It was every bit as bad as anticipated. The purple stretched over my legs okay, went up over my thighs, but then the butt part was all wrong. Because my ass is huge, the fabric was strained so tight across my rump it was practically see through.
“Girl,” cackled the redhead from her corner, not even pretending to give me my privacy. “You gotta go commando, that thing’s not designed to be worn with panties.”
I colored, craning my head to look in back of me. But she was right because my granny panties were completely visible beneath the material.
“Oh thanks,” I mumbled, face flushing bright red. Oh god, oh god, how did new girls get through this? I had to change and this was going to be so embarrassing, my lady bits bare to the world.
But again, the thought of my financial problems made my chin set. Because tips were supposed to range in the four figures at this club on a good night, and damn, but did I need those four figures. I needed more than that right now, to be honest, tuition is so crazy these days, but anything would make a difference.
So biting my lip again, I looked down at the floor and struggled out of my granny panties, standing there buck naked, a pink flush rising over my creamy form.
Trust Loretta to comment. The redhead cawed again from her corner.
“That’s a lot you got going on there,” she chortled, waving her cigarette in the air.
My face flushed even as I ignored her. Her words brought up bad memories of gym in seventh grade when I’d first started developing. The other girls had been so mean, calling me Kitty the Whale instead of Kitty the Cat. Oh god, humiliation rushed over me again, but I forced myself to take a deep breath. Money, money, money, this was what I was here for, and this wasn’t the time to give up. So squaring my shoulders, I turned back to the dress and yanked it on again.
This time it seemed better. My Double Ds were covered so that they didn’t wobble crazily. And with fast fingers, I pulled the hem down so the dress didn’t bunch right where my pussy was, but it was no use. That just made the cleavage go downwards, in a hopeless tug of war.
Pulling discreetly this way and that, I tried to stretch the fabric as much as possible, pulling up my boobs while pulling down the hem. And finally, the fabric was arranged optimally. Everything was covered, but one wrong move, one bad bend, and bam! Something was gonna pop out.
I turned a watery smile to the redhead.
“This happen to everyone?” I asked shakily. “Does this happen to all the girls?”
“Naw,” retorted the woman, taking another deep drag. “You just got more than most. I’m surprised Morty hired you, management usually likes skinny chicks.”
My cheeks flamed and I stuttered lamely.
“Oh, um, well ….” The words trailed off. Why couldn’t I think of a good comeback? My tongue was tied, cheeks flaming, and I knew I’d be lying in bed later this week, replaying this scene with all sorts of witty retorts running through my head. The thing is that I was never slick in the here and now, mumbling and blushing instead.
But it didn’t matter because the redhead was on her own wavelength.
“Anyways,” she interrupted like she hadn’t just totally insulted me. “Maybe they’re looking to change the vibe around here. You know how the girls stay skinny,” she whispered, leaning forward conspiratorially. “It’s the diet pills and laxatives.”
My mouth dropped open, eyes wide. What? Chemicals? I was so stunned that the words came rushing out like a waterfall.
“The girls don’t eat well and exercise?” I asked, dumbfounded. “They don’t take care of themselves the right way?” So many of the waitresses around here looked like supermodels, I was sure they all had personal trainers and nutritionists.
Loretta cackled again.
“What planet are you from?” she laughed hoarsely, brandishing that cigarette. “You think these girls work out? Working out takes work, honey, these ladies ain’t working out unless there’s money to be made. Please,” she whispered conspiratorially, winking. “Here at the Hotel Milano, it’s all about the cash.”
With that my mouth snapped shut. Because that’s what I was here for too, after all. I was here to make a pretty penny serving drinks to fat cats who’d come to Vegas to spend big dollars. I was here to profit off men who were drunk off their ass, with nothing to recommend them but a bulging wallet. So swallowing, I nodded silently. But curiosity overcame me.
“You sure?” I said in a hushed voice. “I mean, don’t pills make your stomach go loose inside? This job doesn’t really allow for that. We can’t really just go running off to the bathroom all the time.”
Loretta cackled.
“You don’t take the pills right before your shift, dummy. You take ‘em when you get up, at least five hours before coming to the club. That way as your intestines flush, it’s all in the comfort of your home. Queen of the Throne!” she cackled.
My cheeks flared again. Oh my god, this was so embarrassing yet eye-opening at once. So the chicks here were purging their stomachs to stay skinny? Laxatives were the key? Loretta laughed again, confirming my suspicions.
“If you want a box,” she leaned forwards conspiratorially. “I’ve got some of the strongest stuff there is. Better than the OTC shit,” she confided, “it’s from my personal chemist.”
At that, I shuddered. No way would I trust some dude in a mobile home in the desert, concocting green juices in a makeshift lab. That stuff was illegal and probably toxic, you didn’t know what went into homemade drugs. So I shook my head.
“Um, no thanks,” I murmured, smiling weakly. “I’m good.”
“You sure?” Loretta cawed, running her eyes up and down over my frame. “You got some extra poundage there for sure, you’ll make more money if you lose it. Trust me,” she said conspiratorially. “I’ve been working this joint for years now and men like skinny. They like miniature, and honey, you ain’t no miniature. You got junk in the trunk like an XXL hamburger.”
The words hit me like gunshots, making my cheeks flame, but I just put my head down, humiliated.
“I’ll think about it, thanks,” I stammered, stumbling to the door.
And as Loretta’s cackles faded behind me, I paused, taking a deep breath. What the hell had just happened? I’m Kitty Jones, college freshman, with a load of debt and a load of homework. I was here to pay off some of that debt, or at least make a dent in it, and yet the backstage atmosphere of Club Milano had already thrown me for a loop.
Because I’m the girl always in the library, a big nerd with a huge backpack, and my conversation in the dressing room made me feel weird. Drugs? Diet pills? Laxatives? More drugs? And what was with this dress? The purple fabric was ludicrous, outlining my assets obscenely. What the hell was going on?
But it was too late because Morty spied me over from the side and beckoned.
“Looks good,” he grunted, eyeing my form up and down. “Perfect.”
I stammered again, blushing bright red.
“You don’t think that this is … um, a little small?” I asked nervously, tugging at the hem.
“Naw, you’ll do fine,” Morty said carelessly, already looking off into the crowd. “And your party’s here. Booth Two, a bunch of dudes celebrating a bachelor party. Go get ‘em kid. Do your job,” he said, turning and fixing me with a pointed look.
Picking up the tray, I took a deep breath. God, these shoes were so tight, the stilettos making me sway and teeter. But right, money. I was here for the money.
“Hi!” I introduced myself brightly to the guys in the booth. “Hi, I’m Kitt –um, Amber,” I corrected hastily. Oh god, oh god, this was so bad already, I’d almost given away my real name. “What can I get for you? I’m Amber, your server tonight.”
Unfortunately, the guys were already drunk despite the fact it was only nine p.m.
“Um, server?” asked one dude, squinting at me blearily. “I thought we got a club girl.”
“I’m that girl!” I chirped cheerily. “Kitt- I mean, Amber
at your service!” Shit, I’d almost done it again.
But his friend threw a heavy arm around my shoulder, alcohol reeking on his breath. Clearly these guys had pre-partied, Club Milano wasn’t their first stop.
“Naw,” the friend leered. “We’re looking for a club girl.”
I smiled again brightly, as cheerful as I could manage.
“That’s me!” I chirped. “Amber at your service!”
This time, a third friend came around, taller and less drunk than the others.
“You staying around? Or you serving a couple tables? That’s what these losers mean by club girls.”
With that, I heaved a sigh of relief. Because finally, I understood what the guys were looking for. Forking over five thousand per night is a lot, and the guys wanted personal service, the kind where one girl is your designated “table girl” if you will, who helps you and only you. So I smiled cheerily again.
“I’m here for you guys only,” I stressed. “You guys are my winners tonight.”
And all three dudes relaxed somewhat, although two were plenty wasted already.
“Should be,” drawled Number One. “I’m losing my freedom.”
“Awww right!” crowed Number Two. “Dude is gonna get hammered tonight!”
I smiled awkwardly, a little off balance.
“I’m here for the drinks boys,” I stated firmly, tucking the silver tray beneath my arm. “I’m here to make sure everyone gets drinks, everyone is served, and no one goes thirsty.”
Friend Three just tossed a heavy arm around my shoulders this time, practically crushing me. Oh god, this had started off wrong already.
“That’s good,” he breathed, pure alcohol blowing hotly onto my face. “That’s good because like my buddies mentioned, Michael here is getting married next week and needs a reminder of what he’s gonna miss.”
I groaned internally. I hated bachelor parties that were like a scene from Girls Gone Wild. I hated dudes who egg on the poor groom to be, urging him to go nuts, to “sow his wild oats” and “enjoy his freedom” before he was “locked down forever.” It made marriage sound like the worst thing on earth, just one step above drinking poison and being stabbed in the gut.
But I get it. Sometimes the party’s more about the friends than the groom himself. It’s the dudes putting out five thousand big ones, the guys who want to make sure that a weekend in Vegas is like a scene from that movie The Hangover. They wanna make sure things get so crazy that hallucinations start, and if one of the hallucinations is Mike Tyson playing the drums? All the better.
So I took a deep breath and smiled determinedly.
“Let me get you some shots,” I beamed. “Be right back!”
And with that I fled to the bar.
“Morty,” I panted, wobbly in my heels. “I can’t, this group is so drunk already and it’s only nine!”
The big man’s paunch turned to me first, face following afterwards.
“Fine go home then,” he grunted shortly. “You’re off payroll.”
But that made me start. I was fired that quick? Wait, what about worker’s rights? What? This was all happening so fast.
So I backtracked as fast as I could.
“No, what I meant is that I need some help,” I begged. “Can I just wear flat shoes, or maybe take off these fake eyelashes?” I asked, plucking at my right eye. “I can barely see,” I mewled pitifully, the long black extensions like heavy spiders on my eyes. “It’s hard to blink.”
Morty didn’t even turn, didn’t even acknowledge that he’d heard my words.
“Scram Kitty,” he said disinterestedly. “We got a line-up of girls who want this position.”
And with that, I jumped from the frying pan into the fire.
“Okay, okay,” I panted, voice with a pleading edge that sounded so bad. “Okay, I’ll stay, I’ll stay. It’s just that,” I bit my lip, looking at his impassive face. “It’s nothing,” I added hurriedly. “I’ll stay.”
And with that, I picked up my tray again, now heavy with about twenty shots. Stumbling in my heels, I made my way over to Booth Two.
“Bottoms up!” I chirped cheerfully, hoping I could be heard over the din. “Bottoms up!”
But now, the guys were even drunker. What had happened in the five minutes that I was away? These guys had to have flasks in their jacket pockets, they must have snuck in liquor so that they didn’t have to pay a cent extra.
But what could I do? As the shots were passed around, I smiled guilelessly, cooing and flirting, trying not to let on how much I hated being here, how much I hate loud music and flashing strobe lights. In general, I’m not a Vegas person, it’s just that State happens to be close to the strip, and this is where most kids got jobs. A lot of college kids worked as cashiers or Starbucks baristas, but I happened to be one of the lucky ones who landed a job with big tips.
So I smiled fakely again, bopping slightly to the music, pretending to have a good time.
“Have a wonderful wedding!” I shrieked with forced cheer, doing a little shimmy. “You’ll be a great husband!”
But it was the wrong thing to say because neither the groom-to-be nor his friends wanted to hear it.
“You’re the worst club girl ever,” snarled one, eyes bloodshot. “The worst.”
“Yeah,” chimed his friend. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Can’t you shut up about the fucking wedding for a sec? Can’t you see that dude’s trying to forget his future?”
And of course, the mean comments started.
“She’s fat, guys,” one voice said flatly. “We got a fat one, the club gyped us. We paid five thousand, and I heard you gotta fork over ten to get a skinny waitress.”
That made me go stiff immediately, cheeks flushing with shame. Because I’m not fat, not really. Curvy is a better word, but the thing is, the world saw me as fat. The world saw a big girl, and Loretta’s words rang in my ears again. Diet pills, laxatives, I got all the best stuff if you want it!
My heart curdled with shame, cheeks flaming as I pretended not to hear, busy doling out drinks. Oh god, I just wanted to go home. Twenty minutes into my first night on the job, and all I wanted was to curl up and hide in a corner.
But then Grammy’s words sounded in my head.
Keep your chin up, she commanded sternly. Chin up, shoulders straight, chest out.
No matter that back then, Grammy had been talking about my posture. I’d looked like a wilted asparagus some days, and Grammy is a stickler for girls standing up straight.
But all the same, my mom’s mom is a fighter. Grammy grew up poor during the Depression but never took a cent from anyone. She raised my mom and uncle on her own, doing peoples’ laundry during the day and sewing pieces at night. It was a hard living, and her eyesight’s shot now, hands permanently chapped and red from the stinging detergent. But still, Grammy is a proud woman, and her work ethic and determination to survive were instilled in me from a young age.
So taking a deep breath, tears prickling in my eyes, I straightened my spine. Tilting my chin upwards, I set my jaw into a determined jut, and forced another bright smile onto my face.
“More drinks?” I cooed, pretending I hadn’t heard. “More drinks boys?”
“Yeah,” grunted the bachelor himself. “Pour it on me hard.”
“Fuck yeah,” laughed Friend One harshly. “But it doesn’t taste as good coming from a fat girl.”
Again, my soul almost broke. Their words hurt so bad, like stabs to the heart, and it just got worse.
“Girl looks like a cow,” muttered one.
“More like a hippo,” grunted another
And the one that hurt me the most:
“How much does it cost to switch to a skinny one?”
I fled then, tears stinging my eyes. Oh god, oh god. I’ve always been big. Even before I started developing, I was a chubby child who liked cake. The problem was that I never stopped liking cake and when my curves popped out, it just added to the mess. So yeah, my t
highs jiggle and my butt wiggles, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Grabbing my silver tray, I rushed off, brushing away at tears. Stay calm Kitty, my inner voice went. They’re just a bunch of losers, stay calm.
But the thing is I was crying under my breath already, short, mewling gasps escaping my lungs. It sounded terrible and I ran then, but not before bumping into a wall, about as solid and dense as you can get. Drinks went flying, glass broke and immediately I was on my knees, trying to clean it up. Hopefully I wouldn’t slice open a finger picking up glass shards, I had no health insurance, it’d be the emergency room for me.
But it wasn’t a wall I’d bumped into. Because as I crouched hands and knees on the floor, a deep chuckle rang out above me.
“No need,” the voice rumbled. “We’ve got people to do this. No need, pretty girl.”
I sniffled, keeping my head down. This was such a shitty first day and all I wanted to do was to get back in bed and burrow my head under the covers. But only an hour had passed and the night was young. There were still another five hours before my shift ended, and besides, I didn’t want to go back to the table. So I kept trying to pick up the glass shards.
“No it’s fine,” I mumbled, keeping my head down. “I got it, I got it.”
Sold to Him: A Billionaire Bad Boy Romance Page 17
