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She opens her mouth to speak again, but I hold one hand up.
“Nuh uh. Not now. You’re filthy, and I don’t want people to see you looking like this. We billionaires like our girls fresh, ripe, and beautiful, so you’ve got to get cleaned up first. Mary,” I call out. Immediately, a middle aged woman in a white smock materializes by my elbow. “Can you please take Ms. … um, what was your name again?”
“Gemma,” the beautiful brunette says tightly. “My name is Gemma Kane.”
“Right. Mary, can you take Ms. Kane to the spa please? Give her the works, and then bring her by my office.”
Mary nods and gestures to a hallway behind us.
“Ms. Kane? After you, please.”
The curvy girl looks like she’s about to refuse, but I still her with one hand.
“You have a nasty cut on your forehead,” I say. “At least get that taken care of. After all, we’re at the Billionaires Club, and we have access to the best medical services. So do it for your health,” I state with one eyebrow raised. “We’ll talk later, I promise.”
Again, Gemma looks like she’s going to protest, but then she spins on her heel and marches off down the hallway. I watch with unabated interest as that curvy ass swings right and left. Man, I’d love getting to know her better. I’d love to grab that ass as she moans, and to touch the crevice between her thighs. She’d be wet, I know it. Gemma’s one of those girls who looks like she can get wet in thirty seconds, if the man’s right.
And suddenly, I know exactly where this is headed. After all, this is the Billionaires Club. It’s a retreat for men of great wealth where none of the usual rules apply. The best food? Check. The best entertainment? Check. The best women? Check check. Gemma Kane is definitely going to be put to work … and I’m going to sample every pleasure she has to offer.
Chapter 6
Gemma
What the hell is going on? I was just kidnapped, bound and gagged, and thrown into a speeding van. Then my attackers decided to push me into an elevator where we descended to some godawful place called the Billionaires Club. But all that happened after I beat the crap out of the three lowlifes who kidnapped me. I guess my judo skills came in handy.
I’m not an athletic girl, not by a long shot. When you’ve got thirty pounds to lose, work-outs aren’t exactly fun. The treadmill is a bore, and I hate how my thighs seem to clap with every step I take on the belt. Gym clothes aren’t really exciting to wear either because they’re too revealing, and as a result, I usually don an oversized t-shirt and shorts when it comes time to getting sweaty.
But I don’t skip out on my work outs. Just because I’m overweight doesn’t mean that it’s an excuse to be unhealthy. You can be heavy and healthy, and that’s what I am. My curves are tight, and my booty and breasts shake and roll in the best way possible. Sure, I have some flab, but doesn’t everyone? After all, even supermodels get cellulite.
But another important reason for why I exercise is because I live in the hood. My apartment is in the worst part of town. There are beat-up cars parked all along the sidewalk, and my building hasn’t seen a coat of paint since the sixties. Not only that, but sometimes during the winter, there isn’t heat or hot water. The super says they’re always going to fix it, and they do, but it always takes a couple days. I guess I’m lucky to live in Vegas because it never gets that cold. Chilly, but not super freezing or anything.
But back to the work-outs. My neighborhood is filled with gangs. They run the hood, and sometimes when I leave for work in the mornings, there’s a dealer standing just inside the foyer of my building ready to do business.
“You wanna party?” he asks. “You get your paycheck yet, Gem?”
Please. Like I’m going to spend my hard-earned money on drugs. It’s more like I’m saving it for food and rent. But I always nod and smile, and pray that the thug doesn’t get any ideas about hurting me. You never know when it comes to junkies, and as a result, it’s important to stay fit. I watch judo videos, and try to avoid dark places. I walk with my keys gripped in my hand, with one jagged edge poking out in case I need to take out an attacker. It’s called being prepared.
But right now, it looks like the man I just met wants me prepared in a different way. What the hell is he talking about? Spa treatments? The fact is that I’ve never been to a spa because it’s way out of my budget. There have been a few times when I’ve watched some chick flick or other, and the girls get together for a “spa day,” but I’ve never actually been to one in real life. It always seemed like the ultimate luxury – fluffy white towels, lavender scents, plus aroma oils and someone to do your nails. What bliss!
