Chapter 13
Gemma
Stealthily, I make my way to the elevator.
“Miss Gemma, is there something I can help you with?” calls Mary from the front desk. Oh shit. Just my luck. It’s 3 a.m. and I’m trying to sneak out of the club. I figured I’d be apprehended by a security guard or some military commando that they hire to keep watch over this place, but instead, I’ve been made by a middle-aged woman.
“Um, hey,” I stammer, biting my lip. I’ve seen Mary weekly ever since landing at the Billionaires Club, and we’ve become friendly of sorts. Not friends because she’s careful around me. She knows that I’m the kept woman of Mr. Carmichael, so she’s attentive and caring, but not overly so. “Um, just getting my hair done,” I fib lightly.
Mary stares at me.
“At 3 a.m.?” she asks skeptically, glancing a clock on the wall. “Why?”
“Well, you know Mr. Carmichael gets up really early to go to the gym, and I hate looking like a messed-up rat so early in the morning. It’s embarrassing,” I whisper, as if confiding a secret. “He means so much to me, and I hate that the first thing he sees when opening his eyes is me looking like a hag.”
Mary shakes her head.
“Well Miss Gemma, if I do say so myself, you would never look like a hag,” she says. “But I understand the desire to look beautiful. After all, our billionaires are everything to us, aren’t they? And you are so lucky to have snagged one of the best ones at the club.”
I nod weakly, even as my finger goes for the elevator button again.
“Um yeah,” I say. “Mr. Carmichael is everything to me.”
Mary grins again. “Then go ahead and go up,” she says. “All beauty services are open twenty four hours especially because of circumstances like this. We are here to satisfy and please, and I’m so happy that you’ve taken to your role at the Club.”
I smile weakly at the middle-aged again as the doors slide closed, before shaking my head once she can’t see. “Satisfy and please?” Where is she getting this? It sounds like Mary’s drunk the Kool-Aid, and there’s no going back. But I get what she’s saying. After all, the Billionaires Club is the hand that feeds us, and there’s no need to bite that hand. I just want to get out and see Henry. He means everything to me because I have no family.
So yeah, all this skulking and sneaking around is to see my old tomcat once again. It’s lame, I know. Who does stupid shit like this? But the thing is, Mr. Carmichael and I had “the talk” a month ago about where our relationship is, and where it’s going, and I still don’t have any answers. He makes love to me non-stop, morning, noon, and night, and that makes me happy. But he’s never said anything about “love” or “permanence” or even “girlfriend.” It’s more along the lines of, “Why do you want to go back up? Isn’t every need tended to here?” Or even worse: “Do you really want to work at that greasy spoon the Silver Star? The one that paid you nothing?”
Of course I don’t want to go back, but I can’t just float around forever here. Maybe I don’t have a great education or work experience, but I still want to make something of myself. And I’m definitely not doing that while being Mr. Carmichael’s sex slave. There, I said it. I’m basically his personal geisha girl, smiling when the door opens in the evening, and making love with him non-stop all hours of the day or night.
The problem is that I’m conflicted because I love being his personal geisha girl. I love making sure my man has hot food when he comes home from work, and giving him a shoulder massage as he eats. I love dressing up in saucy lingerie just for him, and then having him take it off piece by piece. I love the debates we get into, and the conversation that’s so natural between us. But it doesn’t get me anywhere professionally, and I can’t hang my hat on a man who won’t even acknowledge me to the real world. So I’m not sure what I’m going to do just yet, but right now, I’m going to see my cat. It’s just a baby step, but surely, more progress will follow.
I hold my breath as the elevator ascends, and to my amazement, we’re not stopped. The door slides open, and I step out into the Nevada desert. Taking a deep breath, I look around. The night sky is starry and beautiful, the vastness of the space so immense that I’m awed. The Club has dozens of entry and exit points all over Las Vegas, and this one is just a few miles from my apartment. Guess that digital map-reader thing from Hubert really did come in handy. I’m glad I made friends with the shy guy.
But now I’m on my own. I can’t pull Hubert or Mary or any other number of staff workers from the Club into my temporary escape. So I pull my thin jacket close around my shoulders, and begin to walk. The glow of my tiny city beckons in the distance, and I know I’ll be there soon enough.
After about twenty minutes, I reach the city’s edge. The hamlet is nothing much really. Just some strip malls housing places like the Silver Star, but I’m glad to be home. Resuming my pace, I start walking again, still breathing deep of the chilly night sky.
Finally, I’m home. Funny that I’d call this ramshackle apartment building home after so long. But that’s what it is. It’s humble, it’s falling apart, and it’s nothing to look at – but it’s mine. The front door creaks loudly as I open it, and I grimace. Damn. Don’t want to wake anyone.
Quietly, I take the stairs up to my apartment on the third floor. Yep, the fifth step on the second floor still squeaks, and the bannister’s worn and shiny with age. I run my fingers along the railing, savoring the knots and rolls in the wood. It’s nice to have some imperfection once in a while, especially because everything at the Billionaires Club is so perfect all the time.
Slowly, I unlock my door and push it open.
“Henry?” is my quiet voice. “Henry, you here?”
There’s no sound, so I flick on the light and squint against the sudden glare. The florescence is killing me, but my shabby kitchen slash living room is oddly familiar and comforting. There’s the linoleum breakfast table, with the rickety chair I sit in while eating cereal. There’s my orange-green couch from the used goods store that they offered me for free if I took it off their hands. Yep, there’s still one cushion exploding at the seams, and a bit of foam peeks out. I’m about to walk over and try to push the stuffing back in when suddenly there’s a yowl and a twenty pound ball of fur shoots into my arms.
“Henry,” I laugh. “Hey, it’s me, it’s me! I missed you too. Calm down, Hen.”
The cat ignores me and licks my face with his rough tongue. Uck. That doesn’t feel too good as cat tongues can be kind of sandpapery. But I endure it as I cuddle the striped furball closer.
“I missed you, Henry, that’s why I’m back. I know it’s been months since I was here, but don’t worry, I didn’t forget about you. You’ve been top of my list, I swear,” are my playful words.
Suddenly, Henry stiffens and starts hissing in my arms. He’s glaring at something over my shoulder, and without even turning around, I know who it is. It’s him. Mr. Carmichael … and he’s here for me.