The Billionaire's Kitten(4)

By: Cassandra Dee


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 drunk 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!”

I smiled awkwardly, a little off balance.

“I’m here for the drinks boys,” I stated firmly, tucking the silver tray beneath my arm. “I’m here to make sure everyone gets drinks, everyone is served, and no one goes thirsty.”

Friend Three just tossed a heavy arm around my shoulders this time, practically crushing me. Oh god, this had started off wrong already.

“That’s good,” he breathed, pure alcohol blowing hotly onto my face. “That’s good because like my buddies mentioned, Michael here is getting married next week and needs a reminder of what he’s gonna miss.”

I groaned internally. I hated bachelor parties that were like a scene from Girls Gone Wild. I hated dudes who egg on the poor groom to be, urging him to go nuts, to “sow his wild oats” and “enjoy his freedom” before he was “locked down forever.” It made marriage sound like the worst thing on earth, just one step above drinking poison and being stabbed in the gut.

But I get it. Sometimes the party’s more about the friends than the groom himself. It’s the dudes putting out five thousand big ones, the guys who want to make sure that a weekend in Vegas is like a scene from that movie The Hangover. They wanna make sure things get so crazy that hallucinations start, and if one of the hallucinations is Mike Tyson playing the drums? All the better.

So I took a deep breath and smiled determinedly.

“Let me get you some shots,” I beamed. “Be right back!”

And with that I fled to the bar.

“Morty,” I panted, wobbly in my heels. “I can’t, this group is so drunk already and it’s only nine!”

The big man’s paunch turned to me first, face following afterwards.

“Fine go home then,” he grunted shortly. “You’re off payroll.”

But that made me start. I was fired that quick? Wait, what about worker’s rights? What? This was all happening so fast.

So I backtracked as fast as I could.

“No, what I meant is that I need some help,” I begged. “Can I just wear flat shoes, or maybe take off these fake eyelashes?” I asked, plucking at my right eye. “I can barely see,” I mewled pitifully, the long black extensions like heavy spiders on my eyes. “It’s hard to blink.”

Morty didn’t even turn, didn’t even acknowledge that he’d heard my words.

“Scram Kitty,” he said disinterestedly. “We got a line-up of girls who want this position.”

And with that, I jumped from the frying pan into the fire.

“Okay, okay,” I panted, voice with a pleading edge that sounded so bad. “Okay, I’ll stay, I’ll stay. It’s just that,” I bit my lip, looking at his impassive face. “It’s nothing,” I added hurriedly. “I’ll stay.”

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