Serving the Billionaire(7)

“Okay,” I said, relieved. Germaine had said the customers wouldn’t touch me, but I hadn’t thought she was serious about it. But I liked Beth’s brisk, forthright manner, and I decided to trust her.

A few other cocktail waitresses had arrived, and Beth introduced me to them as we waited for the first customers. We lingered by the bar, and I listened as they talked about something that had happened to Monica, who I didn’t know.

The central stage suddenly flooded with light, revealing a gleaming metal pole and a chair. “Show’s on,” one of the waitresses said, and as I watched, a young woman emerged from a door at the rear of the club. She was wearing high heels, a black thong, and nothing else.

I watched, shocked despite myself, as she strolled across the floor and mounted the few steps onto the stage. Her breasts shook as she walked, and her nipples were hard. I had known, intellectually, that this was a strip club, but seeing a half-naked—well, three-quarters-naked—girl wandering around really drove it home.

“Shocked and appalled?” Beth asked from beside me.

I looked at her, feeling my face heat up. “I’ll get used to it,” I said quickly, not wanting her to think I disapproved.

“I remember my first day,” she said. “Couldn’t get over all the naked girls walking around. Wait until you see what the clients do to them! I just couldn’t believe it. One of the dancers tried to talk to me about something or other and I spent the whole time staring at her boobs. You’ll get used to it, though.”

“Thanks,” I said, and meant it. Everything seemed pretty strange to me at the moment, but Beth was so unruffled that it was hard for met to get too worked up about it.

One of the dancers came over and leaned on the bar. This one, thankfully, was wearing a silky black robe. “Fresh meat?” she asked Beth.

“Regan,” Beth said, tilting her head in my direction. “She’s training with me.”

The dancer held out her hand. “I’m Natalie,” she said. “Well, Vixen Deluxe, here.”

I shook her hand. “Vixen, uh, Deluxe?”

Natalie grinned. “The clients like us to have real old-school stripper names,” she said. “I guess it makes them feel like they’re having an authentic experience. Although, if they want it really authentic, they should go up to Times Square.” With that, she ambled away.

A bell chimed—like a doorbell, but louder. “First customers,” Beth said, and as I watched, all of the waitresses lined up against the wall behind the bar and clasped their hands behind their backs, their faces perfect expressionless masks. I hurriedly imitated them.

The main door opened, and three men came inside, guided by the man from the lobby. All three were wearing suits and carrying briefcases. “Typical after-work crowd,” Beth whispered to me. “They’ll have a couple of drinks and then leave.”

One of the other waitresses went to serve that table. I watched as the dancer on stage spun in slow circles, one leg hooked around the pole. Music started—not the loud, thumping club music I expected, but soft background music. The men sipped at their drinks and talked to each other, laughing loudly. They barely looked at the stage. I wondered why they didn’t just go to a regular bar, if they were going to ignore the dancers all night.

More men arrived and were seated in quick succession. “That’s us,” Beth said, as a table of four took their seats, and I followed her out onto the floor, trying not to let me heels get caught in the thick carpeting. I stayed a step behind her as she stopped beside the table and bent down toward one of the men, who had turned his head toward us as we approached.

“Two martinis, a Jack and Coke, and a gin and tonic,” he said. I did what Beth had told me, and silently repeated the drink order to myself, trying to burn it into my brain.

Beth said nothing in response, just straightened up, turned, and headed back toward the bar. I followed her, a little confused. She gave the order to the bartender, and as he started mixing the drinks, I said, “Don’t the customers want you to talk to them at all?”

“It depends,” Beth said. “You’ll see. I know that guy, that’s all. Mr. Saunders. He just wants his drinks. Doesn’t want any chit-chat. That’s fine with me. He tips well. Some big-deal investment banker. He brings his clients here a lot. After a while, you’ll get to know the regulars and get a feeling for what they expect.”

It seemed impossible. I followed Beth as she worked her tables, and carefully watched the way she interacted with each customer. Most of the men gave all of their drink orders individually, and sometimes Beth would speak to one for a few moments, obviously familiar with him; sometimes she would say nothing; sometimes she would address him with the sort of false, over-the-top cheer you generally saw at a chain restaurant in the suburbs.