Page 17 of Taken By My Grumpy Pakhan

“VIP just arrived!” One of the girls, Sylvie, rushed into the changing room, waving two fifties. “It’s about to be a big night.”

“I heard the boss is hosting a post-business hangout,” another said, rolling up a sheer pantyhose.

“The boss is hardly around, and even if he was, he wouldn’t have time for hangouts.”

Sylvie stuck out her tongue at the second girl, still waving her money again. “Boss or no boss, my pocket is about to be full.”

A couple of others squealed and set to dressing up, adding extra layers of makeup and padding up their boobs.

“You know,” Sylvie said, appearing behind me in the mirror. “If I had a body like yours and lips like that? I would’ve made enough bank to live in Miami.”

“Miami is a beautiful place,” I replied, covering my upper body with the server's uniform.

“You good?”

I nodded with a tight-lipped smile. A week in this place and I knew these girls weren’t friends. I wasn’t about to get under the delusion that someone cared because they gave me a compliment.

“I mean, you’ve never looked happy around here.”

I picked up my name tag, securing my last button and clipping it on. “I’m fine, Sylvie. We can only work at night, you know. I'm always tired.”

She studied me momentarily before picking up a blow drier from the shelf. “Quit being a serving girl and come make good money on stage. You’re wasting away.”

She left with a wink and extra sway to her hips while I stared at the mirror, marveling at how much a person’s life can change in a month.

Twenty-year-old Gen would have an aneurysm if anyone told her she would be working as a server in the VIP suite of a lounge that only catered to men of ‘high’ caliber.

She would progress into a coma or vegetative state if you told her the reason she was in said situation was as a result of a misdiagnosis and the series of events and decisions she made because she was convinced she only had a few months to live.

Honestly, I didn’t know which was worse. Waking up every day with the knowledge of a looming demise and wondering if today would be the D-Day, or learning that the diagnosis was wrong, that you still had your whole life ahead of you, but whatever was left of it hardly belonged to you.

I went from young and promising to young with a bleak future. I swallowed the lump forming in my throat.

Anna said to sue the hospital, but I barely had the energy, not to talk of the money for legal actions.

Besides, they didn’t force me to fuck my boss or to offer up myself as a pawn to offset my brother's debt. The same one I was yet to set my eyes on.

“Medium rare steak ready for table two.”

I straightened at the sound of my voice, checking my reflection to make sure I was presentable before heading out.

Alexei had made it clear I was only considered for my looks.

“The men love to look at pretty things and pretty things bring in the money,” he had said during my tour of the facility.

“So you look good, smile big, jiggle your tits or whatever and if you’re lucky, you might find someone to take that debt off your neck.”

His words proved true in the days that followed. I did get a few tips and a couple of offers.

I also had to smile even in the presence of improper and distasteful remarks. I also had to pretend I never noticed the fingers mistakenly brushing my thigh or the eyes ogling my boobs when I leaned to serve.

The first few days were hell, but when I realized there were rules and they wouldn’t force themselves on me, I relaxed a little.

Even now, as I walked into the low-lit VIP suite with Sylvie hanging off the pole and felt a pair of eyes burning into my ass, I repeated the mantra to myself.

There are rules and they can only look.

I slapped my best smile on when I got to my destination. “Good evening, gentlemen. Steak for table seven?”