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She guides me through the locker room, out into a hallway and then down to the kitchens. She shows me where to punch in orders, where to pick them up, and how the system works. Then she hands me a tray of drinks. “Just walk around offering these. Ask if they have special orders, if so, bring them to the kitchen.”
I nod, trying to memorize everything.
“And if you have questions, just come ask me.” She gives me a quick pat on the shoulder. “Okay, shift starts now.”
She clickety-clacks her way down the hallway, and I follow her. We take a right, and suddenly we’re stepping out into a large room. There are already waitresses milling around, carrying trays between tables, couches, and chairs. Men—mostly dressed in suits—lounge around, drinking or smoking. A stage off to the left has a few girls dancing—surprisingly in less clothing than I even have on.
Stepping out into the room, I suddenly feel more self-conscious than I’ve ever felt. Even though there are plenty of other women just like me in various states of undress, I feel as though every eye in the room is suddenly upon me.
And I’m not totally wrong. I can feel the gazes landing on me as I make my way out into the room. I feel a hot flush creep up my cheeks, and I will myself to calm down, to at leastlookhappy and composed.
“I’ll take one of those,” a voice calls out to me, halting me in my tracks. I mentally shake myself. Right. I’m supposed to be asking if these men want drinks.
“Of course,” I say, forcing a smile and reaching for one of the cocktails on my tray. I hand it to the middle-aged man sitting before me in a plush leather armchair.
He smiles at me, his gaze lingering on my breasts for a moment before turning back to the conversation he’d been having with three other men at the table.
Just like Courtney had said, this place is unlike any strip club I’ve ever been to—not that I’ve been to many. But unlike the low lights and seedy characters, this place has a bit more … elegance? It’s a strange word to apply to a place where I’m walking around topless. But it’s true. The men are all dressed nicely. The furniture and décor look expensive and on trend. Fancy cocktails come from the kitchen, and the music is soft, low enough to have real conversation over.
I mill about the room, stiff and awkward at first, but slowly I begin to relax. Once you get used to the higher amount of stares, it really isn’t that much different than actual waitressing. So I try to push any uncomfortable thoughts to the back of my mind and focus on the work.
“Can I order a drink, honey?” a deep voice asks, while a hand simultaneously touches the bare skin of my lower back.
I initially stiffen. Courtney had said the guys weren’t allowed to touch the girls, although I’d kind of assumed that meant anywhereprivate. Is touching someone’s back allowed?
I turn to see a middle-aged man standing beside me, grinning down at me. He gently prods me forward with his hand, close enough that my bare breasts almost brush against his suit jacket.
I clear my throat, taking a small step back but forcing a wide smile on my face. “Of course,” I say. “What can I get you?”
The man takes his time observing my body, his eyes lingering on my breasts, my nipples hard and pointy from both the chill and the discomfort of my situation.
His gaze wanders back up to mine, and he smiles. “I’ll take a run and coke, honey,” he settles on.
“Definitely,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
I hurry past him, beelining toward the bar where waitresses can order drinks. I shake off the weird feeling from before. It’s part of the job, I keep reminding myself. It’s what I’m here for. Eye candy for the men who pay ridiculous prices to be part of this club.
The idea really makes me feel a bit icky inside, but I remind myself of the payout and force myself to get back to work.
I order a rum and coke at the bar and bring it to the man who’d ordered. He gives me another once over before taking the drink from my hands, thanking me and handing over a fifty.
I try to hide my shock while tucking it in the waistband of my skirt. “Thank you,” I say calmly as if I get fifty-dollar tips every day.
Surprisingly, though, as the night goes on, that isn’t as unusual as I first thought it would be. I’m handed fives, tens, and twenties on a regular basis—just for delivering drinks and food. And this isn’t even my actual pay from the club.
Even as my discomfort stays, my trepidation fades. If this is how quickly I can make this amount of money, maybe Icanafford to keep the house. For the first time since getting that email earlier in the week, I feel a glimmer of hope.
I finish the rest of my shift on a high, thinking of my childhood home and how great it’ll be to actually move into it.
“So how was it?” Courtney asks with a grin as we make our way back to the lockers at the end of the night.
I shrug, pulling my shirt out of my locker and slipping it on. “Not as bad as I thought it would be, honestly.”
She giggles. “Right?”
I look up to see Courtney’s boss striding into the locker room, stopping to hand each of the waitresses something. When she reaches Courtney and I, I realize it’s cash—a lot of cash. She hands each of us a stack and moves on. I stare down at it, my eyes wide. “Is this …?”
“What you just made in four hours of work?” Courtney says with a triumphant smile. “Yeah.”
