“Can I get you anything else?” Olly asked, not quite sure how to respond to such a statement.
The man finished his whiskey. “No. Thank you.”
When Olly turned around again, there was a crisp hundred dollar bill sitting beneath the empty whisky tumbler.
[2]
Two nights later, Oliver was barely awake and trying to serve drinks like nothing was wrong. Working nights typically didn’t bother him, but he had spent the majority of last afternoon studying for a midterm and was barely able to stand; not to mention his house was very noisy during the day. He ran a hand through his hair and hung up his jacket again.
Sasha, a sweet, large breasted girl not overburdened with intelligence, came running up to him. “Olly! You have to come quick, Adonis is throwing a fit that you’re late again. There’s a bunch of big-shots here, and they want you to serve—you have to come quick!”
Olly blinked. “What?”
“Never mind, just come on!”
He was promptly dragged through the back dressing room. In the act of pulling off his hoodie and unfolding his see-through white tank top, Adonis came bursting into the room.
“Oh! Oliver, Oliver, honey, where were you?” Adonis squeaked, his creased eyes squinching. “I’ve been texting you for ages! Jack Woodford is back and he’s requested you as a server!”
“Wait, who’s back?” Olly asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Adonis snapped his fingers in Oliver’s face. “Wake up! Jack Woodford? He was at the club a few nights ago? Or does everyone tip you triple figures?”
Oh. Oh. Oliver was suddenly awake, his hair standing on end. The intimidating presence of the man hadn’t left him, and in the past few days Olly hadn’t been able to get him out of his mind. Even when he drifted off to sleep at night, he could still feel that powerful gaze watching him from behind. It was unsettling, to say the least.
“I’m on it,” Olly said under his breath, and ran a hand through his untidy hair.
Leaving the concerned Sascha and the bordering-on-heart-attack Adonis behind, Olly hurried through the club towards the private lounge. He typically avoided the place unless specifically instructed to serve at a bachelor party or something; the soundproofed room and the soft velvet unsettled him.
However, unlike most of the wild bachelor parties which had taken place in The Dollhouse’s backroom, this one was rather quiet and sedate. As soon as he opened the door he could smell the cigar smoke, and it appeared as though the stripped poles installed in each of the four corners weren’t in use. Rather, the five men sitting in the room had decided to make use of the large billiard table to play a game of pool.
Oliver kept his head down and headed straight for the wet bar in the very back, hoping to avoid any awkward eye contact with Jack Woodford. So that was his name. Jack.
“Bourbon, neat,” an overweight blonde man said without looking up.
“Right away, sir,” Oliver said in the most charming voice he could manage.
“Oliver, get him a drink and then come join us,” a familiar voice said, and the back of Oliver’s neck prickled. He set up behind the bar and tried not to look up, but Jack’s presence was like a magnet; sure enough, those dark blue eyes were observing him quietly.
Oliver tried to give himself an escape plan. “I’m actually not allowed to join the guests during their events,” he said, silently congratulating himself on his professional tone.
Jack leaned back in his chair and exhaled blue smoke. “You are now. I just bought the place.”
There was an obliging smatter of laughter from the group, all of whom seemed to look up to Jack as their leader. Stunned, Oliver fixed the bourbon and brought it over. Jack’s broad, handsome features were almost smug, as though he’d cleverly whipped the rug out from beneath Oliver’s fumbling feet.
“Hope you’re not firing me, then,” Oliver replied, and sat down hesitantly on one of the plush velvet backed chairs.
“Of course not. Are you any good at pool?” Jack asked, almost innocently.
Oliver cleared his throat. “Not really. I didn’t get the chance for much practice growing up.”
“We’ll have to teach you,” Jack said, and there was another, vaguely threatening smatter of laughter from the gathering.
It was like being a lamb sitting at a table full of wolves. Oliver felt a flare of courage fire low in his abdomen—or was that just arousal from the way Jack was looking at him? “I’m better at poker, actually,” he said in his sweetest tone.
“Oh-hoh!” the pudgy blonde man laughed. “Poker! Jack’s fantastic at poker. Harold lost his wedding ring to him one time, didn’cha Harold?”
Harold, a gaunt, bald man dressed entirely in black, nodded somberly.
Jack’s beautiful blue eyes narrowed, and he set his pool cue down on the table. “Poker it is.”
Oliver fixed himself a beer and took a sip.
The night passed in a blur.
Oddly enough he didn’t drink much, but everything happened so quickly it made him feel lightheaded. They played poker for a good hour or two, and true to his word, Jack was a fantastic poker player. Before too long all of them were broke and Jack was in a rather good mood, sipping his whiskey as though it would be outlawed tomorrow.
The men swapped stories of slutty secretaries, paranoid wives, thieving nannies and bratty children—they were all obviously disgustingly wealthy with little time to spend their vast hoard of money, due to their packed schedules. Oliver got the feeling that poker nights like this didn’t happen often, and even this could be justified as a “business trip”, for Jack’s new strip club venture.
One by one, they men began to leave, citing various reasons: wife was expecting them, plane to catch, mistress waiting at a hotel. Soon, it was just Jack. And just Oliver.
The room was surprisingly quiet, and Oliver peeled the label off his third beer. Surprisingly he seemed to be one of the few who could still stand and function, aside from Jack of course, who was drinking whiskey like it was water. Jack’s fierce gaze had been muted somewhat, and with his sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened, he looked like a much less frightening individual.
“So,” Olly began. “What…what was this all about?”
Jack leaned back in his chair. “I like you,” he said simply. “I bought this club in order to remodel it, I’ve wanted to invest in something like this for some time. Adonis introduced us and I thought you would appreciate an evening like this.”
The younger man tilted his head to one side. “So…you just thought, ‘Hey, look at that kid, I bet he’d love to play poker with a couple of my rich friends’? That’s a pretty bizarre thought process.”
“No,” Jack corrected quietly, “I thought perhaps you’d like to have sex.”
Olly blinked. “Wow. I mean…wow. I’ve been asked bluntly before, but—“
“You’re handsome. You’re single. And if you’ve nothing to do for the evening, why not spend it together?” Jack asked, as though this were a perfectly normal request.
“Look, I don’t know what kind of impression you got,” Oliver said firmly, “but the whores are in front of the bar. You know, the ones on the poles. The guys behind the bar are just trying to do their job.”