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“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 sharp 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.
