“That’s off the table. Like I said, I was drunk and stupid.”
His eye twitched.
He continued staring at me, and then he gripped my face between his fingers and dropped his head to kiss me. The kiss was rough and damp and possessive, and I wanted to smile behind it because I did it. My plan to avoid him and fake my regret worked. I won. As our lips parted and he panted raggedly, he said, “You may have been drunk, but I know you meant every word you said.”
“Lola is upstairs,” I told him.
“This house is too big.” He kissed me again, then sucked on my bottom lip, coaxing a moan from me. I could taste the scotch on his breath. He was drunk. “She won’t hear a thing.”
He unbuckled his belt and then unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, lowering them to his ankles. As he pressed a hand to my shoulder, forcing me lower, to my knees, he said, “This stays between us.” His voice was raspy. “If Lola gets suspicious, we take a break.”
Which led me to ask, “Have you ever had an affair before?”
“No. Never.”
I lowered my chin, facing his erection. “Good. Then I’ll be your first,” I said, and then I took him into my mouth.
* * *
We didn’t have sex, but I did give him the best head of his life. He’d said it to me as I let him release down my throat, so no, I wasn’t exaggerating, Marriott.
I couldn’t take the affair too far with him yet. We still had plenty of time to be together later on. Lola was around, and I wasn’t in the mood to risk so much just yet. I still had the gala to think about, an event I was actually looking forward to.
I left Corey in the room I figured out was his man cave as he flipped on a light switch. There were signed jerseys hanging on the wall in expensive-looking frames and a basketball in a glass case, signed by Dwyane Wade.
As the door clicked shut behind me, I walked through the house, smiling like a dazed idiot. But just before I reached the staircase, my fingers wrapping around the cool wrought-iron rail, a voice rose behind me.
“Can’t sleep, Miss Elliot?”
I gasped and twisted around, noticing Georgia standing at the opening of one of the sitting rooms. She had a cup of tea on a saucer in hand and was wearing a silver nightgown.
I narrowed my eyes at her. Was she watching me? Did she see me leave Corey’s man cave?
“I was going for some water but couldn’t figure out where the bottles were.” The lie slipped right off my tongue.
Georgia sipped her tea and then took a step forward. “I can show you where they are.”
I swallowed thickly. “Sure.”
She walked off, toward the kitchen, and I followed her. The kitchen remained dark as she placed her teacup and saucer on the counter to open the fridge.
I stood by the entrance, watching as she opened one of the drawers inside the fridge and took out a water bottle. It was easy to find. A toddler could have found it. She knew I was lying.
She walked my way and placed the bottle in my hand. I tried taking it, but she held on to the end of it a little tighter.
“What are you—”
“Careful in this house, Miss Elliot,” she said in a hushed tone. “The last thing you want is to get caught between the Maxwells.”
“Is that supposed to be a threat?” I asked, looking her in the eye.
Georgia said nothing. Her face remained expressionless. I couldn’t read it.
Who did this bitch think she was? So what if she saw me leaving Corey’s man cave? What could she do? What could she say?
“Look,” I said, keeping my voice solid. “You and I both know that if this home so much as crumbles, you’ll be out of a job. Lola won’t stay if she’s pissed at Corey. She’ll leave, because this home is under Corey’s name. Corey is hardly here as it is, so I’m sure he wouldn’t need you, and I’m sure the last thing you want is to lose a job that pays you well, so how about you mind your own business and stay out of mine?”
It was harsh. Cruel.
I didn’t care. I didn’t need this woman fucking up my plans. My future.
Her expression didn’t change. Honestly, it was strange that she didn’t at least react or seem surprised by my statement.
Instead, she released the water bottle and lifted her chin, still holding my eyes. “Have a wonderful night, Miss Elliot,” Georgia murmured, walking past me.
I looked over my shoulder and watched her leave the kitchen without turning back, and as she rounded the corner and disappeared, my heartbeat settled.
It was fine. No, really. It would be.
I was going to tell Corey that Georgia saw me leaving his man cave, and that he’d need to tell Georgia to keep quiet if she wanted to keep her job. She would.
Georgia lived here. She’d be out of money, a home, and a purpose if she mentioned this to Lola. She wasn’t going to jeopardize everything she had over a measly affair that had nothing to do with her.
It would have been foolish, and I didn’t take her as a foolish woman.
PART TWO
START OF THE RUIN
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
GEORGIA
Well, hello there, Ivy. Ivy Elliot, is it?
Interesting. I always thought your name was Ivy Hill.
I’ve been looking forward to writing these words to you. Not that you’ll ever get to read them—I can’t take a risk like that—but pretending to write to you as I deal with what I’ve done does seem like it will work. I read something about it online once—how to cope with high levels of remorse and guilt—and it said to write letters to the person you feel guilty about, even if the person never receives the letters.
Well, here we are. Here I am.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I know that after everything, you probably hate me, and you most likely assume that I hate you too. In all honesty, I don’t hate you. I don’t even come close to hating you.
I know what hate is. Hate is an emotion you carry in your heart. It’s a burning, gnawing sensation that burns in your veins, one that you can’t escape or get rid of. Hate is an emotion you wish you could release because it has so much control and power over you, but that’s not how hate works, is it? Hate is loyal. It’s there to stay.
Speaking of loyalty, I’m sure you know I’ve been loyal to Lola Maxwell for quite some time now. I started working for the Maxwells when I was twenty-six years old. I’m forty-one now as I write this, but I’d dedicated about a decade and a half of my life to the Maxwells. Fourteen years. That’s a lot of time to really get to know someone, don’t you agree?
I remember the day I applied for the job like it was yesterday. My second cousin on my father’s side of the family forwarded me an email about the position. She worked with an employment agency and always had access to the elite jobs that would fill fast.
In her email she’d mentioned that the pay was great and that I’d get to live in the home if given the job, but that I had to fill out the application quickly because many people were applying and submissions would close in two days.
The job was for Lola Maxwell. The Lola Maxwell. Everyone was running to apply.
There was a lot of responsibility with the job, but I could handle it. I’d grown up being responsible for people. My grandmother was one of them. She’d become sick in her fifties, diagnosed with ALS, and I lived with her until I was twenty, so I felt it was my responsibility to look after her. I took care of her, changed her wet diapers, and fed her when she lost control of her hands.
And don’t even get me started on my mother, who always came home smelling like weed, her hair a mess and her attitude on ten. She wasn’t a very kind woman, but I loved her, and when she was down, sick, or had had a little too much to drink, I took care of her . . . that is until I no longer had to. She died when I was twenty-three.
I was good at being responsible. Apparently, the Maxwells were looking for someone young and sharp—someone who could remember small details and handle all their orders for their new home. Househol
d manager. That was the position.
Do you know what a household manager does, Ivy? A household manager is one level down from an estate manager, but the Maxwells didn’t feel the need to have an estate manager when they had a household one who could cover the tasks. A household manager manages the rest of the staff, handles employer needs, is able to think the way the employer thinks, plans the events in the home, minds the security, orders and replaces luxury items that might break, and so much more.
There is always something hands-on to do for the home, or the employer. It was a job one had to be dedicated to, you see, so it was understandable that the Maxwells didn’t want someone with thin skin or with too many family members and friends. They needed a champion, someone accessible at all times, someone willing to dedicate years of their life to make them comfortable and satisfied at home. I knew I could be that woman for them.
Other than my cousin, who I’d asked to forward me job listings she thought would fit me, I had no one.
So, I filled out the application, and to my surprise, I was sent an email a week later with a number, an address, and a confirmation that I had an interview at the new Maxwell estate.
I was ecstatic! I mean, this was Lola Maxwell we were talking about. I’d heard so many great things about that marvelous woman. She was the richest woman of color to live in Florida—other than Oprah of course—and admired by many.
Lola Maxwell had opened up several clothing stores all over Florida called Lolita’s and sold clothes only people in her high-profile class could afford. Basically, her stores sold clothes for millionaire women or the wives of millionaires.
She’d gotten a loan from her husband, Corey Maxwell, the year they got married, and invested it in her first store. From there on, things took off for her, getting to the point where she began to make more money than he did, which said a lot, because Corey was very wealthy.
The couple had just gotten married and her stores were thriving, so they bought a multimillion-dollar home off Biscayne Bay to live happily ever after in.
I remember driving to the home for the interview, in awe of the place. They had it all, and I felt a slight twinge of envy as I parked in front of the house. It was amazing, and I wished I could have my own home just like it.
Seeing as I was sharing an apartment with a friend at the moment, I needed this job. Oh how wonderful it would be to live in a mansion, even if I did work there every day. It was a great perk to have.
Someone would ask me, So, what do you do for a living?
Oh I live in Lola Maxwell’s mansion. No big deal!
I collected my résumé and purse from the passenger seat and climbed out of the car, smoothing down my black pencil skirt and adjusting the blouse I’d borrowed from my roommate’s closet. She was going to curse me out when she realized I’d taken it without her permission, but right now I didn’t care. If I got this job, I wouldn’t have to worry about my roommate’s tantrums.
I knocked on the door, nervous as hell but giddy, and a woman answered. I knew exactly who she was. Lola Michelle Maxwell. Prior to getting married, she was Lola Reyes. A half Black, half Puerto Rican woman who was even more stunning in person.
The many photos of her online hadn’t done her justice. Her beauty was almost intimidating, and suddenly I felt like my blouse was too tight, my skirt too snug. I instantly regretted the greasy, fast-food burger I’d eaten the night before as I studied her in her slim, plum maxidress. Her body was everything mine wasn’t. While I was frumpy and had stress acne, she was thin and had glowing, clear skin. Granted, she probably paid for her skin and body to be so great, but it didn’t matter. She looked ten times better than I did on any given day.
“You must be Georgia,” Lola said, showing off her perfect white teeth. “Come on in. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Obviously I nailed the interview. How else would I have gotten the job? I had to get personal to secure it, but it worked in my favor. The thing about Lola was, she loved a good sob story. It was almost like she fed off the sad parts of other people’s lives.
“I’m sold,” Lola said to me with a smile as we sat in her lavish sunroom. “I’ve interviewed quite a few people and though some of them were qualified, I didn’t like how arrogant they were. Some of them have worked for lots of famous people, but there was nothing personable about them. But you . . . I like you,” she said. “There’s something vulnerable about you, and I could use that around here. The job is yours.”
Never had I been so excited to be hired. This wasn’t going to be an ordinary job. This would take me to the next level. Lola insisted that to keep the household running strong, I needed to live with her, and I was pleased to hear that. She gave me a tour of her immaculate mansion, even showed me a room on the second floor that would be mine. The room was in its own wing, had lots of privacy, and I shouldn’t forget to mention it was enormous. The bathroom was luxurious, all marble and clean porcelain and sparkling glass. It was more than enough. It was perfect and would definitely beat sleeping in the cramped-up room I was currently in any day.
Lola wanted me to start the following week. I signed a ten-year contract to become her household manager, which meant I’d take care of everything in the mansion.
If Lola needed a particular dinner, I’d inform the chefs. If the grass needed to be cut, I’d call the mowers. If the pool needed cleaning, I’d contact the pool cleaning company.
It seemed simple enough . . . but even I should have known that every good thing came with a price.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
For the first four months living with Lola was wonderful. Her husband was a nice man and didn’t ask for much other than a scotch on the rocks after a rough day.
Lola was the one who was a bit of a handful, but I had gotten used to her ways. I took pride in being the household manager for Lola, and nothing could stop that pride.
I loved cleaning, so picking up after them wasn’t a problem. There was no need for her to have a maid or butler around every day when I was there. The maids only came twice a week to man the bedrooms and bathrooms, dust in the higher places, and so on.
I made sure to always be at the top of my game because I knew I could easily be replaced by some other woman, so if Lola told me to jump, I asked her how high. If she needed me to fetch a certain treat for her raging sweet tooth, I ran off to do it in the car she provided.
Lola despised my car. It was a green 1999 Volkswagen Beetle with brakes that squealed like a baby pig. She’d told me to get rid of it the first week I was hired and said that if I was to work for her, I needed to look like it. She allowed me to drive her SUV to run errands for her and the home, and I sold my car.
My life revolved around Lola Maxwell, and you know what? I enjoyed it. I loved being needed. Being called upon when Lola wanted to talk or rant about a long day.
We’d spend many nights chatting about her goals and dreams. She’d have a glass of wine here and there, but never too much at first.
Lola also surprised me with early nights off, or even nights out quite often.
I’ll never forget the night she took me to a lounge in downtown Miami. It was an open mic night, so we listened to people sing or read poetry over drums or jazz music and sipped fruity cocktails in a VIP section.
That was a night that changed my life forever.
“So tell me, Georgia. Why don’t you have a man?” Lola had asked me over the music that night. She’d had two drinks at this point, and I was still babysitting my first. I’m not much of a drinker.
Her question caught me off guard and I blushed and bowed my head.
She let out an excited laugh. “Oh, come on! Don’t be shy! You can tell me anything!”
“Well,” I said, placing my drink on the table in front of me. “I work for you, so I’m busy with that. I also live at the mansion, so I can’t exactly bring anyone there to hang out or anything.”
“Well, maybe you could hook up with a guy and go to his place or
something,” Lola suggested with a playful shrug. She looked great that night, clad in a gold dress that stopped just above her knees and heels to match. Gold eye shadow on her eyelids and plum lipstick. I couldn’t help feeling like she was trying to escape something that night, though. Or someone.
I shrugged and laughed. “I could . . . but I’m not really looking for love right now.”
“Well, just so you know, there’s a guy at the bar who keeps staring at you.” Lola smirked and looked past me to the bar. I looked with her and, sure enough, there was a guy standing there with a beer in hand, looking right at me. He sipped from his beer bottle and then smirked, and my heart pounded faster as I snatched my eyes away.
“Oh my gosh,” I gasped. “Wait . . . how do you know he’s not looking at you?”
“Trust me, he’s not looking at me. He’s ogling the hell out of you, Georgia. Don’t underestimate yourself. You’re gorgeous and he sees that.”
Her words made me light up like a million watts. I’d never had anyone tell me I was gorgeous. I mean, I knew I wasn’t hideous, but I was a plain Jane, you know? I didn’t get recognized often for my looks, though I had to admit, as Lola and I got ready at the mansion and she did my makeup in her master bathroom, I felt prettier. My grandmother always used to tell me my brains would be my moneymaker.
It’d been a while since I’d worn makeup. Lola had a small policy about it at the mansion. I couldn’t go crazy with my makeup while working for her and needed to appear professional while on duty. Luckily for me, I didn’t care for makeup all that much. I wore mascara here and there, but nothing over the top.
“I’m going to tell him to come over,” Lola said, shooting to a stand.
I gasped. “Oh no! Lola, I can’t talk to that guy.”
“Why not?” she asked, smiling her perfect smile.
“Because it’s . . . it’s been so long since I’ve talked to a guy. I can’t even remember how to flirt if we’re being honest.”
Lola gave me a once-over, and when she realized I was serious, she huffed a breath and sat next to me. “Okay. Here’s the thing about guys at clubs. Flirting isn’t that hard with them. They’re here looking for someone to go home with, so they can’t be choosy. He’s already been drinking and he’s eyeing you. Just have a little conversation and see where it leads.”
The Perfect Ruin Page 17