Zillion

by Alexander Blackwood

  ZILLION

  ALEXANDER BLACKWOOD

  Copyright © 2019 by Alexander Blackwood

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  CONTENTS

  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

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  I hate rich people. Okay, that may be too harsh. Let's say I strongly dislike rich people. They're rude, pushy, snobbish and some, despite fat bank accounts, are incredibly cheap.

  My name is Mathew Grant, I'm a doorman at the Excelsior Park Avenue. According to an article in New Yorker magazine, an article my Manager constantly quotes, the Excelsior is the fourth priciest hotel in New York City.

  On a daily basis, this gig provides me with a perfect perspective on the upper-crust, also known as the one percent. To be clear, I'm not saying all wealthy types fit the stereotype, but enough so that I've cultivated a distinct dislike. And one of the things I dislike the most is how they insist on calling me--

  "Hey, kid!"

  Behind me, a rotund baldy in clothes more expensive than a Mercedes Benz C-Class stood in the hotel's doorway. Beside him, a stunning piece of arm candy, literally clinging to his arm.

  Baldy looked to be in his forties, and she couldn't be more than half that. Tall, busty, blonde, and built for speed beneath the sheets. I couldn't take my eyes off her.

  "Hey kid," the rich dude snapped again. "You on duty or what?"

  I was twenty-two, just under six feet tall, with a trimmed stubble goatee, so it baffled me that baldy, like other rich people, insisted on calling me kid. And since I was garbed in a black doorman's suit, which included a stylish monkey cap, he knew very well I was at his beck and call. Belittlement and sarcasm was a favorite past time of the rich and rude.

  "Yes, sir," I replied. "How can I help you?"

  "A cab. Hurry."

  "Right away, sir."

  I moved to the curb and waved forward the next yellow cab in the cue. I opened the rear door and the gorgeous lady climbed in. Then baldy managed to squeeze in behind her without even a thank you. His substitute for basic manners was to push a five dollar bill into my palm as if discarding a snot rag.

  And that right there is why I loved my job. Despite the poor treatment and blows to my ego, the tips were fantastic. On a typical night I could pull down two or three hundred dollars in tips alone. That kind of loot made all the superior looks and "hey kids" almost worth it. But sometimes there's a guest so high on the rich asshole scale that the encounter makes me want to quit on the spot. Unfortunately, on that very night, I encountered one of these mega assholes. In fact, when I spotted his overlong limo slide to a stop out front, I knew nothing good would emerge from that vehicle.

  The man who stepped out, while yapping on a gold phone, looked like a character from one of those Zoolander movies. Slicked-back blonde hair, huge gold-framed glasses, and a glittery golden beard chiseled to a perfect point. His name was Balthazar Banks. I recognized him instantly from countless articles and TV interviews. Banks could be spotted at all the best parties, all the best restaurants, and seemed to be every celebrity's best friend. How he achieved his wealth and status wasn't clear to me. In fact, I'm not sure it was clear to anyone.

  Banks approached the entrance with his head down, intently yapping into his phone. As I pulled open the door I said, "Good evening, Mr. Banks."

  Banks froze, lowered his phone and leveled narrowed eyes on me. "Can't you see I'm on the phone?"

  "Yes, sir. I was just--"

  "You have no idea what you were doing? I could be negotiating a billion dollar deal. You really think I need my train of thought interrupted?"

  "No. You're right sir. Sorry."

  He literally hissed at me and underscored his insane reaction by swatting the hat off my head. "Idiot!," he snapped. Then, adding insult to insult he flipped me a mocking salute before disappearing into the hotel.

  My neck burned and my heart pounded, but I took a deep breath to maintain my cool. Lashing out at a guest, no matter how outrageous the offense, was grounds for instant dismissal. I had student loans and rent to pay. I needed this job and I wasn't going to let that jerk be the reason I lost it.

  After another settling breath, I bent to pick up my hat and was surprised to see that it was gone.

  "Here you go."

  A woman stood over me holding an overnight bag in one hand and my doorman's cap in the other.

  "Thank you," I said returning the cap to my head.

  "He's an asshole," she said, referring to Banks. "Sorry, he treated you like that." She underscored these words with a sweet smile, and it was at that moment that my hormones fully registered her amazing beauty.

  Her assured manner and put-together appearance told me she was around thirty. She was about my height, with flowing brown hair, green eyes, and a toothpaste commercial smile. A designer green dress clung to her generous curves in a way that made me envious. Her musky perfume was subtle but lingering, effectively holding back the industrialized funk of the surrounding city.

  "No need for you to apologize for him," I said. "But thanks anyway. May I help you with your bag?"

  Instead of responding, her smile faded. She cocked her head and stared into my eyes. "Oh my God," she said.

  "What?"

  What she said next was the last thing I expected to hear from a rich, beautiful woman.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "It's your eyes," she said with a gasp. "They're beautiful. Have they always been like that?"

  "Yup. From birth. It's a condition called sectoral..."

  "Sectoral heterochromia. I know. I've just never seen such a striking pattern. Wow!"

  Sectoral Heterochromia is a condition that causes irises to have two different colors. Both of my blue eyes had streaks of light brown. I've been told when sunlight hits them just right, the streaks look like flecks of gold. Almost every day someone expresses curiosity about my eyes, but rarely can they name the condition.

  "Does your father or mother have the same condition?" she asked.

  When I tol
d her I wasn't sure what my parents' eyes looked like, she was surprised until I explained I was adopted at a very young age.

  Her smiled returned. "Well, your eyes are very unique. I guess you were born lucky."

  My cheeks flushed a bit because I suddenly had the distinct feeling this gorgeous older woman was actually flirting with me.

  "Thanks," I said.

  Next, she leaned forward, touched my arm and said, "do you mind if I ask an inappropriate question?"

  My neck suddenly felt warm. "Um, sure."

  "What time do you get off?"

  My heart picked up speed. Was this really happening? I've heard some of the other doormen tell tales of hot women inviting them back to their rooms, but I always thought they were lying. Was this really about to happen to me? After swallowing into a dry throat, I checked my watch and said, "In about an hour." Which wasn't nearly quick enough if what I thought was happening was really happening.

  Pleased by my answer she smiled. "Perfect. After you get off, do you mind purchasing a bottle of wine and bringing it to my room?"

  I don't know why I said what I said next. I guess shock put my mind into auto mode. "Actually, you can purchase bottles of wine from room service."

  "I know. But they always overcharge. And I'd go get it myself but I've been traveling all day and I'd really like to take a shower. I'll be in room 645. What do you say?"

  "Sure. No problem."

  "Wonderful. What's your name?"

  My mind was so flooded with images of what I hoped would happen once I delivered that wine, that for a moment I couldn't remember my own name. "Um... Mathew," I finally said.

  "I'm Reba," she said, shaking my hand.

  Her perfectly manicured hand was soft and delicate, but somehow still firm. She reached into a designer purse that matched her overnight bag and handed me a one hundred dollar bill. Then with a little wave, she said, "See you later, Mathew."

  As she headed into the hotel, I called after her. "Wait. What type of wine?"

  She shrugged. "White. Something with a fancy label." Then she was gone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  An hour later I was in the basement locker room, swapping my doorman's uniform for street clothes. As I threw on my jeans and t-shirt, it took every ounce of will power not to share my potential good fortune with the two co-workers changing beside me. It's not that I thought they'd blab, I simply feared I might jinx myself by speaking about it aloud. The thought that a beautiful older woman was, at that very moment, waiting in her suite for me was incredibly exciting. To be clear, I wasn't a virgin, but I wasn't Hugh Hefner either. Despite being fit from biking to work daily, and being often called good looking, I can count the number of my sexual partners on one hand. I was in a relationship with Lisa Wentmyre, the girl I lost my virginity to, from seventeen until two days after my twentieth birthday. I never cheated, and I wish I could say the same about Lisa. Despite forgiving her for hooking up with my best friend at the time, Roy Cooper, she ended up dumping me anyway. Besides breaking my heart a little, all that drama left a bad taste in my mouth. So, for the last year or so, I've been easing my way into the dating game. Sure, I've gotten lucky a couple of times, and the girls were always cute, but none were as sexy as the woman named Reba waiting for me in suite 645. Damn, even her name turned me on.

  I slammed shut my locker and was about to exit when Mr. Taft, the hotel staff manager entered.

  "Grant, don't go anywhere," he said. "Larry called in, so I need you to do an extra shift."

  A pit opened up in my stomach. "I can't. Not tonight."

  "Really? Why not?"

  Mr. Taft was in his fifties, soft around the middle, but still intimidating in stature. He loved the New York Knicks and spearmint chicklets, which he chewed all the time. After asking a question, he had this way of staring at you unblinkingly, as if daring you to bullshit him. For that reason, it was best not to try and usually I wouldn't, but this time I had no choice. Fraternizing with guests is strictly against the rules. Unfortunately, the pressure of the moment resulted in me spewing out a pretty lame excuse.

  "There's an emergency at home," I said.

  "Bullshit," he replied instantly and with such assuredness that arguing seemed pointless. "You know that overtime is mandatory," he went on, "so quit screwing around and get back in uniform."

  "Mr. Taft, please. I really can't tonight. There's gotta be someone else you can ask."

  He jawed his gum as he stared at me. Finally, he turned to the two guys still getting dressed and ordered them out of the locker room. The instant we were alone he said, "Fine. I'll do you a favor this time, but it's going to cost you fifty percent of today's tips."

  "What? You can't do that."

  Amused by my outrage, he smiled. "Listen, Grant. You're a decent kid. You're never late. You don't cause much trouble. But, I can still replace you in a heartbeat. You're a doorman at the fourth priciest hotel in New York City. There are a few thousand guys just like you who'd kill for that job. So you have three choices. Work tonight like I asked, fork over half your tips, or go back to working in the laundry room. What's it gonna be?"

  I made two sixty-five in tips that day, so I counted off one thirty and handed it over. As I walked out, he said with a chuckle, "good luck with that emergency."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After purchasing a bottle of chardonnay from a nearby liquor store, I used the hotel's rear entrance and service elevator to avoid accidentally running into Mr. Taft. No maids or bellmen were working on the sixth floor, so I reached Reba's suite door without any awkward stares from co-workers.

  My heart picked up a little as I knocked. In the gap of time that followed I wondered if it would've been a good idea to go home and change. But after a quick self-inventory, I decided what I had on was good enough. Besides, Reba wouldn't expect me to be decked-out considering I was coming straight from work.

  The lock clicked and the door swung open. Reba stood there, barefoot in a hotel terrycloth robe, smiling. The bulky white covering did little to diminish her curvy figure. Just the thought of her naked beneath that single, loose-fitting garment made my knees weak. Her hair was still wet and I could smell a fruit scented shampoo.

  "Yay, you did it," she said, playfully mimicking a clap. Her amble breast bounced beneath the robe. It took all my will power to keep from staring.

  "No problem at all," I said. "Here you go." I held out the bagged bottle of wine along with her change. The last thing I wanted was for Reba to take the wine, tip me, and send me on my way, but I had to play it cool. I feared that if I came off too anxious she'd be weirded out. So I stood there, my heart throbbing in my throat, waiting for her next move.

  Without ever looking at the bag, Reba smiled at me, then turned and walked back into the suite, leaving the door wide open.

  A FEW MINUTES later we were in the living room sipping wine from water glasses. Reba was seated on the sofa. I sat across from her in an easy chair. She remained in the robe, which I did not mind at all. Behind her I could see into the bedroom, the lamp-lit king-sized bed glowing like the vision of an oasis.

  She asked about my adoptive parents and childhood, which I thought a little odd, but still perfectly acceptable for small talk. Eager to move on to a more titillating topic, I kept the story simple. I told her my parents were Canadian. They adopted me as an infant and we lived in Edmonton. When I was four we moved to Columbus Ohio, where I grew up. When I was eighteen, I moved to New York City to study hospitality and tourism at NYU and never left.

  I was sure she'd ask why I wanted to be in the hotel business. That's what most people ask when I tell them I have a degree in hospitality. But Reba's next question surprised me.

  "Where did they adopt you from?" she asked. "The city or a private agency?"

  No one had ever asked me that before, and since I rarely talked about being adopted, only a few childhood friends knew the answer. "Believe it or not," I said, "I was left outside a fire station, inside a cardboard box
. When the city failed to locate my birth parents, they put me up for adoption."

  "That's so fascinating," Reba said.

  She seemed genuinely intrigued, but I could feel the sexual tension draining from the room by the second. Desperate to change the subject I said, "What about you? Tell me about yourself."

  She smiled and shook her head. "You know my name. That's enough for now. Anyway, you didn't come to my room to listen to me talk, did you?"

  If I wasn't buzzing with horniness, I might have thought her secretiveness odd. But now we were back on track, and I was eager to see where this would go. "No," I said. "Not really."

  "Tell you what. Let's have one more drink then move into the bedroom."

  I just looked at her. Because of the way she sat on the sofa, her upper thighs peeked through the split of her robe.

  She smiled. "That's okay, isn't it?"

  Be cool Mathew, a voice whispered in my head. Be cool and confident. I returned her gaze and slowly said, "How about we just skip the drinks?"

  She shot me a naughty look. "No. I insist. One more drink then we play." With that, she got up, plucked the glass from my hand and padded to a side table to pour more wine.

  With her back to me, I enjoyed the view. She had the ass of a tennis pro, perfectly round and firm. I could already feel those meaty twin mounds in my hands.

  "Here you go." She handed me my refilled glass then raised hers to make a toast. "To finding that special someone."

  The toast seemed too familiar for two people who were strangers only an hour ago, but the anticipation of making love to this beautiful women blinded me completely.

  We clinked glasses then Reba surprised me by immediately draining hers. With a hand gesture, she encouraged me to do the same. I downed the white wine with two gulps. I preferred an ice cold beer to wine, but the chardonnay was good. Smooth, fruity, and with a surprising kick. As I set the empty glass down on the coffee table my head swam a little.

  Reba giggled. "You okay?"

  I nodded and I felt the room wobble.

  Reba giggled again and took my hand. "Come with me," she said.