So with tentative steps I follow Mary down an immaculately white, gleaming hallway and through a white leather padded door. Why do they have padded doors? Are we in an insane asylum? But once we pass through the entrance, the door closes gently, and suddenly it becomes obvious. The spa is absolutely silent, and I recognize what a luxury that is. When you work in a noisy diner, you’re surrounded by the clatter of plates and the chatter of customers all the time, not to mention the incessant ding! of the bell indicating that the food’s ready and waiting. So I breathe in deep while filling my lungs with perfumed air. Wow, this is nice. The air smells faintly of citrus and elderflower, a heavenly blend. I could get used to this.
Mary turns to me, her lined face friendly.
“Hmm,” she muses, scrutinizing my face. “Could you come closer to the light please?” She indicates a lamp nearby, and then reaches over to turn up the wattage. Oh wow. This thing is like a klieg lamp, it’s so bright.
“You want me to look at me under that?” I ask with bafflement. “But why?”
“Because I need to see the condition of your skin,” she says cheerfully. “Tell me, based on your experience, what type of skin do you have?”
I pause for a moment, completely befuddled.
“Um, human skin?” is my reply. “Is that what you mean?”
The middle aged lady laughs, and I smile back hesitantly. I’m so out of my element. I try to take care of myself by using mild soaps at home, and a gentle cleanser that I pick up from the local drugstore. But I’ve never had somebody actually ask me about my beauty routine, or lack thereof.
“No sweetheart,” the old woman chuckles. “What I mean is, do you have dry, oily, or combination skin?” she asks. “You know, here,” she gestures to her forehead and nose. “This is your t-zone. Most people have a bit of oiliness here, but then dryness on their cheeks. Is that the case for you? You do look a bit shiny on your nose.”
I want to tell her that any shine is the result of grease from my waitressing job, or sweat from taking out three thugs in the elevator. But it seems inappropriate in this peaceful, calm setting. So instead, I step gingerly into the light, wincing a bit as the lamp’s bright glare shines directly onto my face.
“My, my,” clucks Mary. “I see that you definitely have a bit of oiliness. And is this blood?” she asks, indicating the wound on my forehead.
I nod, resigned.
“Yeah. I had, um, a bit of a fall getting down here. The other man said you could get it looked at?”
Mary nods.
“Yes of course. Mr. Carmichael made very clear that you’re to get the best medical care available. Let me call the doctor, and then we’ll get you spiffed up in no time!” she says with a smile. “Come on, into this waiting room, dearie. I’ll call our house doctor.”
And with that, Mary disappears. I’m left alone in what seems to be an ultraluxe waiting room. The walls are lavender, and again, the comforting scent of citrus and elderflower floods my senses. I breathe deeply and close my eyes, trying to relax. Nothing bad is going to happen to you, the voice in my head speaks. You’re going to be okay. You’re a smart girl, and you’ll find a way out of this.
But the voice can’t completely quell the feeling of fear that lingers deep in my heart. After all, what’s really happening? I was kidnapped earlier today, and I haven’t managed to escape yet. In fact, things are even worse off than before. I’m now in some underground maze where I don’t know anyone, and where a man has told me that I need to work. But I already have a job on the surface! They can’t keep me here as a prisoner just because they feel like it.
At that moment, there’s a quiet knock on the door, and then a doctor enters. He’s an elderly man with white hair and a white lab coat, carrying a clipboard.
“Ms. Kane, is it?” he says by way of greeting. “Matthias Thompson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I take his hand, and shake it. It’s dry and his grip is firm. That’s soothing in and of itself.
“I see here that you have a nasty scratch on your forehead,” he says, peering at my face. “Does it hurt?”
“Um, not really,” I mumble. But before he can say more, I speak quickly. “Um, what kind of doctor are you? And what do you do here?”
Dr. Thompson’s white eyebrows raise with surprise.
“I’m a general practitioner with a specialty in women’s health,” he says. “Why, is there something in particular bothering you?”
“No, it’s not that,” I say quickly. “It’s that … well, you seem to be a real doctor. At least I assume you are. So what are you doing here? Do you know this place that they call The Billionaires Club?” I ask, gesturing to the walls. “I mean, what is this place?”
Dr. Thompson looks thoughtful for a moment, his blue eyes clear behind the lenses of his glasses.
“Well,” he says. “I see they haven’t given you the orientation for new girls yet.”
“No, I haven’t been to the orientation,” I say. “But can you tell me something? Anything? Please, Doc. I’m really in the dark here, and it’s weird, do you get what I mean? I mean, how can this even be happening?”
Dr. Thompson thinks again, idly tapping his pen against the clipboard.
“Young lady, it’s not my place to say, and god knows, they might have my head for speaking out of line. But I might be able to give you a brief overview. From the name the “Billionaires Club,” I trust you’ve already figured a key point out. This is a club for billionaires.”
“That’s not just a saying?” I ask skeptically. “I mean, there’s the clothing label Billionaire Boys Club. I doubt everyone who wears their stuff is a billionaire. Heck, I doubt even the owners of the brand are billionaires.”
Dr. Thompson chuckles. “I’ve never heard of that brand, so I can’t speak to that. But yes, when it comes to this particular club, the members are billionaires as I understand it. Of course, I’m not privy to the vetting system or how exactly assets are calculated, but rest assured. The members are ultra high net worth.”
That stuns me. So the club name isn’t just total hyperbole? It seems crazy that it’s true, but who knows? The things that have happened to me today are all over the top, so this is just the cherry on the sundae.
“But what is the Billionaires Club?” I ask, pressing my luck. “I mean, what do they do? What is this place? Where are we? And what do they have in mind for me?”
“That, my dear, I can’t answer,” says Dr. Thompson, turning away to get a cotton swab and some disinfectant. “I don’t know what they have planned for you, but I can say this. Most women who come here enjoy it. They like being here, and I know because I see the ladies whenever they have a health problem.”
Okay, so this guy won’t answer my questions directly. I wince as he dabs gently at the cut, avoiding my eyes.
“Well, maybe you can answer this,” I say, meeting his eyes directly. “What kind of doctor are you?”
“I told you,” the old man replies, still dabbing away. “I’m a GP.”
“Yes, but do you have your own practice here? Or does the club pay you by patient? Do you take insurance? Who’s footing the bill for my visit?”
The doctor laughs then, chuckling as he finishes daubing at my wound.
“You’re going to be fine,” he says. “I cleaned up the caked blood, but there wasn’t much. No stitches needed because it wasn’t deep at all. Just keep it clean and dry, and you’ll be okay.”
“Hey Doc,” I say in a warning tone. “Please answer me. I beg you. One woman to her doctor. What are you doing here?”
The old doctor sighs and looks down at his clipboard. He seems to be pondering something or other, and I’m not sure if our visit is over because I’ve been too pushy. Drat. I have a way of doing that sometimes.
“Have you been following the mess that’s called the health care industry in the United States?” he asks with a wry smile. “Of course not. No one in their right mind can follow it because it’s so complicated.
There’s single payer insurance, the Affordable Care Act, the state subsidy, the federal subsidy that’s intended for the states to use, and all sorts of minutiae. I guess the devil’s in the details,” he sighs, “but I’m too old for all that. I worked thirty years in private practice in Vegas,” he says with a wry smile. “And when I retired I had no savings.”
I’m stunned. It’s one thing for someone like me to have no savings. After all, I’m young, marginally employed, and didn’t finish high school. But Dr. Thompson isn’t that at all. He’s elderly, clearly educated up the wazoo, and worked decades as a physician. How can someone like him have no savings?
“How is that possible?” I ask in a whisper, my eyes wide. “I don’t get it.”
He shrugs ruefully.
“Part of it is me,” he says. “I had a mid-life crisis and got a divorce when I was in my fifties. Traded in a wife of thirty years for a Lamborghini,” he says with a rueful smile. “If I could go back and do it all over again, I would. But I can’t. So here I am,” he says. “I lost half my net worth, and after the heart surgery, there wasn’t a lot left in the bank. Rehab and medication really add up.”
I stare at him, unsure what to say for a moment.
“But how does that bring you here?” is my query. “What made you come here? How did they find you?”
He shoots me another rueful smile.
“Through a recruiter,” he says. “Just like any other job. Except for this one, they had me sign a non-disclosure early on, before I even started the interview process. And when they finally made me the offer, the money was so staggering that I couldn’t refuse. As a result, I’m a personal doctor to a select group of individuals now. It’s not so different from any other job. Imagine a cruise ship. Did you know that there are doctors on board every big liner that comes through a harbor? I’m basically the equivalent of that, except that the folks that I work for are an exclusive, all-male club.”
That last part gets me.
“All male?” I ask faintly. “I thought your specialty was women’s health.”
“It is,” he says, suddenly serious. “The members are all men, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t women who work here. You met Mary,” he says. “The spa lady? Plus, there are plenty of women who work in all kinds of staff jobs, from reception, to waitressing, to serving drinks at the pool.”
Oh my god. So this is some kind of exotic, hedonistic place where rich guys get all their needs tended to by women ready at their beck and call. Reading my mind, the good doctor nods.
“That’s right,” he says. “The men come here to relax and let go, but also for the absolute privacy and discretion. When you work for very wealthy individuals, you understand how much they value their privacy. They don’t want the world to know their business, nor do they want to be watched by curious eyes wherever they go. Thus, the security and the need for an underground location. Also, the need for a private doctor,” he finishes with a wry smile.
I sit back, stunned. The information I’ve just heard blows my mind. I understand the private doctor bit because his analogy to the cruise ship makes absolute sense. But still, who starts a private underground club like this especially for rich men? It seems crazy. Are they evading the government for some reason or other? It has to be. This place reminds me of a Prohibition-era speakeasy that serves bootleg liquor.
I take a deep breath before meeting the doctor’s eye.
“Are they criminals?” I ask in a low voice. “I have to know because … well, I was kidnapped and brought here,” I say. “Will you help me escape?”
The doctor laughs and holds up both hands.
“I heard how you were brought here. I can’t opine on that,” he says, shaking his head. “And I certainly can’t help you escape. I wouldn’t even know how to do that, because the club is a labyrinth with heavy duty security. But what I can tell you is that the women who work here are generally very happy. Like me, they’re paid a pretty penny and often girls ask to come back because they like their jobs.”
That perks my ears up. I’m in desperate need of cash, and if they pay me anything over minimum wage, then I’m interested.
“How much do you think say, a waitress makes?” I ask, biting my lip. “Do you think it’s more than ten dollars an hour? Surely, billionaires would tip well, right?”
Dr. Thompson laughs mightily.
“I promise you, it’s more than ten bucks an hour plus tips,” he says with a rueful smile. “I don’t know how much it is, but if your offer is anything like mine, then you’re going to make multiples of what you made before. Not one or two multiples, either. Somewhere in the range of three to five, is my guess.”
My eyes go wide as his words ring in my ears. Thirty bucks an hour plus tips? Oh my god, that would be heaven. I could buy fresh fruit at the supermarket, plus the cheese that I like instead of the cheese food that I get from the 99 cent store down the block. Maybe I could even spring for some flowers to decorate my dining room table once in a while.
But I have to stay real. After all, money isn’t everything. Sure, I’m hard up, but I can’t risk my health or safety just to make a buck. I have a long life ahead of me, and I’m not willing to put myself at risk just for some cheese and flowers. Although it does seem nice.
I’m just about to ask more questions when the doctor clears his throat.
“Now young lady, the cut on your forehead is clearly fine. But I need to talk to you about something else as well? How is your period? Are you regular? Do you have any problems with cramps or headaches? How do you feel?”
I purse my lips. Why is he asking me this? But then again, the doctor is an expert in women’s health, so I decide to answer.
“Everything’s fine,” is my reply. “I’m twenty now, and I’ve been getting my period like clockwork since I was oh, about twelve. It’s fine. I do get cramps once in a while, but nothing that Advil can’t solve. Why?”
The doctor looks distinctly uncomfortable for a moment, but then he continues.
“Well, it’s a matter of policy for the women here to be on birth control,” he says. “We also do a full screen and a battery of tests, just to make sure you’re in perfect health.”
I stare at him. “I am in perfect health. I’ve never even had the chickenpox.”
Dr. Thompson laughs. “Actually, I’d be worried about that,” he says wryly. “Adult chickenpox is much more severe than childhood chicken pox. But are you open to a screen? It’s beneficial,” he says persuasively. “We can help you if something’s wrong, and get you treated asap.”
I shake my head.
“No, everything’s fine,” I say. “I know I don’t have anything.” The reason why I know is because after my last break-up, I went to the local clinic and got everything checked out. Earlier in the relationship, my ex had given me crabs. Can you believe it? It’s the most disgusting thing ever, like lice on your pubes. I’m embarrassed to admit that I ever suffered from something like that, but the good part is that I was treated immediately, and they pronounced me healthy as a horse a month later. Plus, I haven’t exactly had a boyfriend since that breakup two years ago. Kenny hurt me, and the crabs diagnosis didn’t exactly reinforce my belief in the male sex. So actually, I’ve been celibate for about two years, and know for sure I have a clean slate of health.
But Dr. Thompson is shaking his head.
“I’m sorry, my dear, but the health screen is mandatory. I’m sorry I made it sound like it was optional, but it’s not. All staff gets tested, but I promise that the results are confidential. And we will get you the best medical treatment, if anything is needed.”
I think about it for a moment. I don’t feel great giving blood because who knows what will happen? The Club will have my DNA then. But still. If this is free medical care, then I’m not going to pass it up. I don’t have health insurance, so whenever I’m sick or injured, I head straight to the emergency room and the good people of Nevada pick up the bill.
“Fine,”
I say shortly, sticking out my arm. “I’ll do it.”
“Good,” replies the doctor. “Now this won’t hurt a bit.”
The needle going in makes me wince a little, but I don’t dwell on it. He finishes sealing the vial of blood and then turns to me again. Those blue eyes are kind, but I still feel wary.
“How do you feel about birth control?” he asks.
I look at him flummoxed.
“I don’t need it,” is my reply. “I’m totally celibate, and honestly, I haven’t been on a date in months. There’s no way I’m getting pregnant, unless it’s through immaculate conception.”
Dr. Thompson’s cheeks color and it’s kind of cute. Sometimes old people can be funny, even when they’re experts in their profession. But he doesn’t lose a beat.
“Ms. Kane, I misspoke,” he says formally. The man almost does a small bow in apology. “Birth control isn’t optional at the Billionaires Club either. All women of childbearing age are required to be on the pill as soon as they step onto our premises. I’m so sorry, but I’ll be writing you a prescription that will be filled immediately.”
I gasp.
“But why?” is my protest. “I don’t need it. It’s not like I’m going to get knocked up.”
Dr. Thompson merely shakes his head.
“It’s a precaution. All women here are on it.”
I shake my head. “It must be because these guys are rich, right?” I ask morosely. “They don’t want some lowly waitress to get knocked up by accident, and then to have their spawn and demand a ton in child support. I know how it goes.”
And the fact is, I do know how it goes. My parents died when I was young, but I’ve seen how the child support and alimony game can play out. I lived in many different foster homes for years, and more often than not, one parent would be screaming bloody murder on the phone, demanding money from their ex every month. It was crazy.
So in a way, I can understand. Sometimes, my foster parent was screaming or yelling for two hundred bucks a month. But if your baby daddy was a billionaire? The damage could be ten times worse, if not a hundred times worse.
Claiming Her At the Bar Page 4
