Later in the evening, while trying not to think about the mystery man at the club who rescued me earlier, I’m sitting cross-legged on our threadbare carpet, surrounded by a sea of paperwork that represents everything wrong with the American healthcare system, studying the latest bill from Mercy General. The envelope is thin, which gives me false hope until I tear it open and see the amount printed in unforgiving black ink.
Twelve thousand, four hundred and sixty-seven dollars.
The insurance company has decided, three years after my mother’s death, that certain treatments weren’t “medically necessary” and they’re retroactively denying coverage. The letter uses phrases like “upon further review” and “administrative adjustment” to mask what amounts to corporate theft, but the bottom line is clear—they want their money back, and they want it from me.
“Another love letter from the medical-industrial complex?” asks Jessie from across the room, where she’s folding laundry. She’s handling this better than I am.
“They’re saying Mom’s pain medication wasn’t necessary for her treatment plan.” I scan the dense paragraphs of medical jargon and legal terminology. “Apparently, dying of stomach cancer doesn’t qualify as sufficient justification for morphine.”
She stops folding and looks at me with the expression she reserves for moments when she’s trying very hard not to say something that will make me cry. “What does your lawyer say?”
“I can’t afford a lawyer, and they know it.” I set down the letter and lean back against the couch. “The whole system is designed to wear people down until they give up and pay whatever they’re told to pay.”
“Have you tried calling your father again?”
I snort softly. My father, David Clyde, owns three car dealerships across central California and lives in a house that could fit our entire apartment complex in its backyard. He also hasn’t spoken to me since my mother’s funeral, where he showed up for exactly long enough to make an appearance before disappearing back to his new family and his new life.
“He’s not going to help,” I say, because that’s easier than explaining I called him twice this week and his secretary told me he was “unavailable” both times. “He made his position clear when Mom got sick.”
Jessie’s jaw tightens in a way that suggests she has opinions about my father she’s keeping to herself for my sake. She needn’t bother, because I have the exact same opinions of my deadbeat, absent sperm donor. “So what’s the plan?”
“Same as always. I’ll pick up more shifts and hope I can pay them off before they send it to collections.” I gather the papers into a neat stack and slide them back into their folder. “Maya said she might have some extra VIP shifts available this week.”
“Sabrina.” Jessie’s voice carries the kind of gentle firmness that means she’s about to say something I don’t want to hear. “You’re already working six nights a week. When do you sleep? When do you eat actual meals instead of whatever the kitchen staff leaves out?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re running yourself into the ground trying to pay off debt that isn’t even legally yours.”
“It was my mother’s debt, which makes it mine now.” The words come out sharper than I intended, but I’m tired of having this conversation. “It’s the principle of the thing.”
She sets down the shirt she was folding and comes to sit beside me on the floor. “Your mom wouldn’t want you to sacrifice your entire life to pay off medical bills that the insurance company should have covered in the first place.”
I stiffen. “My mom isn’t here to tell me what she wants.”
The words are heavy with the kind of grief that never quite fades even after three years. Jessie doesn’t try to argue with that logic because she knows it’s not really about logic. It’s about guilt and love and the desperate need to do something, anything, that honors the woman who raised me alone after my father decided we weren’t worth the inconvenience.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I say, standing up and stretching muscles that have been cramped from sitting on the floor too long. “Early shift tomorrow.”
She watches me with something akin to sadness but doesn’t try to argue with me again. I appreciate that, because it’s hard enough to stay the course I’ve set without people encouraging me to stop, even my BFF.
The next evening at Haus Modesto, I’m two hours into what promises to be a relatively quiet Wednesday night when I notice him again. He’s sitting at a different table this time, closer to the bar and with a clear sightline to every entrance and exit in the place. The positioning feels deliberate, like he’s a chess player who’s thinking several moves ahead.
Tonight, he’s alone.
There’s no entourage of dangerous-looking men in expensive suits or business associates sharing drinks and conversation. It’s just him, nursing what looks like the same glass of scotch he ordered an hour ago and watching me with that same unsettling intensity that made my skin feel electric last night.
I deliver champagne to table six and try to ignore the way my pulse quickens every time I move through his line of sight. The rational part of my brain keeps insisting he’s just another wealthy customer who is returning to the club, but rational thinking has never been my strong suit when it comes to men who look like they could bench press a motorcycle and probably have.
Maya catches me during a lull between orders. “You know that guy at table twelve has been asking about you.”
My stomach does something complicated. “Asking what?”
“Whether you work here regularly, what your schedule is like… The usual creepy rich guy stuff.” She shrugs like this is nothing unusual, which in our line of work, it isn’t. “I told him to talk to you directly if he wants to know something.”
“Thanks.” I grab a tray of empty glasses and head toward the bar, acutely aware I’m now walking directly past his table.
He doesn’t say anything as I pass. I tense, but he doesn’t reach out to stop me or make some comment designed to get my attention. He just watches me with those winter-storm eyes and something that might be amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.
By the time my break comes around, my nerves are stretched so tightly I feel like I might snap if someone looks at me wrong. I need air and space and five minutes where I’m not hyperaware of every move I make.
The back alley behind Haus Modesto isn’t much to look at, but it’s quiet and relatively clean, and most importantly, it’s away from the noise of the club. I lean against the brick wall and close my eyes, letting the cool night air wash over my overheated skin.
The first thing I notice is how quiet it is back here with no thumping bass, no conversation, and no clinking of glasses or laughter from the bar. Just the distant hum of traffic and the occasional car passing on the street beyond the alley.
The second thing I notice is that I’m not alone.
I don’t hear footsteps or see movement in my peripheral vision. It’s more instinctual than that, the primitive part of my brain that evolved to keep our ancestors alive in a world full of predators suddenly screams something is wrong.
I open my eyes and start to turn around, but I’m already too late.
A hand clamps over my mouth from behind, cutting off the scream that was building in my throat. Another arm wraps around my waist, pinning my arms to my sides and lifting me off my feet with an ease that suggests my attacker is both larger and stronger than me.
I try to bite the hand covering my mouth, but thick gloves prevent my teeth from finding purchase. I try to kick backward, but my heels are designed for looks, not self-defense, and my legs are pinned at an angle that makes it impossible to generate any real force.
Panic floods my system like ice water, sharp and cold and completely overwhelming. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. Things like this don’t happen to people like me in places like this.
Even as my mind rebels against the reality of the situation, my body is already shutting down. The hand over my mouth isn’t just preventing me from screaming. It’s also making it hard to breathe. The arm around my waist is cutting off circulation to my legs, and the awkward angle at which I’m being held is putting strain on muscles that weren’t designed for this kind of stress.
I try to struggle, fight back, or do any of the things that women are supposed to do when they find themselves in situations like this, but the truth is that all the self-defense classes in the world didn’t prepare me for the reality of being overpowered by someone who’s bigger, stronger, and clearly more experienced at this kind of violence than I am.
The last thing I see before everything goes dark is the brick wall of the alley spinning away from me as my attacker carries me toward what I assume is a waiting vehicle. The last thing I think is that I should have listened to Jessie when she told me to be more careful about working late shifts alone.
The last thing I feel is a sharp pinch in my neck, like a bee sting, followed by a warmth that spreads through my veins like honey.
Then nothing.
