Claiming Her at the Bar: A Bad Boy Romance

By Cassandra Dee and Sarah May

I'm a prisoner to their male desires.

I was stuck in a throwaway job at place called the Second Star Diner. It was everything you wish it wasn’t: greasy, dirty, and with too many gross guys leering at me.

But after the Second Star was held up by criminals, I was whisked away by my captors to a completely different setting: The Billionaires Club.

Working at their elite underground bar, I was expected to do all the usual waitress things.

Wear glittery outfits.

Clean up questionable goopy spills.

And keep the dominating alpha males happy by any means necessary.

The problem is that I’ve fallen in love with one particular billionaire: Mr. Carmichael.

I shouldn’t feel this way.

After all, they’re forcing me to work here.

But Mr. Carmichael’s got me twisted around in the best way possible, and now it’s too late because I’m having the alpha male’s baby.

Hey Readers – Can anyone say va-va-voom? This is the Billionaires Club at its finest :) So many people wrote us begging for more of the Claiming Her series that we had to keep going! As usual, the story’s off the charts crazy and taboo, so keep a drink close by to cool down! You’ll love it, we promise :) xoxo Cassie and Sarah

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cassandra Dee Romance
• Release date: Jan 15, 2020

Book preview

Claiming Her At the Bar

~The Claiming Her Series~

~The Billionaires Club~

© 2019

By Cassandra Dee and Sarah May

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© 2019

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DEDICATION

To all the girls who’ve worked food service.

It can get naughty, right?

NOTE FROM THE AUTHORS

Hi! Thanks so much for reading Claiming Her At the Bar. This is the latest in our Claiming Her Series. So many readers wrote us pleading for more debauchery at the Billionaires Club that we had to keep going :)

We hope you enjoy Gemma’s tale of finding love in unexpected places!

Happy reading,

Love,

Cassie and Sarah

ABOUT THIS BOOK

I thought I’d be slinging hamburgers forever, but soon I was slinging a different kind of meat.

I was stuck in a throwaway job at place called the Second Star Diner. It was everything you wish it wasn’t: greasy, dirty, and with too many gross guys leering at me.

But after the Second Star was held up, I was whisked away by my captors to a completely different setting: The Billionaires Club.

Working at their elite underground bar, I was expected to do all the usual waitress things.

Wear glittery outfits.

Clean up questionable goopy spills.

And keep the dominating alpha males happy by any means necessary.

The problem is that I’ve fallen in love with one particular billionaire: Mr. Carmichael.

I shouldn’t feel this way.

After all, they’re forcing me to work here.

I’m a prisoner to their male desires.

But Mr. Carmichael’s got me twisted around in the best way possible, and it’s too late because now I’m having the alpha male’s baby.

Hey Readers – Can anyone say va-va-voom? This is the Billionaires Club at its finest :) As usual, the story’s off the charts crazy and taboo, so keep a drink close by to cool down! You’ll love it, we promise :) xoxo Cassie and Sarah

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Claiming Her At the Bar

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

A Sneak Peek: Falling for My Beautiful Ward

A Sneak Peek: Their Secret

A Sneak Peek: Beg Me

MORE BY CASSANDRA DEE

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Chapter 1

Gemma

The Second Star Diner really sucks, that’s for sure. As I stand at the server console, trying to figure out how to punch in an order for our new TripleMeat TripleCheese Slamburger, my boss wanders by and sneers at me.

Yo Gemma, is putting in orders a little too tough for you? It doesn’t take a college degree, but wait a minute, he said, snapping his fingers. "You don’t have one, right? In fact, you don’t even have a high school degree, right?"

I freeze as my heart starts beating hard and fast. Jimmy knows that I don’t have a high school degree because he’s seen my job application and resume. It states right there up at the top that I have nothing more than a GED, earned after a lot of time hitting the books on weekends. So this asshole is just trying to bait me. He’s trying to get a rise, all the while making me feel bad about myself.

And it’s working, to be honest. My temperature rises even as the tears begin to form hotly behind my lids. I desperately want him to get fired, but that’s nothing but a pipe dream. Jimmy is the owner’s nephew, and he only got the manager position because of nepotism. So I swallow hard before turning in his direction.

This order console is new, I say casually, gesturing to the iPad mounted on the counter. It’s no big deal, I’ll figure it out.

You sure? Jimmy sneers again. Looks like you’re having some trouble adding up those figures.

It’s true. Numbers have always bewildered me, but it’s not because I’m dumb. It’s because I have dyslexia. So yes, letters tend to blur before my eyes and jump all over the screen, with p’s turning into q’s all the time. But still, my dyslexia isn’t his business, and I wasn’t about to share information about my learning disability with this guy. It would only amp up the constant harassment and snide jokes. So I tried to smile calmly again.

I don’t have a college degree, but I’m hoping to get my BA someday, I say in what I hope is a neutral voice. I have a lot of respect for higher education, and look forward to taking classes.

Oh please, wheezes Jimmy while leaning over the counter. "We both know you’re not going back to school. You. Don’t. Have. A. High School. Degree. They don’t admit people like you. Get real, Gemma. College is for people with brains and money, and that’s not you. I know how much you make here. You’re poor. Besides, they’d never take you, so it’s not even money that’s the issue. It’s you."

I freeze, stung by his words. How can someone be so mean? He must have thrown three different insults in that tirade, and besides, what he said isn’t true. People who have GEDs get into college all the time. It can be a little harder because you have to do two years at community college first, but I’m willing to put in the time.

But he’s right. How would I pay for college? There isn’t exactly a magical fund made of money labeled Gemma’s College Stash lying beneath the rainbow. People say that you can apply for financial aid, but everyone knows that it’s hard to get, and even if you do get some aid, it’s usually not enough. Plus, how would I pay it back? What kind of job would I get that could help me pay down tens of thousands of dollars in student loans?

But Jimmy doesn’t need to know that I’ve had many of the same thoughts myself. Instead, I shoot him what I hope is a freezing smile.

I’m signing up for classes at Evergreen shortly, comes my tight voice. I’ll get an Associate’s and then try and transfer somewhere for my Bachelor’s.

My manager doesn’t even hear the ice in my tone. He leans over the counter, smirking, and leers at me. It’s a disgusting sight. The fat man is pasty and flabby from eating too many fries, and right now his big belly is literally smooshed like giant paunchy cushion against the plastic countertop. I avert my eyes in an attempt not to be grossed out.

Please, he wheezes again. Save the ‘holier than thou’ speech. You’re not going to get through Evergreen. Credits there cost a hundred bucks each, and each class is something like four credits. You can’t afford that on a waitress’s salary.

This is the time to demand a raise, but I keep my lips sealed tight because one, it’s not like Jimmy has the authority to give me one, and two, I’m a senior waitress making ten bucks an hour. I’ve already hit the top of the pay scale, and unless I take on more shifts, there isn’t going to be more money coming my way.

But even as I stand there, fuming, my face flushes because my manager might be right. Do credits at Evergreen cost a hundred dollars each? I swear, I looked online and read that credits cost ten bucks a pop. If they’re actually charging ten times that, then I’m screwed. There’s no way I can spare four hundred dollars to take one class. Not when I’m hard-up to make rent and put food on the table some weeks.

But I don’t want to let my manager know, so blindly, I punch in some random things into the console while hoping one of them is the TripleMeat TripleCheese Slamburger. God knows, I could be ordering a chocolate ice cream sundae with whipped cream and cherries, but there’s no way I’m going to let on to Jimmy how hurt and disappointed I feel at the moment.

Gotta get back to work, I say breezily. See ya, Jimmy. Thanks for checking up on me.

His eyes trail over my form as I saunter off, giving me the creeps. But it’s just another day at the Second Star Diner, and I can’t afford to lose this job. So determinedly, I walk back to my area, stopping only to pick up an order at the kitchen.

You okay, darlin’? asks Mamie from behind the silver window. Mamie’s my best friend on the job. Looking at us, you wouldn’t think we have anything in common because Mamie’s about eighty, African-American, and wizened. She’s been a line cook since she was forty, which gives her forty years of experience on the job, and about thirty years of experience more than me. Many a time, I’ve cried on her shoulder after a shift, fed up with the daily indignities of my position. Many a time, she’s patted my head and made it feel alright again, even if it wasn’t really alright.

I smile bravely at her. Mamie’s the only person that I feel comfortable even being myself around here at the Silver Star.

I’m okay, I say taking a deep breath. I’m fine.

Mamie looks at me closely, her eyes a cloudy blue from cataracts. You hang in there, darlin’, she speaks gently. The Lord will provide.

I smile again and nod, picking up a giant plate of salad. Mamie knows that something is wrong, but right now, in the middle of a shift, neither of us can afford to talk. Plus, I know Jimmy’s still watching me with his beady rat eyes, and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break down. So taking a deep breath, I smile at my friend once more before balancing the salad plate on one forearm and stopping to pick up a full set of utensils. Then I walk delicately towards a table in the corner with a smile plastered on my face. My customer is a blonde girl, probably in her twenties, with hair so shiny that it’s blinding, and a nose tipped up high.

Carefully, I set the salad in front of her. It’s a giant