Serving the Billionaire (3 page)

She showed me where the garnishes were stored, and where to find the jiggers and different types of glasses; and then she showed me a laminated card listing the most common drink recipes, and set me at the bar to study that. I had just memorized the difference between a cosmopolitan and a Manhattan when Beth came back to where I was sitting and said, “We’re about to open.”

“I have to serve people tonight?” I asked. Beth had told me I wasn’t supposed to write down orders, and I knew I was going to get confused and serve someone the wrong drink.

“No, not tonight,” she said. “Wednesdays are usually quiet. Just follow me around and watch what I do. And—this is important—if any of the customers touch you, or try to touch you, tell me
immediately
. We’ll have them blacklisted.”

“Wow,” I said. “So you’re really—”

“Germaine doesn’t play,” Beth said. “They want to grope somebody, that’s what the dancers are for. Waitresses are off limits, and everyone knows it. The clients try anything funny, they get the boot. You’re not getting paid enough for sex work, so leave it to the professionals.”

“Okay,” I said, relieved. Germaine had said the customers wouldn’t touch me, but I hadn’t thought she was serious about it. But I liked Beth’s brisk, forthright manner, and I decided to trust her.

A few other cocktail waitresses had arrived, and Beth introduced me to them as we waited for the first customers. We lingered by the bar, and I listened as they talked about something that had happened to Monica, who I didn’t know.

The central stage suddenly flooded with light, revealing a gleaming metal pole and a chair. “Show’s on,” one of the waitresses said, and as I watched, a young woman emerged from a door at the rear of the club. She was wearing high heels, a black thong, and nothing else.

I watched, shocked despite myself, as she strolled across the floor and mounted the few steps onto the stage. Her breasts shook as she walked, and her nipples were hard. I had known, intellectually, that this was a strip club, but seeing a half-naked—well, three-quarters-naked—girl wandering around really drove it home.

“Shocked and appalled?” Beth asked from beside me.

I looked at her, feeling my face heat up. “I’ll get used to it,” I said quickly, not wanting her to think I disapproved.

“I remember my first day,” she said. “Couldn’t get over all the naked girls walking around. Wait until you see what the clients do to them! I just couldn’t believe it. One of the dancers tried to talk to me about something or other and I spent the whole time staring at her boobs. You’ll get used to it, though.”

“Thanks,” I said, and meant it. Everything seemed pretty strange to me at the moment, but Beth was so unruffled that it was hard for met to get too worked up about it.

One of the dancers came over and leaned on the bar. This one, thankfully, was wearing a silky black robe. “Fresh meat?” she asked Beth.

“Regan,” Beth said, tilting her head in my direction. “She’s training with me.”

The dancer held out her hand. “I’m Natalie,” she said. “Well, Vixen Deluxe, here.”

I shook her hand. “Vixen, uh, Deluxe?”

Natalie grinned. “The clients like us to have real old-school stripper names,” she said. “I guess it makes them feel like they’re having an authentic experience. Although, if they want it
really
authentic, they should go up to Times Square.” With that, she ambled away.

A bell chimed—like a doorbell, but louder. “First customers,” Beth said, and as I watched, all of the waitresses lined up against the wall behind the bar and clasped their hands behind their backs, their faces perfect expressionless masks. I hurriedly imitated them.

The main door opened, and three men came inside, guided by the man from the lobby. All three were wearing suits and carrying briefcases. “Typical after-work crowd,” Beth whispered to me. “They’ll have a couple of drinks and then leave.”

One of the other waitresses went to serve that table. I watched as the dancer on stage spun in slow circles, one leg hooked around the pole. Music started—not the loud, thumping club music I expected, but soft background music. The men sipped at their drinks and talked to each other, laughing loudly. They barely looked at the stage. I wondered why they didn’t just go to a regular bar, if they were going to ignore the dancers all night.

More men arrived and were seated in quick succession. “That’s us,” Beth said, as a table of four took their seats, and I followed her out onto the floor, trying not to let me heels get caught in the thick carpeting. I stayed a step behind her as she stopped beside the table and bent down toward one of the men, who had turned his head toward us as we approached.

“Two martinis, a Jack and Coke, and a gin and tonic,” he said. I did what Beth had told me, and silently repeated the drink order to myself, trying to burn it into my brain.

Beth said nothing in response, just straightened up, turned, and headed back toward the bar. I followed her, a little confused. She gave the order to the bartender, and as he started mixing the drinks, I said, “Don’t the customers want you to talk to them at all?”

“It depends,” Beth said. “You’ll see. I know that guy, that’s all. Mr. Saunders. He just wants his drinks. Doesn’t want any chit-chat. That’s fine with me. He tips well. Some big-deal investment banker. He brings his clients here a lot. After a while, you’ll get to know the regulars and get a feeling for what they expect.”

It seemed impossible. I followed Beth as she worked her tables, and carefully watched the way she interacted with each customer. Most of the men gave all of their drink orders individually, and sometimes Beth would speak to one for a few moments, obviously familiar with him; sometimes she would say nothing; sometimes she would address him with the sort of false, over-the-top cheer you generally saw at a chain restaurant in the suburbs.

I tried to match faces with behaviors, but all of the customers looked more or less the same to me: rich white guys in suits. After a while, I quit looking at their faces, and focused on their body language instead. It spoke volumes. If they wanted to be friendly with Beth, they would turn their torsos toward her, and maybe smile at her as she approached. If they just wanted to place their drink orders, they would wait to turn their heads and acknowledge her until she was standing right beside them.

Once I noticed that, I asked Beth about it the next time we were back at the bar. “Do you really know all of these guys, or are you just watching their body language?”

She raised her eyebrows at me. “Very good,” she said. “I know some of them. Some of them I haven’t seen before. If you can keep an eye on what they’re doing with their shoulders, you’re golden.”

I was pleased that I’d done something well, and worried it was the last good thing I’d be able to pull off. My feet were starting to hurt. I didn’t know what time it was—there were no clocks in the main room of the club—but it couldn’t have been more than an hour. It was going to be a long night. If I stayed there until closing, I would be at the club—and on my feet—for twelve hours.

One thing I noticed, as I followed Beth around, was that she wasn’t in a hurry. I was used to seeing servers in restaurants rush around like their pants were on fire, but Beth strolled around calmly and seemed totally unruffled. As the first round of arrivals settled in, I realized that Beth didn’t seem like she was in a hurry because she
wasn’t
. She only had a handful of tables, which gave her plenty of time to stand at the bar and watch for any signs that the customers needed something: another drink, a napkin, glass of water. The Silver Cross really was determined that the clients would have the best experience possible: Germaine was willing to over-staff to make sure that nobody went unattended to.

I also watched the clients—or, more precisely, I watched what they watched. Some of them stared fixedly at the dancers gyrating on stage; others basically ignored the stage altogether, and had intense conversations with their companions, sometimes huddled over reams of paper. I asked Beth about it.

“Some of them do business deals here,” she said. “No idea why. It’s private, or they like showing off, or maybe they just like looking up from their paperwork and seeing a nice pair of tits.”

So rich people were mysterious. Nothing new there. Sadie told me once that rich people liked to eat steak from Japanese cows that were massaged by hand every morning, to keep the meat tender. If they wanted to perform billion-dollar mergers at a strip club, who was I to judge?

Time went by in a blur. I staggered after Beth and tried not to let on how much my feet hurt. Whenever we had a few minutes at the bar, I surreptitiously slid out of my heels and stood on the carpeting in my stocking feet. The bartender caught me at it once and smirked knowingly. I blushed, and quickly put my shoes back on.

When I looked up, Beth was watching me. “It gets easier,” she said. “You need different shoes. I’ll show you what to buy. And you should get some of those gel insoles.”

“I don’t mean to cause so much trouble,” I said, embarrassed, and worried that I was being a burden.

She waved one hand dismissively. “Everyone’s new at some point. You’re doing better than I did, my first night.”

With those words of encouragement, she went out onto the floor again, and I followed after, an obedient duckling. Less yellow than a duckling, but the same basic idea.

A few hours in, Beth told me, “It’s time for you to take your first order.”

“Really?” I asked, panic gripping me. I was
definitely
going to screw up. I’d been trying to keep track of orders as Beth took them, and half of the time I’d forgotten at least one thing by the time we made it back to the bar. I was starting to get the distinct impression that I wasn’t cut out for waitressing.

“Sure,” she said. “There’s just two of them, and I know the one on the left. Mr. Venkatesan. He’s nice. Smile at him and ask him what he’d like. He always gets the same thing, so just worry about the other guy’s order.”

I walked over to the table, far more nervous than I probably should have been. I was just taking a couple of drink orders, after all, not competing in the Olympics. Even so, my heart raced, and my palms felt sweaty. I hoped I didn’t do anything embarrassing, like trip or stammer.

As I approached the table, Mr. Venkatesan turned toward me and smiled. That was a clear signal; Beth had been right about him. I bent down slightly so that I wouldn’t have to shout. “Good evening, Mr. Venkatesan. What can I get for you?”

“You must be new,” he said, smiling at me. “I don’t know your face. A glass of Sassicaia for me, please, and for my friend, a martini.”

“Stirred, not shaken,” said the other man at the table.

I glanced at him involuntarily when he spoke. Our eyes met. His were intensely blue, like fire so hot it had forgotten how to burn orange, and they captured mine so that I couldn’t look away. Mr. Venkatesan was older, probably in his fifties, but this other man was young, and
gorgeous
. His thick brown hair was expertly styled, and he wore a charcoal suit that looked expensive and soft to the touch.  The breadth of his shoulders made me want to unbutton his jacket and see the shape of his body. Or, better yet, run my hands all over it.

I tore my gaze away, flushing. I had never felt so immediately attracted to someone, and I didn’t understand the gathering heat between my legs, or what to do about it. I hoped the man couldn’t tell how flustered I was.

“I’ll be right back with your drinks,” I said, forcing a smile, and fled.

At the bar, Beth said, “Sassicaia, right?”

“And a martini. Stirred,” I said. I was stunned that I had remembered. I wasn’t sure I could remember my own name.

Beth looked at me intently. “Are you okay?”

“Just nervous,” I said. “You know. First time.”

“Right,” she said, and turned away to give the bartender the order.

Having momentarily escaped from her scrutiny, I closed my eyes and took a few deep, calming breaths. Nothing had happened. I saw a man. He ordered a drink from me. I worked as a cocktail waitress, now. I would see lots of men. Many of them would order drinks from me. It wasn’t a big deal.

None of my rationalizations explained the way my pussy had started throbbing as soon as he looked at me.

“Here’s the order,” Beth said, turning toward me with a tray in her hands. “Go take it out to them. Don’t be nervous, sugar. You’ll do great.”

Nobody had ever called me
sugar
before, and it buoyed me halfway across the floor. Then, midway through the sea of carpet and tables, I realized he was looking at me. The man in the charcoal suit. Staring at me as I walked, eyes raking up and down my body.

I stumbled slightly, one heel catching in the carpet, but managed to recover without spilling anything. I had the impression, walking toward him, that he was reeling me in like a fish on a line, drawing me toward him with the force of his blue gaze.

It sounded crazy even to me, but I couldn’t deny the hard truth of it. I knew, in that moment, even though I didn’t understand how or why, that my life had changed irrevocably and forever.

I approached the table and set down Mr. Venkatesan’s glass, careful not to spill. “Here you are, sir,” I said, smiling.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, and handed me—holy shit, was that a fifty dollar bill? Fixing my smile in place, I slipped it into my bra.

Tray balanced on my left hand, I circled the table and placed the martini in front of the man with the blue eyes. I realized I was holding my breath, and forced myself to exhale. “Stirred, as you requested,” I said, smile still plastered on my face.

“Ravi told me the service here was unparalleled, and I see he wasn’t exaggerating,” the man said. He handed me a folded bill. I clasped it in my sweaty palm, unable to think.

As my fingers closed around the crumpled paper, I felt his hand, big and warm, concealed beneath the edge of the table, curl around the back of my thigh.

Oh God
. I made some garbled noise about how I hoped they enjoyed their drinks, and went back to the bar in a daze.