Beastly Lights

by Theresa Jane

  “How high?”

  “Mason, stop,” I warned, wary of the dangerous glint in Liam’s eye.

  “Stay out of this, Frey,” Mason muttered, eyeing Liam challeng(ingly through his drunken haze.

  “Why? She is relevant to the game,” Liam smirked, eyeing me up and down as I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

  “What’s the bet, Henderson?” Mason demanded, his patience wearing thin.

  “Well, I’m in need of a new maid, and it seems your sister here could use a job,” he explained casually, and I felt my eyes go wide in horror. He wouldn’t.

  “No,” Mason almost yelled, getting to his feet, and I felt relief wash over me.

  “You afraid you aren’t going to win, Mason? I’m not sure I can trust my life to a man who isn’t ready to take a gamble now and then,” and suddenly I realized how the two were connected. Liam was my brother’s new ‘high-profile’ client. He had been bragging about his new client for weeks, always saying he needed to keep his identity a secret, even from me. Well, now I knew, and I was less than thrilled.

  “She’s my sister,” Mason growled, and I knew his resolve was slipping. My brother had never backed down from a challenge. Not since the two of us walked out on my father two years ago after our mother died.

  “Then you’ll be even more determined to win, won’t you,” Liam taunted, and I knew my brother was going to give in.

  “Mason, please don’t do this.”

  “Stay out of this, Frey,” he ordered coldly, and I fell back at the harshness of his words, reminiscent of how my father said my name. I tried to quell the memories that came, but they were relentless. The only thing that held them at bay was his voice.

  “So, what’s it going to be, Mason?” Liam challenged, and my eyes darted back to his, only to find his gold ones looking back at me, a curious look hiding inside of them.

  “Fine, but if you touch my sister or hurt her in any way, I will come after you, Henderson. But it’s not going to come down to that,” Mason said. I felt sick. My own brother was using me as a bargaining chip in a poker match with one of the most famous men on the planet.

  “Let’s play then, Coleman.” Immediately, my stomach twisted in anticipation. If my brother lost, I was going to be the maid to the most famous rock star in the world. I would be bound to him as more than an employee, but the winnings of a bet, one my brother had made. That was something I most definitely did not want to be.

  As the cards played out, I felt myself unknowingly biting my bottom lip, terrified of the outcome. I did not want to be the maid to one of the world’s most well-known playboys. I didn’t even like the guy; I didn’t want to clean up his messes.

  Suddenly, when the final cards were laid out, my fate was sealed, and it wasn’t the one I had been hoping for.

  “See you on Monday, Freya. The maid’s outfit I have for you will go perfectly with your fiery red hair.”

  Chapter 3: The Day After the Night Before

  “Mason Coleman, you open the door this instant or I’m going to break it down,” I shouted, pounding on the door again. I would have picked the lock like last night, but my brother had put the chain on. Unfortunately, I was no match for a chain.

  “Mason,” I yelled again, relentless in my attempts to get my brother to open the door. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have stormed out last night after my brother had lost the bet, but I couldn’t stay in that room a moment longer. The rock star’s face was infuriatingly smug. If I had stayed in there, I would have needed my brother to get me off assault charges or worse.

  “Mason.”

  “Shut up; it’s six in the morning,” one of his neighbors shouted at me through their door. “On a Sunday,” they punctuated, and I was about ready to start pounding on all of their doors when Mason finally opened his door. It swung open a crack, revealing a rumpled and very hung over person who I was sure once resembled my high-powered lawyer brother.

  “Freya?” he croaked, rubbing away the sleep in his eyes. I was surprised he even found his way out from under the covers of his bed, let alone all the way to the door of his apartment.

  “Mason,” I growled, pushing past him a little too roughly so he slammed into the doorframe. I had no regrets. My anger since last night had not mellowed. I had made three canvases and four sketches filled with a rage I couldn’t seem to shake. My entire dump of an apartment was covered in red and black paint, and I had whittled the last of my charcoal down to stubs. My fingers were black, and my hair was stained with black and red paint. I wouldn’t be surprised if my once-green eyes were now just spirals of red rage.

  “What are you doing here?” he muttered, following me into his living room where the crime scene from last night was still set.

  “I pray for your sake that you did not just ask me that question.”

  “Frey, I’m too tired for these games. It’s very early, and I am very hung over,” he moaned, flopping down on his brown leather couch that looked like something out of a Freudian skit. Sometimes people questioned my sense of style, but when I had a brother with tastes like mine, there was no competition.

  “Mason, if I have to remind you of what happened last night, we may need to call the police now because there may not be any of you left when they do arrive,” I retorted menacingly.

  “What do you mean last night?” he asked tiredly, his arm draped lazily across his eyes, trying to keep the early morning New York sun out. “I was here last night with some clients.”

  “Oh, I know,” I deadpanned, glaring at my older brother with all the ferocity I could muster on zero hours of sleep.

  “No,” he gasped as realization finally started to light in his alcohol-impeded mind. “You…you weren’t here last night…were you?”

  I simply glared at him in response, not even in control of my anger enough to dignify his question with an answer.

  “No,” he groaned again, pushing to his feet and walking over to where he was sitting last night at the poker table. As if he was trying to recapture the glorious moment. “I didn’t do this. I couldn’t have done this,” he muttered in disbelief as the events from the night before appeared to run through his mind in an action replay. He continued to mutter incoherently as I glared at his back, unimpressed by his sudden realization.

  “Freya,” he said desperately, turning around and grasping both of my arms tightly, his bloodshot eyes looking deeply into my own. “I am so sorry; I had no idea what I was doing. I was so drunk.”

  “Fix this, Mason,” I growled, ripping my arms free from his grasp.

  “Of course,” he said before a lost look came over his face.

  “What?” I asked impatiently.

  “You wouldn’t know who I gambled you away to, would you?” he asked sheepishly, and I felt my vision cloud over with a scathing scarlet.

  “Mason!” I screeched, flinging my arms wildly.

  “Freya, it was a rough night for me,” he sighed, running his hand down his face.

  “It was a rough night for you?” I asked incredulously, taking a threatening step toward him.

  “Frey, I’m sorry, but I really need this client.”

  “So much so that you would sell your soul?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” he patronized, sitting down at his seat from last night and resting his head in his hands.

  “You gambled your own sister away to a sex-crazed rock star,” I hissed.

  “I made a bet with…”

  “Liam Henderson,” I glared, leaning down so his face was inches from mine.

  “No,” he breathed, his eyes wide behind his hand.

  “Yes, Mason, right at this very table.”

  “Freya, no,” he said again, worry filling his tone as he turned to look at me.

  “You need to fix this, Mason. I do not want to work for that…that monster.” I spat, stepping back from my brother in disgust.

  “No Freya, you don’t understand,” he continue
d, getting to his feet and looking down at me with his dark, bloodshot eyes. “I can’t fix this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t try and back down from this bet, he’s Liam Henderson,” he emphasized before pushing his hands through his pale hair in frustration.

  Looking at the two of us on the street, it would be hard to tell we were related; we appeared to contrast each other in every way. Mason was always more like our father while I got my looks and small stature from our mother. Thankfully, all Mason got from our father was his looks because none of my father’s personality should be replicated. Although, at times, I could see it fighting through in my brother, no matter how hard he fought to keep it buried.

  “What do you mean you can’t back down? I’m your sister, Mason, aren’t you supposed to protect me?” I asked desperately.

  “Of course, Freya, but he’s the highest paying client I’ve ever brought into the firm. If I renege on this bet, he might not stay with us. I might get fired.”

  “So this is all about money?” I breathed incredulously as my brother started to unravel.

  “No-yes, Freya. Not all of us can live like you do.” He sighed.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You have no stable job. Most months you barely have enough money to feed yourself. One of us needs to be responsible.”

  “Responsible?” I laughed darkly. “You want to talk about responsible? I walked in here last night to find my brother gambling and drinking with the infamous party boy of not only New York, but the world, and you want to lecture me about responsible?”

  “Freya, that was business.”

  “No, Mason, that was you being you. When are you going to admit that Dad affected you too? When are you going to admit you have a problem?”

  “I don’t have a problem,” he shouted, reaching out and grabbing my shoulder harshly, his fingers biting into my skin. Immediately, my eyes went wide and my vision narrowed. Memories filled the shadows where reality began to slip, the world dulled around the edges. My entire body flinched from where he held me, and a familiar voice filled my mind.

  “Freya,” Mason's voice quickly snapped the world into focus again, and I blinked my eyes a few times until they settled on the wary expression on my brother’s face.

  “Don’t,” I whispered, shaking his hand from my shoulder and taking a few shaky steps away from him.

  “Freya, wait,” he pleaded, but I ignored him and turned for the hallway. “Freya, don’t go.”

  “Leave me alone, Mase,” I muttered, almost running down the hallway. “You’ve already done enough.”

  “Freya, I’m sorry, please,” he begged.

  “Don’t worry Mase, I’ll be there on Monday. Your job will be safe,” I replied, turning back as I pushed his front door open to see my brother’s forlorn frame filling his empty hallway. All he did was watch me, and his silence was louder than anything he could have said.

  * * *

  Out on the street, I felt the cool fall air push back the ratty, paint-streaked hair from my face, and I breathed in the tainted New York air as if it were my first true breath. People brushed past me slowly on their early Sunday walks through the orange leaf fall. Their carefree smiles and jovial laughter filled the air, mocking me. How could this be happening?

  I guess it didn’t matter now because as of tomorrow, I would be the maid for a man I had met for all of three minutes. A man who filled the tabloids with his wild behavior and topped the charts with his loud and obnoxious music that had women throwing themselves at him from all over the world. I had never wondered what it would be like to live in a world like his and I never wanted to, but now I had no choice.

  Chapter 4: Here to Collect

  I woke the next day to the sound of my neighbors upstairs screeching at each other again. I never had a need for an alarm clock with those two supposed lovebirds on the floor above me. Ten solid minutes of fighting, and then the door slammed as my final alarm to greet the day.

  Groaning and rubbing at my tired eyes, I pushed up from my lumpy bed, looking around my paint-splattered apartment. There was hardly any surface that wasn’t covered in paint, even me.

  The entire place consisted of one single room. A curtain dividing the bathroom was the only separation. The kitchen was a sink, a stove, and a bench. I didn’t need a fridge anyway; I couldn’t afford the food to fill it.

  The rest of the cramped space was filled with my narrow bed and my precious easel and sketching materials. I wouldn’t be what you called neat; I hadn’t seen the floor of the apartment since I moved in here.

  I moved in a year after Mase and I ran to New York. We were less than compatible roommates for various reasons, one of them being my inability to keep my paint on the canvas. Mase had always been a color inside the lines kind of guy, whereas I was more of a fill every space imaginable with as much color as you could find.

  Yawning, I stretched up and pushed aside the huge woolen jumper I had been using as a makeshift curtain, flooding the space with dusty light.

  “Monday,” I grumbled, slumping back in my nest of sheets and blankets, refusing to acknowledge what I needed to do today. Maybe if I ignored it long enough, the problem would eventually disappear.

  Sighing heavily, I pushed off from my cozy bed and padded across my kitchen to my only other prized possession, my coffee machine. It didn’t make great coffee; it didn’t even make good coffee. It did mean I didn’t need to go to my local coffee shop and dig around the lint in my tattered bag for half an hour and still come up shortchanged.

  I stole the coffee from Mason anyway.

  I had bought the machine secondhand from a yard sale when I first moved here, and the duct tape on it then gave you the sense it had been well loved. Now there was more duct tape than machine, but it was mine.

  Holding my coffee close, I shuffled back to my bed, only to stop after my second step. Staring at the note poking through the slit under my door, I stooped down and picked it up, holding it cautiously as if it might explode at any moment. Gingerly, I turned the white paper over and found my name messily scrawled in intimidating black ink.

  Distractedly, I put my coffee cup down beside my bed before getting back in, the letter clutched tightly in my hand. There wasn’t anything extraordinary about the paper nor the writing on it but when I opened it up, I immediately felt my blood begin to boil.

  I’m here to collect, Frey. Go to this address at nine and your brother might just keep his job.

  Glancing up at the loudly ticking clock in my apartment, I saw it was already eleven, and I couldn’t help but smile. Despite all the hate I had for the note he had left me, one that anyone else may have mistaken for a ransom note, I was happy to have this one act of rebellion. Begrudgingly, I got to my feet and started to get dressed. Apparently, I had somewhere to be two hours ago.

  * * *

  Standing before the address he had left, I still couldn’t believe my brother had done this to me. All I wanted was to steal twenty dollars from his wallet, and instead I got an unwanted job for the world’s most beloved rock star, self-proclaimed ladies’ man, and known party boy. How could this get any worse?

  Sighing and finally moving from my spot outside his glamorous apartment complex, I moved into the lobby, ignoring all the glares I was getting from the people who were moving quickly on the sidewalk to get to their real jobs. Ones their brothers hadn’t traded them for. I was struggling to find a bright side in this situation.

  When I finally took my first step into the lobby, I felt the overwhelming sense to run. I didn’t want to be here. Maybe he wouldn’t even remember. He was really drunk that night. Although he had sent me that note, I thought. Wait, how did he get my address?

  “Miss?” someone said beside me, interrupting my thoughts and causing me to almost jump out of my skin in alarm.

  “Sorry,” I gasped, turning to face the man. “You scared me.”

 
“Sorry miss,” he apologized. “Are you here to see someone?”

  “Umm…” In my head, I was screaming no, very loudly. Unfortunately, my mouth wasn’t listening. “I’m here to see Mr. Henderson, umm… Liam? Liam Henderson,” I stuttered, not really sure what to call him.

  “You’re the new maid?” he asked, a little bored now.

  “Yes,” I sighed, looking down at my feet. Apparently, everyone knew I was coming.

  “Mr. Henderson is expecting you,” he continued. “He’s on the top floor.”

  “Of course he is,” I muttered, picking up my tattered bag; I had unknowingly dropped it when the man had approached me. I shuffled over to the elevator. I looked back at the disinterested doorman, and I gave him a weak smile. He just ignored me and went back to his post behind the extravagant front desk.

  He must be rich; my apartment building barely had a front door, let alone someone to man it.

  As I waited for the dreaded elevator, I finally took in the space around me and realized I was very out of place in my paint-splattered jeans and old band tee. I had stolen it from Mason's junk pile when he was cleaning out his wardrobe last month.

  The lobby did not look like the place for someone like me. I wouldn’t be able to afford the flowers on the marble side tables. And the plush red chairs they sat beside looked too fancy to sit on or even look at.

  Thankfully, the elevator arrived before I was completely overpowered by the opulence of the lobby, and I quickly stepped inside. Just before the doors closed, I saw the huge chandelier and shut my eyes against it all. I wasn’t sure how much more of this I could take, and I wasn’t even at his apartment yet.

  “Do you know what floor you are going to?” My eyes snapped open at the stranger’s voice, and I was surprised to find a man looking down at me with an amused smile.

  “Umm…the top?” I shrugged, and I watched as a confused and then a mildly disgusted look passed across his face.

  “I see,” he answered cryptically, pursing his lips and pushing the button for the top floor.

  “Excuse me,” I asked as my brow bunched together in confusion. “But what do you see?”