“I get it,” I repeat again in a depressed voice. “Don’t worry, I’ll take my pills. There’s no need, I promise you that,” comes my dry reply, “but I’ll take them all the same.”
Actually, I’m not going to. I have a plan to save the packets of pills for when I really am dating someone. That way, I won’t have to pick them up at the clinic. I’ll have a stash ready.
But Dr. Thompson doesn’t say anything to my remark. He merely nods and scribbles on his prescription pad before handing me the small square of paper.
“There you go,” he says kindly. “Mary will take you by the dispensary on the way out. Now did you have any more questions, Ms. Kane?”
The fact is that I have dozens of questions. His visit has only raised more issues, but clearly, the good doctor doesn’t plan on answering anything. He’s already scuttling towards the door, nodding a goodbye.
“I’ll see you next time,” he says courteously before exiting. The door closes, and I’m left alone in the waiting room again. What just happened? I stare at the slip of paper before me. Birth control pills. Wow. This must be some club if they’re that concerned about pregnancy. What exactly goes on in the bowels of this place?
But before I can give it more thought, Mary knocks and enters.
“Hi again,” she chirps brightly. “Come on, it’s time to get cleaned up. I see Dr. Thompson did a good job with your scrape,” she says, looking at the cut on my forehead. “You’re all cleaned up now and ready to get pretty. That’s my job,” she says cheerily. “You’ll enjoy it, I promise.”
My head nods as I slip off the exam room table and follow her back into the hallway. What’s going on? What’s next for me in this day of unexpected horror and surprise? The only semi-good part was meeting the billionaire who greeted me at the elevator. What was his name again? Mr. Carmichael?
At that, I go hot all over. He was so handsome and charismatic, his powerful frame decked out in the perfectly-cut suit. What does he want from me? Hopefully something naughty. To my shame, my heart begins pumping hard at his memory, and I suppress a delightful shiver. After all this primping is done with, Mary’s supposed to bring me to his office … and I can’t wait.
Chapter 7
Gemma
I look at the outfit Mary’s holding up in front of me.
“No way,” I say. “I can’t.”
She clucks, shaking her head. “There’s no can’t at the Billionaires Club,” she scolds gently. “All the women here work, and we have uniforms. Look at me,” she says, gesturing to her loose white scrubs. “This is what spa workers wear, and because you’re a waitress, this dress is what you’re going to wear.”
I protest again, shaking my head.
“But Mary, you’re covered up,” I say. “This piece of nothing called a dress … it’s well, I mean, it’s nothing! It’s even worse than my old Silver Star uniform!”
Mary shakes her head again.
“That piece of silver lamé you came in with?” she asks with one eyebrow arched. “That was trashy and you never should have put it on. It’s right for a place called the Silver Star Diner, but it’s definitely not right for the Billionaires Club. Come on, try it on,” she says, urging me towards a private changing area behind a screen. “You’ll look divine, I’m sure.”
Reluctantly, I allow myself to be pushed behind the wooden screen. If this were anyone else, I’d scream, but Mary’s been so nice to me these last few hours. She gave me a facial, stayed in the beauty salon as my hair was done, and then had some pointers for the make-up artist too.
“Emphasize Ms. Kane’s lips,” she said, directing the other woman. “Gemma has a beautiful full pout that would look just dazzling with some pink lipstick.”
I was about to interrupt and say that I never wear lipstick in real life. There’s no point when you have a tendency to bite it off, the way I do, or eat it off, which also happens to me. But the make-up artist studied my bone structure, and nodded.
“You’re right, Mary,” she replied. “Great eye. I swear, you should be the make-up artist, and not me,” she chuckled. “We’ll highlight Ms. Kane’s lips with some raspberry lipstick, and then slick a bit of clear gloss over it before daubing just a bit of Vaseline in the center. Perfect!” she remarked, leaning back to look approvingly over her work. “You look like a model.”
I wanted to laugh because I was absolutely not model-like. Not even with a face full of make-up and my hair falling in gentle waves over my shoulders. Although, truth be told, I did feel like a million bucks after the extravagant pampering. I can see why ladies look forward to Spa Day when you get treated like this!
But still, all of this was way over my head and totally unnecessary. Lip gloss plus lipstick, plus a tiny dab of Vaseline? What was that last part for? The make-up artist seemed to read my mind and turned my chin just so towards the light.
“Perfect,” she said approvingly. “It brings out her full pout without being over the top. You know, Angelina Jolie would die to have lips like yours,” she said in a confidential voice. “I know, because I’ve done her face before.”
Again, I was taken aback. Clearly, the Billionaires Club has access to top-tier everything, from the doctors to the spa assistants to the make-up artists. Did they scrimp on anything? It didn’t seem like it. They probably ordered their cleaning supplies from Europe, paying double the tax and triple the shipping fees. After all, money is no object.
But now, the dress that Mary was forcing me to try on was over the top crazy, and I considered putting my foot down. I’m a waitress, and I’m used to wearing sleazy outfits to make a couple bucks, but this took the cake. It wasn’t even a dress, really. It was a sparkly tube top with pink feathers on the edges paired with a black mini-skirt. All in all, the outfit was more fitting for a stripper or a go-go dancer, and I intended to tell Mary exactly that.
But she beat me to the punch. “Here are some shoes to go with it!” she calls from behind the screen. Her wrinkly hands appear around the edge and thrust a pair of glittery pink stilettos my way. What the hell? These things had to be about four inches high, and resembled skyscrapers. I’d kill myself wearing these.
“I thought I was supposed to be a waitress!” comes my feeble protest. “I wore sneakers back at the Silver Star.”
“Ladies don’t wear sneakers here at the Billionaires Club,” comes Mary’s voice. “Especially if they work at the bar. Now are you ready? How do you look?”
Oh god. I wasn’t ready at all, but I force myself to step out from behind the screen with mincing steps. The stilettos are already killing me. I wobble like a baby deer, losing my balance before catching myself against the wall.
“I can’t wear these,” is my protest. “What waitress is able to get by in a pair of four inch heels? We all wear sneakers, or at least ballet flats. There has to be another option.”
“No, there’s no other option,” says Mary firmly. “Besides, you look beautiful, my dear!” she says, her eyes lighting up as her gaze runs down my frame. “Absolutely wonderful.”
I seriously think that she must be losing it. I look at her, trying to discern if there’s sarcasm in her voice, but there isn’t. Mary literally thinks that I look nice, dressed in this feathery nothing which barely hides my boobs, with my ass squeezed into a tiny black skirt.
“My tummy is showing,” I say with a grunt. “And this top is nothing more than a bandeau.”
“It is,” confirms Mary, reaching forward to flick a speck of dust off my skirt. “But you know what? It’s exactly right for the Club. Remember, it’s a uniform of sorts. The other girls working will be wearing the exact same thing.”
“Really?” I ask disbelievingly. “Other women agreed to put this on?”
“Really,” confirms Mary. “And trust me, you look a lot better than they do.” She lowers her voice confidentially. “Men like a little meat on their bones,” she explains. “Most of the girls who come through here are so skinny. They’re all skinny chickens with sha
rp elbows,” she says disapprovingly. “I told Dr. Thompson that they need to be admitted to the hospital for eating disorders, but he laughed it off. He replied that some girls are naturally thin.”
“I think some girls are naturally thin,” I say in a half-hearted defense, but Mary waves me off.
“Not that thin,” she says firmly. “Not so that they look like skeletons. You’re much prettier,” she says with a smile. “Now come on. Hubert is going to escort you to the bar. You’ll like him. He’s such a nice young man.”
Taking one last deep breath, I look at myself in the mirror. God, is this really happening? Am I really going to go to work at the Billionaires Club? Wait. What happened to meeting Mr. Carmichael?
“Um, hold on a sec,” I say before my new friend leaves the room. “What about … you know, the billionaire? The guy who introduced us? Weren’t you supposed to take me by his office after all the pampering was done?”
The middle-aged lady shrugs and smiles.
“They asked me to bring you straight to the bar,” she says. “Change of plans, I guess. Maybe Mr. Carmichael got busy?”
And with that, she’s gone, the door closing softly in her wake. I swallow a lump of disappointment in my throat, but then berate myself for feeling this way. After all, Mr. Carmichael is my captor. He could have released me after I beat-up those thugs, but instead, he told his minions to get me prepped and ready for a new job. Maybe I’m not wearing shackles, but the feeling is the same. I’m being put to work, albeit in high heels and a short skirt.
So why do I feel so disappointed that I’m not seeing him again? Will I ever see him again? I straighten my shoulders and force myself to get real. I have no choices here, and as a result, it’s necessary to roll with the punches. If I ever see Mr. Carmichael again … well what? What would I say to a handsome billionaire who has everything he wants and needs in the world? The fact is that I have nothing to offer, and am utterly, completely, at his mercy.
Chapter 8
Gemma
Hubert escorts me through another series of labyrinthine hallways. He’s young, like Mary described, but she didn’t mention that he’s a baby. Hubert’s got his hair in a perfect part on the right, and his suit is so clean and starched that he looks stiff. Right now, he’s rushing down the hall in front of me trying to make good time.
“Do you ever get lost?” I ask, huffing and puffing while trying to keep up. “I mean, this place could baffle someone with a compass.”
Hubert throws me a sideways glance. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to answer, but as I hobble behind him in my high heels, he seems to take pity. The boy slows down for a moment, allowing me to catch up with him.
“Ms. Kane,” he says patiently, “We have maps. See?” he holds out an electronic handheld that is cunningly marked. It has a map of the labyrinth on it, with rooms marked as “The Bar,” “The Pool,” “The Gym,” and whatnot.
“Do you know how I can get my hands on one of those?” I ask, half in jest. “I mean, it would help a lot. Being a prisoner and all.”
My joke is lost on the young man. He stares at me, then turns away and begins walking quickly down the hall.
“Wait, wait!” I call. “I was just kidding. Jeez,” is my huff as I try to hobble along as fast as I can. “No one here can take a joke,” I grumble, “and I’m the one who’s a prisoner, not you!”
That makes Hubert whirl around.
“You are not a prisoner,” he says tightly. “You’re a guest.”
I finally catch up before skidding to a halt, breathless and panting.
“Really?” I ask sarcastically. “What guest wears ostrich feather tube tops unless she’s being put to work? What guest is marched around and thrown into a spa treatment, as if she’s not pretty enough?”
Hubert’s baby face reddens, and I kind of feel bad for him. It’s clear that he’s not one of the billionaires. He too is a minion doing a job. So my heart softens, and I speak kindly then.
“Listen, both you and I know that I’m not here of my own free will. Sure, they’ve dressed me up like a stuffed turkey, but facts are facts, and I’m being put to work. Clearly, not in an underground mine or some hazardous waste site, but still. Look at how I’m dressed. It’s awful.”
Hubert’s glance skids over my curves, almost like he’s afraid to see. I feel kind of bad for the young man, to be honest. He’s clearly out of his league, and feels tongue-tied and awkward like an adolescent.
But then he surprises me.
“You’re real pretty,” he mutters, looking down. “Much prettier than the other girls here.”
I gawk at him a bit before managing to compose myself. What a cute comment! There’s a bit of a flush forming at his collar, and to my amusement, it crawls up his cheeks until his face is a light shade of pink.
“Thank you,” I say graciously. “Now if you could please walk a bit slower, I’ll be able to keep pace with you. Otherwise, there’s no chance in these heels,” I say gesturing at the pink stilettos.
His eyes flicker to the shoes, and he grows even more flushed.
“Real pretty,” he mutters again. “I like them.”
By now, I want to laugh. Hubert’s clearly a teenage boy who thinks I’m God’s gift to Mankind, and wants to impress and flatter me, even though I’m being such a pain in the ass. I don’t want to get him in trouble. Putting kids in danger is not my thing, and Hubert is clearly an innocent child.
“Listen,” I say with a mirthful smile. “Let’s go, okay? If we take too long, they’re going to wonder what happened to me. Maybe they’ll think you kidnapped me.”
That makes Hubert gasp, and whirl on his heel. He starts walking down the hall so fast that his dress shoes squeak, and a layer of sweat breaks out on his brow.
“No that’s not true,” he mutters in a semi-panic. “I didn’t kidnap anyone!”
“Relax, relax,” is my soothing reply as I scamper to keep up with the teenage boy once more. “It’s fine. I was just making a joke.”
But Hubert’s on a mission now, and he continues to walk quickly, making a sharp right, then a left, then a right. We make so many turns that I’m dizzy. Not only that, but the hallways all seem the same. We’ll make a turn, and then I’ll be faced with another long, barren corridor of white walls, the occasional white door, and harsh florescent lights pouring onto our skin.
Finally, we make one last turn, and halt before an imposing set of wood doors.
“I see not everything’s plastic in here,” is my dry remark. “They actually got some trees to sacrifice themselves.”
Hubert turns to me again with shocked eyes.
“You’re not a prisoner,” he reminds me in a mutter.
“Right,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Come on, open it up. Let’s see what they have in mind for me.”
Hubert knocks tentatively, and nothing happens. But I can feel the eye of camera on us, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand in a prickle. Goddamn. Security cameras can be so freaky.
Finally, a click sounds, and then the doors swing open slowly by themselves. Have you ever seen a commercial where everything is drab and grey, and then suddenly the screen flicks into color? That’s what lay beyond this door. Inside, was a luxurious bar, bathed in golden light with soothing music. The ambience was delightful, and tables and leather club chairs were scattered all over the place, with people laughing and enjoying themselves. A fire flickered on one corner, although I had no idea how it could possibly vent to the outside, given that we were miles below the earth.
But it was the patrons that caught my eye because every single one of the men was insanely handsome. They all seemed to be tall, tan, and magnetic, with charming smiles as they smoked cigars and teased their female companions. My mouth opened as I stared at the scene. Was I supposed to be a waitress here? Was I supposed to bring drinks and small snacks to the billionaires lounging in the bar area? Suddenly, my new job didn’t seem so bad.
Chapter 9
Gem
ma
A woman dressed immaculately in a black sheath swans over to us. She doesn’t seem to have trouble walking in her heels at all.
“Hubert, thank you for escorting Ms. Kane to the bar. You’re excused,” she says graciously. Hubert bows slightly, and then disappears from the door which we came. Meanwhile, no one has noticed our arrival, and maybe it’s because the double doors have already swung shut behind us, blocking out those horrific florescent lights. Also, we’re slightly hidden behind some plants. Ah ha. Hubert must have escorted me to a side entrance.
The woman doesn’t even hesitate.
“Let’s take a look at you,” she says musically, eyeing my frame. “Yes, you’ll do. I trust you saw the doctor?”
“Dr. Thompson?” I echo. “Yes, I did.”
“Good,” she laughs. “Then please remove your top.”
I stare at her.
“What?” is my flabbergasted reply. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m not going to take off my top. It’s small enough as is.” I gesture at the pink feathery thing, indicating my boobs. My words are true because I have an ample bust, and the stretchy fabric is barely holding them in. It’s weird. I was flat as a pancake up until sixth grade, and then I swear, in three months, boom! I had boobs, and not just any boobs, but huge boobs. I looked like a full-grown woman at thirteen, and trust me, it was awkward. A lot.
As a result, I’m not about to take off my top. Is this woman insane? I’d be hanging out like a lech, and this isn’t exactly a nude beach where anything goes. This is a bar, for crying out loud. Who goes to a bar topless?
But the woman merely shakes her head again.
“I’m sorry, my dear, but it’s the rules,” she says in a dulcet voice. “Look at all the women working here. They’re all topless. It’s part of how the Billionaires Club works.”
She gestures to the club area to the side, and I force myself to peer into the dimness. It’s then that I see she’s right. I’d been so stunned by the imposing physiques of the men in the club that I didn’t even notice the women. But now I see that my “manager” (if you can call her that) is speaking the truth. The women are clad in nothing but tiny skirts and high heels, with their breasts out for the men to touch and enjoy.
Claiming Her At the Bar Page 5
