Members Only (Paperback)

Pages : 390
ISBN : 9781739724092
Weight : 372g
Dimensions : 203 x 22 x 127 mm

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- Sapphic romance
- Rich girl / poor girl
- Light BDSM
- Starting over

Tonight is quiet for a change, and I needed that after a hectic weekend. The extra shifts are exhausting, but needs must. I’ve just moved into a private studio and had to pay a hefty security deposit. In a few weeks, my bank balance will be in the green again, and I can go back to normal, working five nights a week instead of six or seven.
I miss being on the receiving end of service and never thought I’d be in this position, yet here I am, serving people. Rich people. I used to be one of them, the ones who don’t have to think about how much they spend. I ordered Champagne by the bottle and flew to the Maldives on a whim if I felt like it. Always first class and only the best hotels with butler service. My assistant was at my heel at all times, making anything I wanted happen. Marisa was invaluable, and I didn’t appreciate her enough when she was around. I wonder what she would think of me now.
It’s sad how life can change in a heartbeat, and how money dictates what place we earn in society. I never thought about this before; I took my fortune for granted. Isn’t that what everyone does?
A Middle Eastern man walks in, flanked by two beautiful women. They’re tall, the model kind of tall. He looks entitled and barely notices me as he brushes past me and tries to open the door to no avail. It’s always locked and I’m their key.
“Good evening, sir. Name?” I ask. “Do you have a reservation?” There’s normally a hostess at the door, but she’s off on Mondays and Tuesdays, as it’s generally quiet, so tonight it’s my turn to vet the guests.
“No,” he barks at me. “Don’t you know who I am?”
I’ve heard that sentence more times than I can count, and in the past, I may have even used it once or twice myself.
“I apologize, I don’t,” I say with a polite smile, straightening by back and meeting his eyes. “If you would be so kind as to tell me your name, I’ll have a look in the system.”
“Ahmad.” His body language tells me he’s the impatient kind, so I scroll through my iPad, check his photograph, and confirm he’s a member.
“Of course. Please come in. My colleague will give you a great table, and I’ll be with you shortly.”
He doesn’t answer and sighs when I type in the security code wrong twice, costing him a whopping five seconds of his life. I open the door wide, and he storms in with a huff, giving me a look as to say, I’ll make sure you get fired for being so incompetent.
They won’t fire me, though, I’m too valuable for the club. As someone who used to be wealthy, I know how their members like to be treated, and I’m completely unimpressionable when it comes to celebrities and millionaires. Some I recognize, some I don’t, but my welcome is always the same, and I will never flinch or ask someone for a selfie. Not that I could even if I wanted to. Before I clock in, I hand my phone over to the head of security, who keeps it in a safe until my shift ends. That way, the staff is unable to tip off paparazzi or message their friends if someone of great importance comes in.
It’s the very reason this club is so successful. The VIP members enter through the staff entrance, and the front door is often locked with the “closed” sign turned. The blinds are down, and time is not a concept here. Day or night, the lights are dimmed, and the biggest spender gets the remote for the music system to play whatever they please. It’s the unspoken privilege that shows other members who’s the boss for the night, the holy grail that holds the ultimate power in the most ridiculous of ways.
The smell of shisha hangs thick in the air. Apple, double mint, black mist, and more flavors I can’t quite identify because they all blend into one thick smog of choking sweetness that penetrates my nostrils before I close the all-important door again. Smoking cigarettes is prohibited, but we offer the best of the best cigars and shisha, along with an exclusive selection of cocktails, wines, Champagnes, rare teas and coffees, and strong liquors.
If our members want something, we make it happen, down to the most surreal requests. If a VIP wants to bring in their pet goat, it’s our job to make sure their goat is comfortable and doesn’t disturb other members, no matter what. It can be challenging, but the tips are generous and the only reason I’m able to keep my head above water. The goat incident was a few weeks ago. When I failed to find fresh hay after midnight, I called Mark, my roommate at the time, to bring some over, as he had a house bunny and kept a big bag in the pantry.
Mostly, our clients’ demands are more manageable than that. Requests such as a specific flower on top of a dessert or adorning one of the private lounges with white candles or healing crystals is more common.
I’m just about to head inside the lounge and swap places with my colleague, so I’m on the serving end of the process when the security guard brings in a woman. She’s tall, almost as tall as Sergei, who’s the size of a barn door. Dressed in a pair of joggers and a hoodie, she looks nothing like our usual female members, who tend to rock up in high heels and revealing dresses. Her hood is pulled over her head like she’s either cold or hiding, and her hands are buried deep in her pockets.
“Good evening. Welcome to Annapurna,” I say and smile when she slides down her big shades to greet me back. Her eyes are dark, almost black, with long lashes and a perfectly arched eyeliner. Other than that, she wears no makeup, and her skin is smooth and flawless apart from a beauty mark on her left cheek. “Can I have your name, please?”
“Aisha.” The woman smiles back at me. “Aisha Al Zahid. I haven’t reserved a table; the hostess told me to check with you. I hope that’s not a problem.”
“Not at all. It’s quiet tonight.” I pause when I read the notes in her profile. As a diamond member, she holds the highest status, and it’s unusual for diamond members to show up without entourage. “For one?”
“Yes, please.” Aisha puts her shades back on. If she’s famous, I wouldn’t know, but she doesn’t strike me as a celebrity.
I type in the security code and let her in, then gesture for my colleague to switch with me and take over the door. “In the back?” I ask, sensing she craves privacy.
“Yes, the back would be great, if the table on the right is free.” Aisha follows me and takes a seat on the velvet sofa. She waves a hand when I’m about to pass her the menu. “I don’t want food. Just shisha, a glass of crushed ice, and a teaspoon, please.”
She’s polite, and that’s refreshing, but the crushed ice confuses me. I’ve learned not to second-guess strange requests, though, so I nod. “Of course. Do you know what shisha you want, or would you like me to send over an expert?”
“I’ll have a blueberry, apple, and mint,” she says, leaning back and making herself comfortable. She props her leg up and rests her elbow on her knee like she’s at home, chilling in front of the TV. “That’s all.”
I linger for a moment, knowing I’ll have to bring up the minimum charge. “It’s three hundred for an hour’s sitting. That’s the minimum charge,” I say. On top of the £18,000 membership fees a year, this can be a ridiculous sum if someone only orders a cup of crushed ice, and understandably, some members don’t agree with that, so it’s better to let them know in case they haven’t read the small print.
“I know. Don’t worry about it…” Her eyes dart down to the name tag on my chest. “Olivia…”
Our eyes meet for a split second, and the contact makes me flinch. Her stare is so intense, almost invading, as if she’s reading my mind. It’s like she senses my fascination with her, and she likes that.
“Okay, Miss Al Zahid. It won’t be long.” I clear my throat. “Apologies. Is it Mrs. Al Zahid?”
Aisha laughs and shakes her head. “Definitely not. Just call me Aisha,” she says with an amused smile.