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The petite blonde’s expression grows in excitement indicating how my potential lie intrigued her. Ricky gives her a small wink, strolls over from his desk, and whispers once he’s in the doorway. “Appreciate the wingman tactic, sweet cheeks.”
I pull the key card to the cigar vault from my other, higher thigh garter at the same time I quietly bite back, “Appreciate it by adding me one more night to the schedule next week.”
His bushy brown eyebrows lift in obvious objection.
“Or…” twirling the object around my fingers is tauntingly done, “I could casually mention too loud that I hope your new strand of overly contagious crabs is gone.”
He attempts to snatch the item away only to be denied by swift sleight of hand. “You know if your tits didn’t help sales, you wouldn’t be worth the pain in the ass you are.”
“And you know if you didn’t sign our paychecks, no one would ever think twice about burying their face in your berry bush.” I lean in slightly closer to further poke. “And I know it’s bushy, Ricky. Women talk.”
My boss tries not to glare during his conceding, “I’ll see what I can arrange.”
“Make sure you do.” A small flick of the wrist releases the card to him. “Unlike Bimbo Barbie waiting for you, I have actual bills to pay.”
Another word isn’t exchanged, nor does it need to be.
Unlike typical waitressing jobs where you have to go through the hassle of having receipts and cashing out, the membership cards are actually connected to whatever credit or debit card you use to pay your monthly fee. It’s the only payment type accepted here, and cash is required to properly tip.
You don’t tip?
They find a way to charge you additional “fees” at the end of the night that they then deliver to us as “bonuses” on our next paycheck.
Our hourly pay is decent enough, but tips are definitely where the majority of my funds come from.
You know if you put aside the whole having to dangle myself like a high-class escort, it’s really not a bad job. I take orders – top shelf sales are more appreciated – deliver drinks – tit shots work to my benefit – and talk people into buying expensive cigars or smoking what they have in one of the private rooms – where I won’t serve you but insist that Vanessa does since, she’ll give me a small cut for the extra business.
I flirt and get eye fucked.
I pretend to give a shit about whatever’s driving the customer to drink and convince them to keep drinking and smoking because that’ll help everything…at least for a few hours.
Is it my dream job?
No.
Is it the worst job I’ve ever had?
Far. From. It.
Dillon Wilson, one of our guards who’s still hoping he gets a “real security job” at Haworth Enterprises someday like his cousin Beau, versus the nightclub lifestyle he’s been stuck in for years, escorts me to my vehicle in his typical flirty fashion.
He asks about my night.
Tips.
And gushes about Little Soup of Horrors, his favorite lunch spot, we’ve just “gotta go to together sometime”.
Once I’m safely in my old Honda, I ditch my black pumps along with my work bag in the passenger seat and mentally map the route back to Wes’s estate on the outskirts of the city. Getting out of downtown is easy and even reaching the point where we first entered the highway to get me to my car isn’t difficult; however, the first turn on the unlit, dark country road is an entirely other story arc.
Everything is harder to decipher, and every road feels like I’ve already driven on it four times.
I’m not sure exactly how many wrong turns I’ve taken or if I’m honestly even close to where I’m supposed to be when I’m pulling off to the side of the road to kill the engine and make a slightly frantic phone call.
Thankfully, there’s only one ring before a polite voice is stating, “This is Mr. Reese with Wilcox Enterprises.”
Amusement smothers out anxiety. “Is that really how you answer the phone in the middle of the night, Puppet Boy?”
“We do business all around the world.” A small ruffling precedes him yawning. “I can – and do – get unexpected calls at all hours.”
