“If you want a box,” she leaned forwards conspiratorially. “I’ve got some of the strongest stuff there is. Better than the OTC shit,” she confided, “it’s from my personal chemist.”
At that, I shuddered. No way would I trust some dude in a mobile home in the desert, concocting green juices in a makeshift lab. That stuff was illegal and probably toxic, you didn’t know what went into homemade drugs. So I shook my head.
“Um, no thanks,” I murmured, smiling weakly. “I’m good.”
“You sure?” Loretta cawed, running her eyes up and down over my frame. “You got some extra poundage there for sure, you’ll make more money if you lose it. Trust me,” she said conspiratorially. “I’ve been working this joint for years now and men like skinny. They like miniature, and honey, you ain’t no miniature. You got junk in the trunk like an XXL hamburger.”
The words hit me like gunshots, making my cheeks flame, but I just put my head down, humiliated.
“I’ll think about it, thanks,” I stammered, stumbling to the door.
And as Loretta’s cackles faded behind me, I paused, taking a deep breath. What the hell had just happened? I’m Kitty Jones, college freshman, with a load of debt and a load of homework. I was here to pay off some of that debt, or at least make a dent in it, and yet the backstage atmosphere of Club Milano had already thrown me for a loop.
Because I’m the girl always in the library, a big nerd with a huge backpack, and my conversation in the dressing room made me feel weird. Drugs? Diet pills? Laxatives? More drugs? And what was with this dress? The purple fabric was ludicrous, outlining my assets obscenely. What the hell was going on?
But it was too late because Morty spied me over from the side and beckoned.
“Looks good,” he grunted, eyeing my form up and down. “Perfect.”
I stammered again, blushing bright red.
“You don’t think that this is … um, a little small?” I asked nervously, tugging at the hem.
“Naw, you’ll do fine,” Morty said carelessly, already looking off into the crowd. “And your party’s here. Booth Two, a bunch of dudes celebrating a bachelor party. Go get ‘em kid. Do your job,” he said, turning and fixing me with a pointed look.
Picking up the tray, I took a deep breath. God, these shoes were so tight, the stilettos making me sway and teeter. But right, money. I was here for the money.
“Hi!” I introduced myself brightly to the guys in the booth. “Hi, I’m Kitt –um, Amber,” I corrected hastily. Oh god, oh god, this was so bad already, I’d almost given away my real name. “What can I get for you? I’m Amber, your server tonight.”
Unfortunately, the guys were already drunk despite the fact it was only nine p.m.
“Um, server?” asked one dude, squinting at me blearily. “I thought we got a club girl.”
“I’m that girl!” I chirped cheerily. “Kitt- I mean, Amber at your service!” Shit, I’d almost done it again.
But his friend threw a heavy arm around my shoulder, alcohol reeking on his breath. Clearly these guys had pre-partied, Club Milano wasn’t their first stop.
“Naw,” the friend leered. “We’re looking for a club girl.”
I smiled again brightly, as cheerful as I could manage.
“That’s me!” I chirped. “Amber at your service!”
This time, a third friend came around, taller and less dr
unk than the others.
“You staying around? Or you serving a couple tables? That’s what these losers mean by club girls.”
With that, I heaved a sigh of relief. Because finally, I understood what the guys were looking for. Forking over five thousand per night is a lot, and the guys wanted personal service, the kind where one girl is your designated “table girl” if you will, who helps you and only you. So I smiled cheerily again.
“I’m here for you guys only,” I stressed. “You guys are my winners tonight.”
And all three dudes relaxed somewhat, although two were plenty wasted already.
“Should be,” drawled Number One. “I’m losing my freedom.”
“Awww right!” crowed Number Two. “Dude is gonna get hammered tonight!”