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“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.
