Serving the Billionaire (2 page)

“Welcome to the Silver Cross Club,” he said. “Are you here for the audition?”

“Um, yes,” I said, and then inwardly cursed myself for saying “um.” Not sophisticated. The man said nothing, though, merely nodded and pressed a button on the wall.

Seconds later, a door opened, and a tall white woman dressed all in black appeared. She had long red hair arranged in a French twist, not a single hair out of place. “Right this way, if you please,” she said to me, and I meekly followed after as she led me into the club.

It looked rich. That was my first impression: it looked like the sort of place you went if you had serious, no-kidding-around money. No one thing screamed luxury, but the overall atmosphere was one of undeniable opulence. The walls were painted a dark gray color and lined in places with velvet drapes so dark a blue that they looked almost black, but gave off a subtle sheen of light. A bar of dark, gleaming wood lined one wall, and round tables filled the rest of the room, clustered around a central stage. Along the three walls not occupied by the bar, brass doors led into—I assumed—other, more private rooms.

The woman let me gawk in peace as she led me toward the bar. A number of other girls were assembled there, and from their attire, I immediately pegged them as the competition. Most of them were wearing what I would have worn if Sadie hadn’t interfered: short, tight skirts, and glittery tops revealing acres of bare skin. One was wearing a snug maxi dress, but none wore anything like my outfit.

I felt enormously self-conscious as I joined the waiting girls. What if I’d worn the wrong thing and made a fool out of myself? I trusted Sadie implicitly, though, which was the only thing that kept me from bolting right back out the door. I
hated
doing the wrong thing in new situations. I would just have to hope that Sadie hadn’t been wrong.

“Thank you for coming today,” the tall woman said. “I’m happy that you’ve all taken an interest in working for us here at the Silver Cross. I’m sure you all understand that discretion is at the heart of our business, so please be aware that if you do choose to accept employment with us, you’ll be asked to sign a non-disclosure agreement. If you’re uncomfortable with that for any reason, you may leave now, no harm done.”

There was some murmuring, but none of the girls moved to leave.

“Excellent,” the woman said. “My name is Germaine. I’m the manager. Please stop me at any point if you have questions.”

She gave us a tour of the club. I had been right about the brass doors; there was a private room behind each one, with plush furniture and fireplaces. She took us behind the bar and showed us the general layout. “You have, of course, all worked as cocktail waitresses before,” she said. “I expect you’ll be familiar with most drinks and capable of making the basics.”

I tried not to look scared. I hoped she wouldn’t ask us to demonstrate. If I got this job, I’d have to read about bar-tending techniques. I knew how to make a rum and Coke, and that was about it. Pour some rum, add Coke. Easy.

Thankfully, she didn’t pursue the subject of drink-making. Instead, she had us sit down at a few of the round tables, and said, “Now we’ll do some role-playing. I’ll ask some of you to be irate customers, and others to be the waitresses attending to their every need. Why don’t we start with the two of you?” She pointed at two girls sitting at another table. “You’ll be the customers. And you can be the waitress,” she said, pointing at a third girl, who got up unsteadily and plastered a wide grin on her face.

“Take their orders, please,” Germaine said.

“Hi, welcome to the Silver Cross Club!” the girl said. “I’m Mandy, and I’ll be serving you tonight! What can I get you to drink?”

My eyebrows flickered up before I could stop them. I didn’t know a thing about waitressing, but I was pretty sure that delivery screamed “mom’s country kitchen” rather than “sophisticated New York men’s club.”

Germaine must have agreed, because she cut the girl off before the “customers” could respond. “Thank you,” she said. “Let’s have someone else, now. How about you?”

She went through each girl in turn, and all of them, as far as I was concerned, did something wrong: too chummy, too distant, too snobby, too bored. Finally, I was the only one left. I didn’t know what stroke of luck had led to me getting to go last, but now that I’d seen everyone else doing it wrong, I had an idea of how to do it
right
.

When Germaine pointed at me, I stood up and went over to the two girls who were currently serving as the “customers.” I stood behind their chairs at a discreet distance and waited. I didn’t say anything; I didn’t do anything to interrupt the important conversation that I imagined two powerful, wealthy men would be having. I simply waited for them to acknowledge me.

“Thank you,” Germaine said, and my heart sank. I’d done it wrong after all.

That was the end of the audition. Germaine gave us forms to fill out with our contact information, and said they would be in touch. It didn’t sound promising. I wrote down my name and telephone number, and tried to psych myself up for further job hunting. I didn’t need this stupid waitressing job at this stupid, snooty club. I would find something
better
. I would find a kick-ass job and make a million dollars and never have to worry about anything ever again.

Alternately, get evicted and go back to San Bernardino in disgrace.

I spent so much time thinking about my impending financial ruin that I was the last one in the club. The other girls had already put on their coats and gone back out into the cold. When I realized I was straggling so badly, I hurriedly filled out the rest of the form, and stood up to leave.

Germaine, who had been doing something behind the bar, approached me and said, “A word with you, please.”

I frowned. “Is there something wrong?”

“Hardly,” Germaine said. “I’d like to offer you the job.”

My heart, which had been hanging somewhere around the bottom of my spine, leaped back into its proper position. “Really?” I asked. “You want to hire me?” I realized that I sounded like an over-excited teenager. I tried again. “I mean—I’m happy to hear that.”

Germaine smiled. “Yes. Come into my office, please. We can discuss things in more detail.”

She led me toward the back of the club, and through a dark-paneled door I hadn’t noticed earlier. The room on the other side was warmly lit and cozy, with a large desk and several comfortable-looking armchairs positioned around it. Germaine sat behind the desk and motioned for me to take one of the armchairs.

I sat down, purse on my lap. “I have my resume,” I said, “and three letters of reference—”

“I won’t be needing any of that,” Germaine said. “We hire based on personality, and yours, I think, is an excellent fit. You haven’t done any cocktail waitressing before, I take it?”

Busted. “Well, not exactly, no,” I said. In for a penny.

“That isn’t a problem,” Germaine said. “Fewer bad habits to break. We’ll provide you with the necessary training. You seem, based on your attire and mannerisms, to understand the behavior appropriate to this setting. Everything else can be taught.”

My attire and mannerisms? Sadie had been right, then, but I didn’t know what Germaine meant by
mannerisms
. I didn’t pick my nose in public or anything, but that seemed like a pretty low bar. I gave Germaine what I hoped was a confident, knowing smile.

“As I’m sure you understand, our clients value their privacy, and we take great pains to ensure their comfort and security,” Germaine said. “They come here because they feel safe. Your job is to make them feel perfectly at home. You must understand what they need before it occurs to them, and provide it quickly and quietly. They should only notice you if they choose to. You will serve as lovely background décor.”

She paused and looked at me expectantly. I said, “I understand.”

She nodded slightly and continued. “You are understand that we are, in effect, a strip club. There are... other services available to our clients, but those are offered exclusively in the private rooms, and you won’t be serving there. ‘Cocktail waitress’ is not, in this case, a euphemism. You will remain fully dressed at all times, and there is no physical contact permitted between waitresses and clients. Do you have any questions?”

“Actually, yes,” I said. “If this is such a high-class joint, what were you doing advertising in a bodega?”

Germaine smiled. “An excellent question. As I said, we hire based on personality. We’ve found that casting a wide net provides us with a more diverse pool of applicants. It’s impossible to predict who will be a good fit based solely on demographic factors.”

That made sense. I nodded to show that I understood.

“You’ll start tomorrow,” Germaine said. “You’ll be training under one of our most experienced servers. Shifts are ten hours, from opening until we close at 2:00. You can work anywhere between one and seven shifts a week. While you’re in training, you’ll earn ten dollars an hour plus tips. Once your trainer decides you’re ready, we’ll bump your pay to fifteen an hour.”

That was more money than I expected. I hadn’t even anticipated making minimum wage. These people were serious about finding and keeping the best talent. I just had a hard time believing that the “best talent” included
me.

Germaine continued, “Your current attire is more than appropriate. The club opens at 4:00. Please be here at 2:00 to sign paperwork and start on your training.”

And that was all: it was that easy. I’d gotten myself a job.

I had a feeling that I’d also gotten myself in over my head.

T
he next day, I slept as late as I could. I knew I would have a long night at the club. Finally, around 10, I couldn’t sleep any longer, and got up to make myself a pot of coffee.

The morning dragged by slowly. I was nervous and eager to get started, but at the same time, I was dreading it. I was convinced that Germaine was wrong about me. I didn’t know anything about rich men or how to keep them happy. I would probably trip on the carpet my very first night and spill a tray of drinks all over the richest man in the room. Just my luck.

I texted Sadie:
first-day jitters

My phone buzzed ten minutes later.
u are going 2 b great!!!! so exciting!!!!!!!

For whatever reason, Sadie’s exclamation points actually made me feel a little better. I wished that Sadie could be there with me. She would be so much better at it than I would—charming, charismatic, the perfect cocktail waitress. I was good at office jobs, where I could sit at a desk and ignore everyone. I’d waitressed briefly in high school. It had been a disaster. I forgot orders, dropped things, and invariably delivered the wrong food to the wrong table.

Maybe it would go better this time.

At 1, I left home and took the subway into Manhattan. My heels clicked on the sidewalk as I headed to the club. They made an authoritative sound against the pavement. I threw back my shoulders and strutted, pretending I was someone confident and collected, someone who knew where her life was going. That was too vague; I needed to pretend to be someone specific. I decided that I would pretend to be Sadie. I would spend the entire first day doing what Sadie would do. I would play the role perfectly, and nobody would be able to tell how scared I was.

The same man was waiting inside the lobby of the club. He smiled at me and said, “Germaine is waiting for you in her office.”

“Thank you,” I told him, and lifted my chin as I returned his smile, the way Sadie always did.

The club was empty except for a woman running a vacuum cleaner. I made my way to Germaine’s office and knocked.

“Come in!” she called.

I opened the door and went inside. Germaine stood to greet me. “Regan, right on time. Welcome.” She motioned for me to sit. “We have the usual paperwork to fill out, tax forms, direct deposit, et cetera. And the non-disclosure agreement, of course.”

“Of course,” I said. That was the only part I was worried about. What if I slipped up and said something about my job after a few too many drinks? I wanted to get a look at the actual clauses in the agreement. I’d worked at a law office for a while, and although I was hardly an expert, I would be able to tell if the club wanted me to agree to anything truly out of the ordinary.

After I’d filled out all of the other paperwork, Germaine slid the agreement across the desk. “Please read it carefully. We don’t want there to be any surprises. In essence, you’re allowed to tell people that you work here as a cocktail waitress, but nothing more: nothing about the clientele or the specifics of the operation.”

It sounded reasonable. I read over the contract, taking my time to make sure I understood everything. It all seemed fairly standard. I signed at the bottom in big, curling letters. A Sadie signature.

Germaine filed away the paperwork and turned back to face me. “Now that that’s over with,” she said, “I’ll take you to meet Beth. She’s going to be training you. I want to warn you that she isn’t particularly friendly; it takes her a while to warm up to new people. But she’s an excellent teacher, and you’ll be in good hands.”

That didn’t sound too promising. I hoped she wouldn’t sabotage me, or prevent me from learning what I needed to. Germaine didn’t sound worried, though, so I decided not to borrow trouble. I’d just wait and see what happened.

Germaine led me back out into the main room of the club, and introduced me to a small, dark-skinned woman standing beside the bar. The woman—Beth—shook my hand with a firm grip.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Regan,” she said. “Germaine, I’ll be happy to take it from here.”

Germaine returned to her office, leaving me alone with Beth.

Beth put her hands on her hips and looked me up and down. “You’ll do,” she said. “Germaine told you I’m not friendly, I’m guessing? Don’t take it personally. I’m a little shy.”

“I’m a little shy myself,” I admitted. So much for Sadie. But Beth’s smile made me glad I’d blown my cover.

“I think we’ll get along nicely,” Beth said. “Germaine said you haven’t waitressed before. Let’s start with the basics of the bar layout. You won’t typically need to make any drinks yourself, but it’s good to know where things are.”