Buy Me Page 2

  But there was no need to give away my nervousness, so I took a deep breath, trying to appear calm.

  “Hi,” I managed, voice steady. There, that was a good start. Not exactly poetic or take-charge, but “hi” is always a good way to begin a conversation.

  The woman merely nodded, checking something off on her clipboard.

  “Abigail?” she asked, voice smooth.

  I bit my lip, nodding again.

  “Come with me please,” she said, voice placid. “The client is ready.”

  And I hesitated, hearing that word again. Client. Why were they calling them clients? Wouldn’t customer or guest be more appropriate? It was weird, downright bizarre, and I hesitated.

  “I’m so sorry,” I apologized quickly. “But I just wanted to know what this is about? I’m here to talk with guys right? To make small talk, get them comfortable, make sure they have a good time?”

  The woman looked at me, an eyebrow quirked.

  “Yes, you’re here to do as the client requests,” she replied. “Not more, not less.”

  That made me jump again. Not more, not less? What happened to employee protections, to make sure nothing crazy happened?

  “But that’s it exactly,” I rushed. “Is there more? Is there, you know, like more? Kissing and stuff?” I blushed, the words were so juvenile but I had to know. I couldn’t go into this with my eyes closed, if we’d indeed signed up for something extreme, it was better to know now. At least I could put up a fight now before heading into the wilds.

  But the woman didn’t give anything away. Instead, she merely repeated her words, a robot again.

  “You’re here to do as the client asks,” she said vaguely. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek then. This was so goddamn frustrating and getting scarier by the moment. I understood if she couldn’t tell me anything, a lot of jobs prevent you from speaking for the company, there’s a strict corporate message. But here, sticking to the script was downright chilling because of what was at stake. It wasn’t just an hour of my life, it was the prospect of kissing a man, of tasting a man’s lips on my mouth, of doing more. And suddenly I was up in arms. Could I handle it, if there was more? Could I, Abby, a virgin, take it? Or what if I couldn’t perform, what if I couldn’t make myself kiss some old guy? What if he was creaky and wrinkly, smelling like menthol? Oh god.

  But instead of focusing on the what-ifs and what-could-bes, I got myself in hand, taking a deep breath. There was no sense in psyching myself out when I just didn’t know what would happen. Maybe it’d be inane, maybe it really was just conversation and some smiles, all the while popping warm nuts and champagne. Or maybe there were a few kisses with a couple frogs. So what? I’d live, princesses have to kiss multiple frogs to get to their prince.

  So I put a smile on my face and straightened my shoulders.

  “I’m ready,” I said with what I hoped was a cool, confident air. “I’m ready.”

  And with that, the woman led me past the row of hedges, along numerous corridors, all of them dark, dim, and opulent. Bu even with the low light, I could see ornate mirrors on the walls, straight from Italy, along with gilded wallpaper, gleaming and elaborate. And as we passed one doorway, there was even a fountain in the adjoining space, tinkling lightly in the huge ballroom.

  So it couldn’t be that bad right? What had looked like a box on the outside was actually luxe and elegant on the inside, even though there were no windows. This place couldn’t be that terrible if they could afford such luxurious furnishings, even an interior fountain. I took a deep breath, getting some real oxygen, directing myself to relax.

  And finally, we came upon a large seating area. Just like the rest of the place, it was dimly lit and luxurious, a huge wooden bar running along one side, the wall backlit, highlighting all sorts of top-shelf liquors. But the space was unique because there were topiaries and potted plants everywhere, as well as those damned hedges. It sounds odd, but the plants actually made it tasteful and elegant, each seating area shielded with vegetation so you couldn’t quite see who was sitting inside.

  But judging from the voices, there were perfectly coiffed men and women making conversation inside. I could overhear the deep rumble of male tones, accompanied by the light laughter of women, high-pitched and flirtatious. I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank god, this didn’t sound crazy at all, just another cocktail party, complete with the tinkling of wine glasses and people making small talk. Perking my ears, I listened for Jennelle’s voice, the singsongy way she had of speaking. Was my buddy here somewhere? Was my friend sitting in one of these enclosed areas, sharing witticisms with a handsome man?

  But I couldn’t distinguish her voice from the murmurs, and besides, it was too late. My handler had led me to a parting in the vegetation, and I looked in at a square seating area, not too big, maybe ten by ten, with plush couches surrounding a varnished table, secluded and dimly lit.

  “Abigail,” the woman intoned smoothly. “I’d like you to meet Harris.”

  I almost giggled then because all my fears of being intimidated, of being out of my league evaporated in an instant. The guy sitting inside was a total nerd, dressed in a brown suit with a checked shirt underneath. His comb-over was scrawny and sad, thin strands of brown lightly skimming his bald pate like delicate spider webs. And yet the guy couldn’t have been more than thirty. Suddenly, I felt totally in charge, like this was going to be a breeze, boring even. So I sat on the couch opposite him, crossing my legs decorously, and smiled.

  “Thank you,” I nodded at the woman, who disappeared briskly, before turning back to the man. “Hi, I’m Abigail. You’re Harris?”

  The middle-aged man nodded furiously.

  “Ye-yes, people call me Harry sometimes,” he stuttered. “You can call me Harry too.”

  I smiled kindly again. There was no sense in picking on the weak, and despite the fact that he had a dozen years on me, clearly I had the upper hand due to my youth and confidence. I’ve never been a bully, so might as well do my best by this client, right? I smiled again encouragingly.

  “Great,” I murmured. “Happy to call you Harry. You can call me Abby.”

  Harris nodded furiously again, his head bobbing up and down like a buoy in choppy waters.

  “Thanks, thanks,” he rushed. “What are you doing here? I didn’t know girls like you worked at the Club.”

  Thoughts spun through my mind. What to say? That I’d been roped in by my best friend, that we had no idea what was going on, and I was relieved to discover that he was a loser? The fact that he was obviously so nervous and ill-at-ease made me comfortable because suddenly I knew I could handle the situation. So I just smiled and nodded convincingly once more.

  “A friend introduced me,” I said glibly. “A friend convinced me to come, and I figured it was no big deal, I’m all caught up with work so I had some free time.”

  Harris nodded fervently again.

  “Oh you work?” he asked. “I’m a car salesman myself,” he said eagerly like a puppy seeking my approval. “I sell mostly minivans and station wagons at the dealership.”

  I nodded, it wasn’t surprising to find out that this guy sold family cars, he hardly looked like he’d be the right dude to push Lamborghinis and Maseratis. But then again, a job well done is a job well done, even if you’re marketing the most boring products. So I nodded encouragingly.

  “I’m sure you must be very good,” I cooed a bit, smiling. “You must be very good.” Maybe I was taking it too far, maybe this geisha act was ridiculous. But again, a job well done is a job well done.

  And Harris’s chest literally puffed like a bullfrog, smiling proudly as he took off his glasses and wiped them on the hem of his shirt. The lenses of his glasses were so dirty and cloudy, it was incredible he could see, and the rubdown on the plaid fabric only made it worse, like he was looking through goggles. But I guess he wasn’t bothered, because he popped the heavy frames back onto his nose and stared at me
once more, face eager.

  “Oh yeah, I’m real good,” he bragged. “I got the job because my uncle owns the dealership, but now I’m the number one sales guy!”

  Something told me that his uncle was fudging the numbers to give Harris a boost to his self-esteem, but this wasn’t the time or place to say anything. Instead, I just nodded again.

  “That’s wonderful,” I complimented, nodding pleasantly. “Really wonderful.”

  And from then on out, I didn’t have to say much except for a couple more “wonderfuls,” “amazings,” and “wow, that sounds great.” Because Harris was so starved for female attention that he lapped it up, rambling on and on about himself for fifteen minutes straight, my smiles and occasional murmurs enough to keep him going. The man blabbed on and on about the car dealership, his job, his customers, his home life, and his eating habits.

  “Yeah, I like to eat healthy,” he proclaimed proudly, chest puffing out. “I’m a fruitarian.”

  I almost laughed. Wasn’t that where you only ate fruit? How did people survive, there was no way to get enough nutrients right? But no wonder Harris was so spindly and thin, his frame like a bendable Gumby.

  “That’s great,” I murmured appreciatively. “Fruit is so nutritious, lots of vitamins and minerals.”

  Harris’s chest puffed out even more, that narrow cavity expanding.

  “That’s right, and not just any fruit,” he corrected. “Only fruit that’s already fallen from the branch.”

  I scrunched my forehead for a bit.

  “But I don’t get it,” I asked. “How do you know if it’s fallen from the branch? I mean, when you go the grocery store, they don’t exactly indicate that, right?”

  And Harris nodded proudly.

  “That’s right, so I have to scavenge. I walk around the city most days, looking for fruit that’s fallen on the floor.”

  I was nonplussed. We were in Manhattan, which is a great place, but still, it’s the city. Where in the world did fruit trees exist? This was a grey town, filled with towering skyscrapers, people rushing by to get here and there, barely stopping to breathe. Where in the world did this guy find ripe fruit on the dirty concrete sidewalks?

  But Harris had evidently answered this question before because he nodded proudly again.

  “Sometimes I go to the dump,” he stated. “If I can’t find fruit on the floor, I figure the dump is just as good because it’s fruit that’s been discarded. Waste not, want not,” he said, wagging a finger at me.

  And I almost choked then. So this guy was scavenging at the local landfill for food? On the one hand, I got his point. He wanted to be environmentally friendly, and certainly picking up discards from the scrapheap minimized your carbon footprint, you were consuming what had been thrown out by others. But that was the point. This was food that was other peoples’ rejects, fruit that was probably molded and half-eaten, nibbled on by rats, and this guy was telling me that this was his norm, that this was what he consumed on a daily basis.

  So I smiled weakly then, trying not to look revolted. I love people who champion a cause, but sometimes, it’s just not for me. I support these folks, their fervor is impressive, but I can’t eat rotted food from landfills, it was too much. So I smiled weakly, unsure what to say, and Harris sensed my unease.

  “Would you also be a fruitarian?” he asked sternly, eyes blazing at me. “Would you go with me to the dump to forage? You know, we’d be saving Mother Earth, making the most of her bounty.”

  I swallowed again. How to answer this diplomatically? Should I lie? Should I let small white lies roll off my tongue to please the client? But I couldn’t, this was too weird, and the whole thing was just spinning out of hand. I had to say something and be diplomatic about it.

  “Um, I think what you’re doing is amazing,” I murmured appeasingly. “I mean, eating only fruit must be really hard, do you get enough calories each day?” Probably not, judging from his wasted form, but I desperately wanted to avoid his question.

  But Harris couldn’t be deterred, he merely fixed his eyes on me again, this time insistent.

  “So what do you say?” he pressed. “Could you live the fruitarian lifestyle? The real deal, eating produce that’s already been dropped from the tree?”

  I swallowed again. I wasn’t going to be able to dodge, I wasn’t going to be able to get away with a few vague “ahs” and “ums.” So slowly shaking my head, I let my true views out as gently as possible.

  “Again, I really admire what you’re doing,” I murmured. “But no, I don’t think I could. It’s not that I don’t believe in what you’re doing,” I rushed, trying to be conciliatory, “but it’s just not me. I can’t eat from the dump, the stuff there must be way past its due date. And I think if we buy responsibly and support local businesses, we’re doing our part to further the movement.”

  But Harris was immediately turned off, sniffing and looking away.

  “That’s what you think,” he said accusingly. “But you’re just a cop-out. Real environmentalists go to extremes because it’s not extreme,” he added haughtily. “Besides that shit at the grocery store is all wax and dyes, you think you’re buying a Red Delicious? Honey, those apples are actually green on the tree, machines color them red.”

  My client’s attitude was insufferable, but again, I wasn’t in a position to disagree.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I agreed soothingly. “I’ll never buy a Red Delicious again because it should actually be called Green Delicious.”

  But despite my best efforts, Harris was done. He turned his narrow chin away, refusing to look at me anymore, like I hurt his eyes.

  “Handler!” he called out to the air, raising his voice slightly. “Handler!”

  And immediately the middle-aged woman in a cocktail dress appeared once more, nodding deferentially.

  “Is there something I can help you with, sir?” she asked. “Another drink perhaps?”

  I looked at the table. Harris hadn’t even bothered to order a drink for me, his pink cocktail sat on his side of the table, a wet ring of water staining the wood.

  “No thanks,” he said frigidly, still not meeting my eyes, that pointed nose turned away. “I’m afraid this young lady and I aren’t a match,” he said frigidly. “I’ll need a new girl.”

  I flushed then, cheeks going hot. I shouldn’t have cared what this guy thought, it shouldn’t have mattered, he was such a foppish, frippery prick. But at the same time, I’d done my best to be nice, to be mild and accommodating and yet here he was, acting like the Queen of England.

  “But- but,” I stuttered.

  It was too late. The woman fixed me with a frigid glance, directing me to get up before turning back to Harris subserviently.

  “Of course, sir,” she murmured dulcetly, bowing her head and nodding once more. “Of course, we’ll find someone new for you. Product is always renewable at the Club.”

  And I goggled at her. Product? Renewable? What the hell, was she referring to me? It was so degrading and debasing, like I was a commodity, something that was easily replaceable, just another girl to be traded.

  But it was too late because with an icy glare, the woman nodded for me to follow her, Harris waving a slight bye-bye with his hand.

  “See ya, wouldn’t want to be ya,” he whined musically, voice trailing as I headed back out into the maze of topiaries. And I wanted to ask the woman what was going on, why this was happening, but no answer was forthcoming. So as I trailed behind, I actually grabbed a skinny elbow, sharp and pointy.

  “What was that?” I demanded. “I mean, I know I’m here to make conversation with customers, but they can’t all be like that. That dude was so strange, did you see? Did you hear him talk?”

  The woman glared at me then, expression forbidding.

  “We are here to serve the clients,” she bit out. “Stay here, and I’ll ask management what’s next for you.”

  Because we were now in a sitting room, the walls velvet, equipped wi
th a huge TV and a mini-bar on one side. And seeing no other option, I sat gingerly on a plush purple ottoman, shaking my head.

  “Fine, but I want out,” I said sharply. “And I want to find Jennelle, where’s my friend? We both want to leave.”

  The woman didn’t even answer, spinning on her heel and shutting the door, the unmistakable snick of a lock sounding behind her. I gasped, shaking my head. What the hell was going on? Why in the world was I locked in a room, god knows where, separated from my friend? Why in the world had I just spent fifteen minutes talking to a complete loser, a total weirdo of a guy? All that was certain was that I wanted to get out of the Club, bad. And yet … I had no idea how to make it happen, locked in a room with no place to go.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jared

  I sat in the booth, idly swirling the drink in my hand. The setting was decent. Nothing compared to the actual Billionaires Club, but then, what can you expect from an offshoot?

  Because the actual club is an elite establishment with a massive underground complex in Nevada. It a place for filthy rich dudes to relax, socialize, and do whatever the fuck they want in relative privacy, without the prying eyes of the media, friends, family, acquaintances, all the hangers-on that accompany power and money.

  But the Billionaires Club doesn’t run itself. Sure, we have top-notch staff, paying a pretty penny to various minions to keep the place humming. But every ship needs a pilot, so sometimes a few of us dudes pitch in to make sure this place stays in tip top shape.

  And I admit, I fuckin’ love this part of the job. It sounds like a stupid chore, but to me, it rocks. Because the dirtiest part of the Club is that we source girls. There are auctions every now and then, where members buy virgins on the block, the sweetest, most beautiful things, and someone’s gotta find the girls right? Sure, we’ve got recruiters out everywhere, scouts roaming globe, sussing out the most nubile, innocent things. But still, it helps sometimes to look yourself, and that’s what I was doing tonight.