Chapter 7
Gemma
I look at the outfit Mary’s holding up in front of me.
“No way,” I say. “I can’t.”
She clucks, shaking her head. “There’s no can’t at the Billionaires Club,” she scolds gently. “All the women here work, and we have uniforms. Look at me,” she says, gesturing to her loose white scrubs. “This is what spa workers wear, and because you’re a waitress, this dress is what you’re going to wear.”
I protest again, shaking my head.
“But Mary, you’re covered up,” I say. “This piece of nothing called a dress … it’s well, I mean, it’s nothing! It’s even worse than my old Silver Star uniform!”
Mary shakes her head again.
“That piece of silver lamé you came in with?” she asks with one eyebrow arched. “That was trashy and you never should have put it on. It’s right for a place called the Silver Star Diner, but it’s definitely not right for the Billionaires Club. Come on, try it on,” she says, urging me towards a private changing area behind a screen. “You’ll look divine, I’m sure.”
Reluctantly, I allow myself to be pushed behind the wooden screen. If this were anyone else, I’d scream, but Mary’s been so nice to me these last few hours. She gave me a facial, stayed in the beauty salon as my hair was done, and then had some pointers for the make-up artist too.
“Emphasize Ms. Kane’s lips,” she said, directing the other woman. “Gemma has a beautiful full pout that would look just dazzling with some pink lipstick.”
I was about to interrupt and say that I never wear lipstick in real life. There’s no point when you have a tendency to bite it off, the way I do, or eat it off, which also happens to me. But the make-up artist studied my bone structure, and nodded.
“You’re right, Mary,” she replied. “Great eye. I swear, you should be the make-up artist, and not me,” she chuckled. “We’ll highlight Ms. Kane’s lips with some raspberry lipstick, and then slick a bit of clear gloss over it before daubing just a bit of Vaseline in the center. Perfect!” she remarked, leaning back to look approvingly over her work. “You look like a model.”
I wanted to laugh because I was absolutely not model-like. Not even with a face full of make-up and my hair falling in gentle waves over my shoulders. Although, truth be told, I did feel like a million bucks after the extravagant pampering. I can see why ladies look forward to Spa Day when you get treated like this!
But still, all of this was way over my head and totally unnecessary. Lip gloss plus lipstick, plus a tiny dab of Vaseline? What was that last part for? The make-up artist seemed to read my mind and turned my chin just so towards the light.
“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.
So why do I feel so disappointed that I’m not seeing him again? Will I ever see him again? I straighten my shoulders and force myself to get real. I have no choices here, and as a result, it’s necessary to roll with the punches. If I ever see Mr. Carmichael again … well what? What would I say to a handsome billionaire who has everything he wants and needs in the world? The fact is that I have nothing to offer, and am utterly, completely, at his mercy.