Billionaire Romance: Club Billionaire (The Complete Series) (9 page)

The thought is sobering, enough to drop the endless
smile from my face.

Chapter Two

It's about 4 weeks since I started working at Club
Billionaire that I'm drawn deeper into its world. As Kyle had told me
when we first met, the club isn't only restricted to the four walls
of its permanent address.

Events are commonly held around the city, country, and
even in other parts of the world. For these men, money isn't a
factor, and these events are generally the most lavish on the planet.

One, Alice had told me, involved a party on an Airbus
plane flying between New York and London. Like something out of the
Wolf of Wall Street
, all manner of things went on during the
flight, including several members of the club joining a new one –
the mile high club – during the journey.

Events such as those, however, are generally organized
and enjoyed by the younger members of the club. The billionaire brats
like Brad who behave like they're rock stars, when in actual fact
they're nothing at all.

The main events organized and often hosted by the more
serious members of the club are, however, more sophisticated and
cultured. Events that provide a change up from the regular
surroundings of the club and offer everyone a chance to enjoy an
evening of ever greater opulence surrounded, often, by wives,
girlfriends, and even other associates.

These events, it seems, aren't always restricted to the
members of the club. Depending on who organizes them and what the
intention of the event is, they can be much larger and more
inclusive. It really is up to the discretion of the host.

Tonight, my role as waitress is being transferred to a
mansion on Long Island. According to Alice, a masquerade ball is
being held, always a favorite among these high society aristocrats.

“
Come to the club for 5 PM on Saturday,” she'd told
me toward the end of last week. “A bus has been arranged to
transfer all of us to the mansion. Be there on the dot, or you might
miss out.”

She'd gone on to say that missing out means missing
payment. The event has a fixed fee of $2,000 dollars per girl, more
than ten times what a regular waitress would expect to receive for
such an event.

“
That's the price they pay for our looks,” Alice had
finished with not the least bit of humility. Unlike me, she is
clearly completely aware of how beautiful she is.

“
Give it time. Once you've worked here as long as I
have, with all the confidence it gives you and the compliments you
get, you'll
know
how good looking you are too.”

That Saturday, I resolve to arrive at the club in good
time so as not to miss out. When I arrive it seems I'm not the only
one with that idea. There are about 15 girls there, some of whom I
haven't seen before, but most I know by now. Unfortunately, the
Brazilian girl, who I've found out is called Julia, is there,
standing about like a supermodel, brushing her fingers over her
pouting lips.

We eye each other like two staring cats, an animosity
between us that's hard to explain. We both know it centers on Kyle,
but it's more than that. I just don't like the way she carries
herself, the way she butters up the men so well. Perhaps it's just
because she's better than me, more attractive than me. Or maybe I
just don't like her in a way that girls do, something that needs no
explanation or reason.

When the bus arrives, I step on and sit beside Alice, my
only true ally among these girls. Most are nice, but it's generally a
closed off environment, one full of jealousy and competition between
the girls.

Who can get the most tips. Who can fuck the hottest guy.
Who gets the most shifts. Who's the most popular with the
billionaires.

It's a constant power struggle, a world within a world,
and creates plenty of tension that the men are probably not aware of.
So, on this bus, with everyone locked together in a tight space,
there's a serious awkwardness that hangs in the air.

The trip doesn't last too long, though, passing through
the city and then out into the open reaches of Long Island. It's nice
to see some greenery along the way, the sun just settling near the
horizon, sending the world awash with beautiful orange and red and
golden hues.

I sit, my head against the window, and watch the world
outside. Beautiful houses, quaint towns and the endless beauty of the
ocean fill the view. When we near our destination, however, Alice
stands ahead of everyone to makes an announcement.

“
Right girls, as I've told you all, it's $2,000 for
the night. Don't expect too many tips this evening. There will be
women there as well, and a lot more people than at the club. This
isn't entirely exclusive to billionaires and our usual clientele.
Wives, girlfriends, business associates, political players, and even
celebrities will be there.”

A murmur of excitement runs through the bus.

“
However,” Alice continues, “don't expect to know
who you're serving. It's a masquerade ball, so everyone will be in
masks. And no, this isn't like the balls from
Eyes Wide Shut
,
so no funny business with any of you. This is strictly above board,
strictly PC. Just do your regular jobs and serve drinks and look
beautiful. I know that's not hard for any of you. The bus will remain
parked outside the mansion to take us home when the night ends. I
don't know when that will be, so pace yourself. OK?”

There's a round of nods and “yes's”, and Alice sits
back down.

A few minutes later, we approach a gate set back off the
main road. It looks rudimentary, but solid, and without the sort of
aesthetic flourishes I'd expect from a billionaire's mansion.

Then, further down the road, I see another gate, heavily
manned by security and far more grand. It's then that I realize the
entrance we're going up is nothing but a service entrance. A backdoor
into the grounds so we can approach unseen from the guests.

Here, security is just as tight. Guards stand outside
the gate. One steps on as the driver stops outside and quickly
examines the interior. Alice, as always, talks him through it until
he's satisfied that we are actually the waitressing staff they're
expecting and not a crack team of all-female commandos preparing to
assault the social elite.

We progress through, meandering up a tree-lined path,
going deeper into the estate. Beautiful flower gardens and fountains
can be seen all over, despite this backdoor entrance, and I begin to
wonder what the true road to the front door must be like.

Soon, the shape of a grand building looms in the
distance. A silhouette against the darkening night, lit with a
thousand lights from inside the myriad rooms within. As we get
closer, I notice the beautiful Victorian architecture, the Gothic
flourishes, the high archways and bastions, like an ancient fortress
guarding a king.

We stop around the back of the mansion, and I notice a
rotund lady waiting for us outside. Most likely the keeper of the
house, here to show us around and give us a run down of how the
evening is going to progress. Behind me, the bus is alight with
excitement now, beautiful sets of eyes staring out at the magnificent
mansion beyond. One that puts the permanent address of Club
Billionaire to shame.

Suddenly, I realize I don't even know who's place this
is. The thought strikes at me and I lean over to Alice, ready to
stand and leave the bus.

“
So which billionaire owns this mansion then?” I
ask.

“
Yes, I forgot to tell you that.” She looks me dead
in the eye, a warning to be careful tonight.

“
This is the mansion of Oliver Turner, Brad's father.”

Chapter Three

With the news that the mansion I'm entering is,
essentially, enemy territory, I'm suddenly feeling anxious rather
than excited. The wonder I had at seeing such a building, watching it
burst from the shadows and materialize in front of my eyes, has
quickly dulled to a mild disinterest.

Of course, aside from the odd sneer and snide remark,
Brad hasn't actually been much of a thorn in my side over the last
few weeks. Yet still, there's clearly an animosity between him and
Kyle that's existed for a while, and I can't help but feel that I'm
right in the middle of it.

With a pat on the shoulder from Alice, however, I step
off the bus and, along with the rest of the girls, am ushered inside
by the housekeeper. For the next 30 minutes she explains the plan and
schedule for the night, tells us exactly what she wants from us, and
takes us around the areas of the mansion that we're to be working in.
That includes a grand hall, several linked reception rooms, the
kitchen, and the adjoining pantry and other staff quarters.

The place is without equal, the largest and most
extravagant mansion in the whole of the United States. A palatial
wonder to match the great castles and estates of Europe. The sort of
place that only a man like Oliver Turner could afford.

Knowing what the other side of life is like - scratching
for cents and pennies, eking out a meager living from noodles and
soup, living a life so empty it might as well cease to exist – I
find such wealth almost vulgar. And all of it paid for by war and the
creation of weapons to kill, maim, and destroy. The idea leaves a
very bitter taste in my mouth.

Naturally, I push such thoughts to one side like a pro
when it comes time to spring into action. Before long, guests are
arriving, and we're put into position. Some are ordered to the front,
where they wait with glasses of the finest champagne to give out as
people enter. Others hang further back, waiting until the ball moves
into its stride before they're expected to act. Others still ferry
fresh trays of Dom Perignon back and forth, ensuring the waitresses
at the entrance never run dry.

My job is one of the latter, so I'm busy from the word
go. Each time I return to the front with a full tray, I notice more
limousines and supercars arrive. Guests spill out, already wearing
their masks, tickets in hand.

All manner of strange faces appear, giving the whole
thing a strangely fantastical feel. It's odd not knowing who's behind
the mask. Whether it's a famous actor, musician, powerful politician,
or simply one of the super rich billionaires I've become accustomed
to in the club.

Half an hour passes before the stream of arriving guests
begins to weaken, becoming nothing more than a trickle. Within the
mansion, however, hundreds now mingle, drinking champagne, nibbling
on delectable hor d'oeuvres and canapes. Music plays from a string
band, the room fills with the sounds of Mozart and Beethoven, and the
endless murmur of chatter.

It's all so refined, so urbane. Not a voice is raised.
Not an argument started. Yet behind those masks, I know, are a
million issues and worries. The sort of power plays and posturing
that only the rich and powerful endure.

Sometimes,
I
think to myself
, a simple life is better...

As the night progresses, my mind lingers on Kyle. I
wonder whether he's even here, among the crowd, hiding behind a mask
like the rest of them. I try to spot him, knowing the shape of his
body so intimately, the way he moves and walks, his mannerisms and
body language. Mask or not, I expect to recognize him. Perhaps hear
the sound of his penetrating voice, and feel that tingle up my spine
as a result.

But I don't. I'm certain he's here, but it's too busy to
tell, and the guests are all dispersed around different rooms.
Currently, my directive is to serve those in the main banquet hall,
and not venture beyond. It's quite possible that he'll be in one of
the other rooms.

The night flows, a nice change up from my time in the
club. For a start, it's nice to be serving women too. To not be in a
world where you know, just through a couple of doors, people are
having sex. Here, I doubt that sort of thing would go on. It's not a
houseparty populated with frat boys and college sluts, where every
bedroom is filled with copulating students.

It's a few hours in when I notice the volume change.
Drink has that universal effect, no matter what social class you
belong to, of lowering inhibitions and weakening the senses.
Naturally, the ability to control the sound of your voice is
impaired, as is the ability to hear quite so clearly. The chatter,
therefore, begins to increase. I think I even spot some dancing as
the band picks up its rhythm.

So, the rich do know how to get down too...

When I return to the kitchen, I'm greeted by my least
favorite girl here – Julia, miss beautiful Brazilian. Strangely,
though, that arrogant sneer she usually carries when looking at me is
absent. Her expression is more muted for once. I even spot a light
smile.

“
Hi Belle,” she ventures. “Enjoying the night.”

I play along. “Sure, beats being down in the club.”

“
You know Kyle is here, right?”

I shrug my shoulders as if I don't care. But even the
mention of his name makes me smile.
If only I had a mask too to
hide it...

“
OK...” I say, waiting for more.

“
He asked me if you were here, so I told him. I hope
you don't mind.”