Page 137 of Boyfriend of the Hour
Even if it was just a costume. Even if it was just pretend.
“Okay,” I said as I pulled out my phone to text Kyle.
After I’d served drinks at Diamonds a few nights last week, he’d offered me a chance to serve at one of the gaming nights with Rochelle.
I wasn’t sure I was going to take it. I was honestly hoping I wouldn’t have to.
But a new manicure and a blowout weren’t going to pay for themselves.
And I didn’t want to give Carrick or anyone else at that event a reason to think I didn’t belong there.
At least on the outside. I already knew the inside was a lost cause.
TWENTY-FIVE
WORST BARTENDERS IN NEW YORK
#1 Mac whatever his name is
“One girl per table. Tips are yours minus twenty percent to the house. If there’s a problem, we’ll switch you around, but there shouldneverbe a problem. You got that?”
I nodded for what was probably the tenth time in the last ten minutes as Kyle, the owner of Diamonds strip club and the manager of what I suspected was only a semi-legal underground gambling operation, finished showing me around the basement of a nondescript brownstone on East 125th and Pleasant Avenue, at the very edge of Spanish Harlem.
It wasn’t exactly what I’d expected when Kyle told me it was a “casual” get-together. In its way, this place was busier than Opal, except it was full of men ready to see me serve them their highballs tits out.
“Rochelle, you’re tables three and four. New Girl, tables five and six. Leave your things in the coatroom. Beto will take care of them.”
Kyle rubbed his goateed chin and glanced through the doors toward the crowd gathered around a variety of game tables. Heseemed a little more nervous than when he was at Diamonds—constantly moving and fidgeting. These were obviously some high rollers.
“They just sat down, so they need drinks ASAP. And whatever else they want. Company, a blow on the dice, a lap dance—they ask, you give, all right?” He looked me over. “You look good. I knew that size would be better.”
I looked down at my outfit—if you could even call it that. The “uniform” Kyle had given all the girls consisted of black hot pants over fishnet stockings, black high heels, a bow tie…and that was all. He’d insisted I would fit into shorts a size smaller than usual, and they were riding up my butt a little. Apparently, that was the look he was going for.
“Yeah,” I said. “But…I thought we didn’t have to go topless if we don’t want.”
But Kyle was already gone. Rochelle just shrugged at me as she took a tray of drinks from the bartender. “You can put your bra back on. But you also probably won’t be asked back either.”
I scowled. I’d been hoping to keep my top on tonight, but apparently, that wasn’t in the cards. But neither was getting my hair and nails done this week with the hundred dollars currently in my bank account.
“Fine,” I said as I took a tray of drinks for myself. “Where is table five?”
I followed Rochelle into the smoke-filled room, which looked and sounded more like a speakeasy in the nineteen twenties than a grungy basement. The walls were papered in silk florals, with maroon wainscoting reaching up from the floor. Wrought iron chandeliers with glinting glass prisms dangled over men seated in leather chairs around green felted game tables—the only things that didn’t look like they were permanent fixtures in the room.
It wasn’t exactly a small operation. There were about a dozen tables, each surrounded by six or so men plus a dealer, most of them wearing suits or at least pieces of them, with ties untucked, jackets off, and sleeves rolled up.
Rochelle and I weren’t the only servers here tonight. Two more I recognized from Diamonds were already strutting around the room with drinks. Another was sitting on the lap of an older man in the corner, grinding on him while the others around the table leered and laughed.
“You ready?” Rochelle said. “Come on,mami. The money’s out there.”
I straightened my back, just like I was waiting in the wings for my cue. It was another part to play. Just another part.
“Ready,” I said and followed her toward table five, where four men sat waiting for cards to be dealt.
“Gentlemen,” I greeted my customers for the night. “Can I get you anything?”
The men all turned while the dealer shuffled, each openly appraising my body.
“Nice, a new face,” said a barrel-chested man in a striped shirt and paisley tie. He had a mustache that reminded me of old pictures of my grandpa when he was young, but he spoke with a thick Eastern European accent.
