. I place my car key in Irina’s locker and text her to let her know Monty is taking me home and could she please drive my car home. She’ll see it when she checks her phone. I exit the staffroom and find Monty waiting for me.

“Are you ready?” he gently asks.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

He wraps a comforting arm around me and escorts me down to the parking garage, opening the passenger door for me to get in. When he gets in and starts the car the air feels tense and uncomfortable. I’ve never had my boss drive me home. In fact, I’ve never even been in his car before. It’s nice though. Smells like lilacs for some reason.

“Nalani I am so sorry for what happened to you tonight. That never should have happened,” he says, his tone sounding distressed as he refers to me by my proper name. Must be serious. Maybe he's worried I'm going to sue.

“I’m not upset, it was just a case of wrong place wrong time. No one could have predicted it,” I reassure him. “But thank you for taking me home.”

“I do think you should go see a doctor, just to make sure nothing is wrong.”

“I’m not bleeding, I just have a headache, and I really can’t afford to waste my money on a trip to the ER that might be a complete waste of time. Look, I promise if I start feeling worse, I’ll go to the hospital, but for now, I’m just going to go home, take some Advil and curl up with my cat.”

“You promise to go to the hospital if you feel worse?” he presses.

“Cross my heart,” I say, crossing my heart for emphasis.

“I can accept that,” he smiles.

Monty drops me at my complex and wishes me well as I make my way inside. I head into my apartment and smile when Ily greets me at the door, brushing against my feet as I walk in. I close and lock the door, tossing my bag on the bed as I bend down and pick her up.

“I’m home early for cuddles,” I say as I nuzzle her.

I hold her with one arm as I walk over to the kitchenette and take the box of Advil out of the cupboard, taking a few with water just as I promised. I put Ily on the bed and undress, throwing my clothes into the hamper and changing into my nightshirt. I grab my glass of water and a bag of Doritos from the cupboard and make myself comfortable in bed, opening my laptop and resuming the last episode of Schitt’s Creek I was watching. My head is killing me, but if an aching head means I get to stay home from work for the rest of the night with full pay, then it is a pain I shall bask in.

I snuggle down into bed as Ily curls up in my lap and try to relax as images of mesmerising, worried sapphire eyes keep entering my mind. Attacked and fawned over by two gorgeous celebrities in one night. Irina is going to be so jealous.