Serving the Billionaire
Page 7
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“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.
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.
Chapter 3
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.”
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.
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.
Chapter 3
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.”
