Serving the Billionaire (4 page)

I unfolded the bill. Benjamin Franklin’s face stared back at me.

I couldn’t even process what that meant. There was a piece of paper folded inside the bill, and I extracted it, careful not to drop it on the floor. Written on it, in messy, slanted handwriting, were the words:
I’d love to know your name
.

I could still feel his fingers against my skin, like they’d been branded there.

I didn’t tell Beth.

I
made $500 in tips that first night, just from the few tables that Beth had me wait. When I got home in the middle of the night, I counted the crumpled bills and started crying. I was going to be able to pay my rent. I wouldn’t have to move back to San Bernardino. I was saved.

I had written my name on a napkin and set it down under the second martini I delivered to the man in the charcoal suit. I was back at the bar when he realized what I’d done, and when our eyes met across the room, I felt a jolt run through my body that I couldn’t explain. I touched myself that night, at home, tucked underneath the covers, imagining that it was him touching me instead.

I didn’t see him again until Sunday. I went to work at the club every night, determined to make as much money as possible before they realized how incompetent and clueless I was. I learned quickly. After the first night, I didn’t wear my heels on the subway. Instead, I carried them in my bag, and changed out of my flats once I got to the club. I packed a book in my purse to have something to read during the long subway ride. I perfected my makeup by practicing over and over in the mornings before work. I saw which clients wanted flattery and which wanted to drink in peace. I kept my mouth shut and my mouth curved into a slight smile, and I learned.

I followed Beth for two more nights, and then she set me loose on my own table—just one, so that she could keep an eye on me, and make sure I didn’t do anything stupid. I must have passed muster, because the next night, she gave me two tables.

It was heady. I was making more money than I knew what to do with, and I was surprised to realize that I liked the way the clients looked at me as I walked past holding a tray on my shoulder. They wanted me. I could see it in their eyes, the banked desire. I had never been desirable before. Especially compared to Sadie, I was just shy, awkward Regan, gawky and a little too short; but in my heels and black skirt, I was sexy. It was a powerful feeling.

On Sunday afternoon, when I arrived at the club shortly before opening, Germaine called me into her office. I went in, heart pounding. Had I done something wrong? Was she about to fire me?

She didn’t
look
angry, though, and she smiled at me warmly as I closed the door. “Have a seat,” she said. “Beth tells me you’ve been doing very well.”

I sat down, a little surprised. Beth hadn’t given me any indication of how she thought I was doing, which of course made me assume that I was shit and she was just trying to be nice. “Um, thank you,” I said.

“She thinks you’ll be an excellent server with more experience,” Germaine said. “But that isn’t why I called you in here. I’ll cut straight to the chase. One of our regular clients would like you to serve in his private room tonight.”

I had only a vague idea of what went on in the private rooms, but from comments the other waitresses had made, it sounded pretty scandalous—and I wasn’t sure I wanted to get involved. What I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me. “A regular client?” I asked.

“Yes,” Germaine said. “He told me that you waited on him on Wednesday night, and he seems to have taken a shine to you.” She paused, and then said, “I want to make it clear that you’re under no obligation to do this. If you choose not to, I’ll simply tell the client that you aren’t available, and that will be the end of it. But I also think you should know that he offered to pay you one thousand dollars for serving his party tonight.”

It took a few moments for the meaning of her words to sink in.
A thousand dollars?
For one night of work? There was a catch of some sort—I was sure of it. “What, um. What kind of party? I mean, what’s going to happen in his private room?” I’d avoided asking any questions before, but if I was going to do this, I wanted to go in with my eyes open.

Germain pressed her lips together, but she nodded slightly. “You have a right to know. He typically brings a handful of companions, and requests... entertainment from a few of our dancers. The girls tell me that he never touches them, although his companions do; but that none of them have particularly exotic tastes. Lap-dances, a little groping. No actual sex.”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“You can speak with him, if you’d like,” Germaine said. “He’ll be arriving soon. You don’t need to decide immediately if you’d like to serve for him. See what he has to say, and then I’ll work out the details. Or,” she went on, looking closely at my face, “you can work the main floor as usual tonight, and I’ll have another girl serve him in the future.”

I thought about it. A thousand dollars was a lot of money—and I would just be serving, not giving any lap-dances of my own. “I’ll talk to him,” I decided.

“Excellent,” Germaine said. “He’ll be in room 4 in ten minutes. You can wait for him in there, if you’d like.”

I still didn’t know who this man was, and the thought of waiting alone in a room for some wealthy, powerful customer made me a little nervous. Germaine didn’t seem to think there was anything unusual about it, though, and I didn’t want her to think I wasn’t up for the task. I put on my game face and went back out into the club.

Room 4 was along the back wall. I slipped inside and waited by the fireplace. I didn’t want to sit down. The room contained a number of over-stuffed sofas arranged around the fireplace, with low tables beside each one. The light in the room came from the fire and the lamps set on each of the tables, and the walls were paneled with dark wood, giving the room a cozy, intimate feeling. The carpeting underfoot had a thick, dense pile. Nothing was overtly flashy, but the room as a whole screamed money.

Endless moments dragged past as I waited. My stomach did somersaults. I didn’t know for sure who this mystery man was, but I had a feeling it was the man in the charcoal suit from the other night, and I knew that if he walked through that door, there would be no going back.

After a slow eternity, I heard a noise at the door, and it opened slowly. I held my breath.

It was him, of course: the man in the suit.

I forced myself to exhale. Passing out from lack of oxygen probably wouldn’t make a good impression.

He crossed the room and stopped directly in front of me. He towered over me, even with my heels, and I gazed up into his blue eyes and felt that same electric connection I’d experienced the other night. My heart beat rapidly. He was wearing a suit again, a navy one with a blue shirt and a dark red tie, and he looked good enough to eat.

“You spoke with Germaine?” he asked me. His voice was as deep and resonant and I remembered.

I swallowed, and concentrated on not stammering. “Yes.”

“So. One thousand for the night. Nobody will touch you.” He looked me up and down. “Are you easily shocked?”

“By what?” I asked.
Easily shocked
could cover a lot of ground.

His mouth quirked to one side. “Naked women. Drunk men around naked women.”

“I’m not a prude, if that’s what you’re asking,” I said. My mouth spoke without my brain’s permission. I couldn’t believe how bold I was being, or that I was even able to string two words together when he was standing there looking at me, smelling of wool and rich cologne.

“I shouldn’t think so. You do work at a strip club,” he said. Very calm and matter-of-fact, like he talked about public nudity and strip clubs every day of the week. Maybe he did, for all I knew. Rich people. He raised his eyebrows at me. “Do you agree?”

“I agree,” I said. How could I not, when he was standing there looking at me? The money had been enough of a temptation—I probably would have said yes even if it was some old, creepy geezer; but with
him
, this man with intensely blue eyes, there was no chance I would ever say no.

“Good. The rest of my party will be arriving shortly. Please bring in a bottle of your best Scotch.” He reached out and touched me on the chin with his thumb and forefinger. “You’ll be a good girl for me tonight.”

It wasn’t a question. I could feel myself blushing. “Will you tell me your name?” I asked, stunned by my own audacity. Who was I to question him, this powerful man? I was just some girl who worked in a club. He was—well, whoever he was; but I was sure that he was far more influential than I could conceptualize.

“Carter,” he said.

“And your last name?” I asked.

He made that same half-smile quirk of his mouth. “Sutton,” he said.

Carter Sutton. It sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “I’ll be a very good girl for you, Mr. Sutton,” I said, lowering my eyes demurely. Saying the words sent an unexpected thrill up my spine. I didn’t know what it meant.

“Wonderful,” he said. His voice sounded rough.

I didn’t linger. I went out to the bar and asked the bartender for his best Scotch, and then took it back to room 4. Carter had seated himself on one of the couches and was intent on his phone; he paid no attention to me as I set out the Scotch and glasses. I waited for a moment to see if he would acknowledge me, but when he just kept frowning at his phone, I slipped out of the room again.

I went to the bathroom and took my own phone out of my purse. I looked up his name. The first search result told me everything I needed to know, and more than I really wanted to: Carter Sutton, 31, CEO and chair of Sutton Industries, the biggest holding company since Berkshire Hathaway. Prodigy, wunderkind, billionaire several times over, and one of New York’s most eligible bachelors.

Holy shit
.

I was in so far over my head that I didn’t even know which way to start swimming.

I wanted to splash some water on my overheated face, but I was afraid it would mess up my makeup. Instead, I rinsed my hands in cold water and dabbed them along my neck.

It helped a little. I took a few deep breaths and met my own gaze in the mirror. I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it through the night. But for a thousand dollars, I would do whatever it took to keep Carter happy. Mr. Sutton. I shouldn’t call him Carter, even in my own head, because I would definitely slip up and call him that to his face. Too intimate. Beth had told me that it was best to stay on a last-name basis, even if the clients told you to call them by their first names. I believed her.

I decided to play Sadie again. My own personality was so awkward and uncertain; it was much easier to step into my Sadie persona, like slipping on a comfortable dress. Sadie would know how to do and say the right things.

Bolstered, I left the bathroom and went back to room 4. Mr. Sutton was just where I’d left him, still frowning at his phone. This time, though, he looked up when I came in, and said, “Please bring glasses and drinking water.”

“Of course,” I murmured, and slipped out again.

I almost collided with one of the dancers just outside the room. “Watch it,” she snapped at me, and then sighed and said, “Sorry. Not your fault.”

“I should have watched where I was going,” I said apologetically. I didn’t recognize her, but I didn’t know most of the dancers yet. I was still learning the names of all of the other waitresses. She looked like Marilyn Monroe, with elaborately curled white blonde hair and red lipstick, and she was wearing a short, translucent negligee. She wasn’t wearing any underneath it.

“It’s cool,” she said. “You’re serving tonight? I’m Sassy. You’re the new girl, right?”

I nodded. “I’m Regan,” I said. “Have you—do you do this often?”

“You mean private rooms, or this private room in particular?” she asked. “Both. Mr. Sutton’s a cool guy. Scarlet’s going to be dancing tonight, too. Have you met her?”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“She’s cool too,” Sassy said.
Cool
seemed to be her favorite word. “Anyway, I need to get in there. Can you bring me a Coke while you’re at the bar?”

“Sure,” I said. Sassy flashed a brilliant smile at me and went into room 4.

When I returned with a loaded tray, Sassy was sitting next to Mr. Sutton on the sofa, leaning close and touching his knee, and he was laughing at something she’d said. I felt a surge of fierce jealousy. I didn’t want him touching Sassy, or even looking at her. I only wanted him to look at
me.

What was wrong with me? I’d only just learned his name; I’d only spoken to him twice. It wasn’t like I had any sort of claim on him. I wanted to, though. That was the problem. From the first moment he’d looked at me with his blue eyes, I wanted him to be mine. Or, more accurately, I wanted to be his.

I didn’t understand the ugly jealousy I was experiencing, and so I did my best to swallow it down and ignore it. I set out the glasses and the water pitcher, and took Sassy her glass of Coke. She gave me that huge smile again in thanks. I could see why the clients found her appealing. She seemed fun and uncomplicated. I could imagine myself getting a manicure with her and giggling over boys.

With all the tables set, I retreated to one corner of the room, trying to make myself inconspicuous. That was a waitress’s job at the Silver Cross: to be present, constantly watching for ways to be useful, but to go unnoticed as much as possible.

The other dancer, Scarlet, came in and introduced herself to me, briefly and quietly. She clearly understood that I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. She was taller than Sassy, and dark-haired, and was wearing nothing but a g-string and heels. I still wasn’t accustomed to seeing nude women walk around all the time, and I tried very hard not to stare at her breasts as we spoke.

She went to speak with Mr. Sutton, and just then, the first guest arrived. I watched him closely as he came through the door. He was older than Mr. Sutton was, probably in his late 30s, and he was wearing a dark suit that looked expensive. I didn’t know much about suits, or about nice clothing in general, but it didn’t look like something he bought at the mall. It looked like it had been hand-made by tailors in Hong Kong or something. He was frowning, and sat down near Mr. Sutton without saying anything to him.