“Handler,” I grunted, and immediately a woman appeared, middle-aged and severe, dressed all in black.
“Sir, may I help you?” she nodded courteously. “Is there something I can do?”
I nodded, expressionless.
“Get her out of here,” I said, indicating the blonde. “And make sure she sees a plastic surgeon. An accredited one,” I said meaningfully, “not some fake who pumps girls full of industrial silicone.”
The woman nodded, gesturing to the blonde.
“Of course, we’ll make sure Courtney is taken care of. Courtney,” she said with a stern glance, almost like she was talking to a child. “Let’s go Courtney, pull your dress up, it’s time to go.”
And Courtney was like a dumb doll, getting up unsteadily, manhandling her boobs awkwardly, the flesh slipping this way and that until they were stuffed back into her top.
“Oh sure, but what about Mr. …?” she asked, blue eyes wide, looking between the two of us. “Are we gonna get together again, big guy?”
I was so disgusted that I couldn’t reply. There was nothing appealing about this girl, both her body and mind were missing, she was a life-size mannequin. So I turned away silently, leaving the handler to take care of it.
“Maybe Courtney,” the woman cajoled. “But remember, it’s the clients choice, so let’s give him some privacy to decide,” she soothed, grabbing Courtney by the wrist as the girl teetered in her high heels, top heavy and ridiculous. “Let’s give Mr. White some privacy, shall we?” she asked again, this time pulling the blonde along behind her.
And Courtney was happy enough to leave, thinking that we’d be reunited later. But the handler knew exactly what I wanted because at the last moment, the woman turned and nodded again, still dragging her charge along.
“Would you like another one, sir?” she asked courteously. “I’m sorry this one didn’t work out, but we have a particularly abundant selection tonight.”
It’s funny. Any other club, and you would have thought she was referring to a drink, offering me another cocktail. But no, we were the Billionaires Club and I was here to check out the girls, to see if there was a viable pipeline that would sate my brothers back in Nevada. And so far, it’d been disappointing, a real let down. The girls tonight just hadn’t been with it, and Courtney was a prime example of everything that was wrong, the low IQ, the plastic body, the clueless personality. The Billionaires Club sources the highest quality material, not fake shit, not dumb shit, and not illegal shit. We want the best and are willing to pay for it, yet tonight’s selection had been overwhelmingly bad, the bottom of the barrel.
So I almost said no, I almost put the lid on it and left for the night. But something changed my mind. I’m not sure what it was, maybe it was the sound of a female moan from a couple booths away, or maybe it was the alcohol speaking. Shit, Maker’s Mark is still potent stuff and I’d had four or five shots by now, numbing myself to the pain.
So I forced myself back to attention and nodded.
“One more,” I said warningly. “And she better be good.”
The middle-aged woman looked worried, like it was on her to source a desirable female, someone up to Club standards. But she nodded curtly and remained silent, merely dragging Courtney along behind her.
“Of course,” she murmured deferentially, “I’ll see what we have.”
And with that, both women disappeared behind a hedgerow and I sank lower in my chair. Shit, shit, shit. Was I really up for this? Even another fifteen minutes with a dumb bitch was intolerable, my body would dissolve, bones melting from sheer agony. I resolved to give the new girl two minutes max. If there was anything, and I mean anything, I didn’t like about the female, I was booting her stat and beating feet, headed back to the hotel. Life is short and I didn’t want to waste it with another dud.
So I leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes for a moment, trying to relax. Shit is hard when you’re a billionaire, but it’s a different kind of hard. Opportunities come at you all the time, and sure, a lot of folks would give their eye teeth at the options I had. But still, when the choices were bad, it’s always a disappointment, and tonight had been one disappointment after another. Every girl had been wrong in some way, or in multiple ways, and I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to will away an oncoming migraine.
But no such luck. As the pressure behind my eyes began to swell and grow, becoming a massive cloud of red pain, the handler’s voice penetrated the fog again.
“Sir,” she began tentatively. “I’m so sorry to intrude, but the next girl is here.”