“You good, girlie girl?” asks Amelia, poking her head inside. “We have dinner in an hour or so. You want me to come get you then?”
I nod, smiling. Amelia and I had rooms right across from one another, whereas fortunately, the zombie triplets were way down the hall. Who occupied the rooms in between us, I have no idea.
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll be ready then. I’m just going to freshen up a bit.”
“Sounds good,” says Amelia with a cheery wave. “See you then.”
With that, the door slowly closes, snapping locked on its own. I turn to look at the room again with my hands on my hips. Hmm, not bad. It was bare, but I have three months to make this place my own. I open the closet and gasp. What? What’s this?
Because instead of an empty space, the closet’s filled with clothes. And not just any clothes, but nice ones. These garments are a far cry from the jeans and t-shirts that I usually wear. There are sarong skirts, beaded evening gowns, as well as pretty sundresses. There are also tiny tank tops and some revealing string bikinis hung up on hangers. Wow, the Billionaires Club truly is generous.
I turn to the dresser and pull open the top drawer hesitantly. Sure enough, this too is filled with all sorts of lace fripperies, including tiny panties and bralets. I scoff when seeing those. My huge Double Ds can’t be contained by these flimsy bits of lace. If anything, I usually have to buy double-reinforced extra-large bras in order to contain my girls. Otherwise, I’d spill out of both the sides and the bottom and the top, seeing that I’m filled with jiggle and wiggle up there.
Then, my eye catches on something in the drawer and I pick it up. It’s a plastic sleeve filled with …? I goggle when realization hits me. These are pasties, made to cover my nipples. Immediately, I figure it must be for the evening gowns. Sometimes, you can’t wear a bra with certain dresses, although I’ve never owned anything like that.
But then, my face creases because the pasties aren’t your usual flesh-toned, unobtrusive accessory made to be hidden under outerwear. Instead, these pasties are flashy. The petals are hot pink with diamante studs on them, like the kind strippers wear.
I stop, stock still. Oh my god, these are intended to be worn for the billionaires, aren’t they? Slowly, I rummage around in the top drawer and just as expected, there’s a hot pink g-string that matches the pasties. Looking at the fabric, I know that this g-string isn’t going to hide anything. The vee is about the size of a postage stamp, and the string is laughable. It looks like it’s going to snap if you even touch it.
But that’s not all. With a quickly beating heart, I turn to the closet and look through a couple shoeboxes. Sure enough, there’s a pair of hot-pink six inch stilettos waiting for me in my size. If I’m not mistaken, these are to be worn with the pasties and g-string at some dirty event with men’s eyes roaming my curvy body. Just what event, I’m not sure yet.
Holy cow. I sit down on the bed, stunned. I signed up to be a hostess, and yes, Charity intimated that it would be exclusive and R-rated. But still. I thought I’d be hostessing at some kind of fancy bar or restaurant for a select clientele; I never thought it’d be this. I’m all for people doing whatever they want with their money, but surely, this is unexpected?
But then I take a deep breath. It’s thirty thousand dollars, Ava, the voice in my head reminds me. With that money, you’re going to be able to do a lot of things, including paying off your student loans, starting a retirement account, and maybe even saving for once. You’re twenty-five now. You have to do what needs to be done.
I swallow again, breasts heaving. The voice in my head is right, but it’s not just that. I’m also excited by the thought of parading around for men in nothing but the tiniest g-string, pasties, and some heels. I’m titillated by the thought of having my breasts out there, bouncy and full as men gaze at me with desire. I even want them to stuff cash into my g-string, as wrong as it sounds. Where is this coming from? After all, I went to college for a reason, and that was to better myself, and not to end up as a stripper.
But my emotions are on high at this illicit discovery and hot sizzles run down my spine. I inhale deeply, trying to get a grip. It feels hot in the room and I check my watch. Still forty-five minutes until dinner. Maybe I have time for an illicit interlude. Yes, that’s it. That’s what I’ll do.