A Bona Fide Gold Digger

by Allison Hobbs

  There wasn’t a trace of illness in his tone, Milan noted again. And that twinkle in his eye—was he flirting? She gave him a closer look. He winked! He actually winked at her. How disgusting. She shot Elise an accusing look, which Elise, blinking innocently, chose to ignore.

  Elise turned her blinking eyes to Mr. Brockington. “I thought you’d like Milan,” she said proudly.

  Milan looked at Elise in bewilderment. She’d thought being a companion to a doddering old man would be a breeze, but Mr. Brockington was not senile and appeared to be in complete control of his mental faculties.

  While he was by no means a young man, he wasn’t as decrepit as Elise had insinuated. He was wizened and gaunt by ill health, but Milan couldn’t consider him elderly. Sure, he looked old enough to be her father, which was old as hell from Milan’s perspective. But he wasn’t the grandfatherly type she’d expected.

  He spoke in an articulate and formal manner. There was a hint of a British accent, which she found curious. He was probably one of those black people who used a fake accent to give the impression of being worldly, as if he’d lived abroad for most of his life. His crisp and direct manner of speech gave Milan the distinct impression that her employer was accustomed to giving orders and would most likely be difficult.

  And hanging in the air was the ominous hint that Mr. Brockington was not only hard to please, but was also lecherous. She wondered what the hell Elise had gotten her entangled in. Was this some sort of practical joke?

  “You look perplexed, my dear,” Mr. Brockington said. “Despite the sparkle that’s no doubt in my eyes after seeing you, I’m extremely ill.” He coughed, cleared his throat, and continued. “My time on this earth, I’m afraid, is coming to an end.” He gave a regretful sigh. “Six short months—that’s all I have left. But I’ve accepted that fact,” he continued, nodding solemnly as he spoke.

  Milan nodded in return and offered as sympathetic a look as she could manage.

  “However, as my last day draws closer,” he said, “I find that I’m not as brave as I’d hoped to be. You see, I’m without family and I now realize that I’m afraid to die alone. I’d like someone by my side when I take my last breath. And I don’t mind paying for peace of mind,” he added in an upbeat tone, as if discussing pleasant weather conditions instead of his imminent demise.

  “Elise, did you discuss Milan’s duties and responsibilities?” he inquired drowsily.

  Milan felt a sudden dread at the sound of the words duties and responsibilities, but was greatly relieved when Mr. Brockington closed his eyes and slumped into the mountain of pillows.

  “Yeah, I told her about the job.” Elise seemed perpetually defensive. Her words, spoken in a boisterous tone, echoed inside the spacious bedroom.

  Milan sensed that Elise hadn’t told her everything about the position. She had a sneaking suspicion that she would be expected to do more than just read boring books and play music. Feeling vaguely troubled, she wondered what other irritating tasks she’d be required to perform.

  Mr. Brockington was silent. The sedative the nurse had administered was obviously starting to have the desired effect on the eccentric older man.

  Suddenly, his eyes popped open, startling Milan. “Did you speak to her about the soothing?” he asked Elise.

  “I didn’t get a chance to bring it up,” Elise snapped.

  “Well, don’t dawdle. It’s time for my soothing,” he said, agitated.

  Soothing! The word suggested something calm and gentle, but there was something unsettling in the way he said it. The word soothing held a creepy ring when spoken from the lips of a sick and cranky man.

  Under her breath, Milan cursed Elise. She cursed Sweetie for getting her involved in this lunacy. She cursed the board members and she cursed her insufferable new charge, Noah Brockington, for causing her to feel so uneasy. She shuddered at the thought of whatever the hell this so-called soothing entailed. What did the old boy want her to do? Bring him a glass of warm milk and cookies every night at bedtime? Sing him a freakin’ lullaby?

  “I forgot to mention that Mr. Brockington likes to be rubbed down right before he goes to sleep,” Elise explained in an uncharacteristically soft voice.

  Milan shot a glance at Mr. Brockington’s bony shoulders and grimaced. Eeew! I’m not touching him.

  “It doesn’t take very long to soothe him,” Elise said. Her voice carried an apologetic tone. “A couple of strokes and he’s a goner. Sleeps like a baby,” she chuckled, her expression sheepish.

  “What are you talking about? Giving a massage sounds like a nursing duty. I’m not qualified to—”

  “Get another companion, Elise,” Noah Brockington barked. “Show Milan to the door and hurry back upstairs. I need my soothing!”

  “I’m so sorry, Milan. You’re gonna have to leave.” Elise put an arm around Milan’s shoulder and steered her toward the doorway. “I’ll be right back, Mr. Brockington,” she told the ailing man.

  “I don’t understand,” Milan said, looking over her shoulder at Mr. Brockington for clarity. He abruptly closed his eyes, refusing to look at her. He sank down into the pillows with his eyes shut tight and his bottom lip poked out.

  Elise escorted Milan out of the room. She apologized profusely as they descended the stairs.

  “I don’t get it. What just happened?” Milan asked.

  “Mr. Brockington’s such a weirdo. You’re probably better off. Look, it didn’t work out, so don’t even worry about it.”

  “You don’t understand, Elise. I have to worry about it. I thought this job was a sure thing. I don’t have anywhere to go.” Milan was frantic. “Please tell me what’s going on. Whatever Mr. Brockington wants me to do, I’ll do it. Now, what’s the deal with this soothing thing? What’s he want—a back rub or something?” Milan tried to sound calm but she was quite distraught. Using her precious hands to soothe anyone other than herself went completely against her grain. But she was desperate. She needed this plush hiding place, she needed the extra money, and dammit, she’d just have to get over herself and give the sickly old fart a freakin’ rubdown.

  Elise motioned Milan toward a rose-colored antique sofa. Feeling as if she were about to sit upon a delicate museum piece, Milan lowered herself gingerly. Elise, however, flopped down on the dainty sofa and quickly explained the manner in which she soothed Noah Brockington.

  chapter nine

  When Elise finished giving the disturbing details, Milan could only stare into space with her mouth hanging open. She didn’t shut her mouth until Elise passed her a wad of money so thick, Milan couldn’t close her hand completely around it. “That’s your cash bonus for coming on board as Mr. Brockington’s companion,” Elise said pleasantly.

  “How much?” she asked tonelessly, playing it cool—pretending that the feel of the money didn’t give her an adrenaline rush.

  “Three thousand. Count it, if you don’t believe me.”

  Milan’s hand tingled. The delightful feel and smell of paper currency reminded her of how she loved everything about money. That was another trait her mother attributed to her infamous sperm donor father.

  “Mr. Brockington’s gonna pay you two hundred and fifty dollars a week.”

  Milan almost choked. “Two hundred and fifty dollars! To live here full time?” Milan asked, astonished.

  “Well, there’s room and board included and use of the facilities.”

  “I understand, and I appreciate having access to the amenities, but two hundred and fifty dollars hardly seems fair for…”

  “Listen, Milan,” Elise said patiently. “Mr. Brockington is very generous. Like I said, he’s lonely…and he loves to play harmless little games.”

  Milan raised her brow. “Games?”

  “Sex games,” Elise said, nonchalantly. “Nothing major. Besides, you’ll get a surprise bonus every couple of weeks.”

  “Elise, what kind of sex games?” Milan asked in a strident tone. “I can’t rely on surprise bonuses; I need
to know what other freaky pleasures this pervert has in mind and I need to know exactly how much he’s going to pay me. I’m in a hell of a financial jam, you know.”

  Elise nodded.

  “I have a twenty-seven-thousand-dollar debt to pay and Mr. Brockington could keel over and die before I can save enough money.”

  “Just play his little games and you’ll have that money in no time, Milan.”

  Milan curled her lips doubtfully.

  “Do you think I’d get you involved in something like this if I didn’t know it was a sure thing? I know the tight spot you’re in right now; that’s why I’m trying to help you. Like I told you, I’ve only been working for him for a few months, why do you think I’m leaving?”

  “Because you’re tired of him and that revolting soothing thing you do for him. God only knows what other sick games he’s into.”

  “The games aren’t that bad, all you have to…”

  “Don’t even tell me,” Milan interrupted, holding up her hand. “I’ve heard enough for one day.”

  “I know it sounds weird. And I agree, he’s one strange bird, but I would stay here and stick it out if I wasn’t already set for life.”

  “Set for life? Are you serious?”

  “Do I look like a fool? As long as I don’t try to live above my means, I have enough money to live off for the rest of my life. I don’t have to worry about holding down nobody’s job ever again.” Elise gave a satisfied smile. “Mr. Brockington is a very generous man, Milan. And if you soothe him the way he likes it, you can become a very wealthy young woman. Not everybody’s cut out for this type of work, but you can do it.”

  Milan frowned at Elise. “But, it’s so nasty…and perverted. It seems like prostitution.”

  Elise sucked her teeth. “So what? What isn’t prostitution? One way or another, everything you do for money is prostitution. It seems to me, you were prostituting yourself over at the spa place.”

  “I was not,” Milan protested. “That was legitimate employment. I had a prestigious position, I might add. I had the respect of my colleagues and there was nothing shameful about my work.”

  “Whatever,” Elise said, rising. “Mr. Brockington is getting antsy. Come on upstairs and I’ll show you how to soothe him.”

  The combined fragrances of lavender and chamomile were purported to have a calming effect, but when Elise uncapped the bottle of massage oil, the scent made Milan want to puke. The floral scent along with the knowledge of the intended purpose of the essential oils caused Milan to cover her mouth to keep from heaving.

  When Elise pulled down Mr. Brockington’s pajama bottom, Milan reflexively closed her eyes. Elise cleared her throat, indicating that Milan should pay attention. Reluctantly, Milan opened her eyes as Elise gently turned Mr. Brockington over. He lay on his stomach, his bare ass exposed. With his face buried in the pillows, his discontented grunting was muted and in an effort to hurry Elise along, he impatiently wiggled his backside.

  Elise quickly squeezed a generous amount of the potion into her palm and smoothed the aromatic concoction onto his deeply wrinkled behind.

  Eeew. Eeew. Eeew. Milan recoiled at the repugnant sight. Barely able to contain her revulsion, her hand instinctively covered her mouth. Three thousand dollars wasn’t nearly enough. She needed an additional bonus just to endure this display of depravity.

  Then it occurred to her, the voyeuristic aspect of this dirty deed should be the least of her concerns. Elise turned to her, holding the massage oil. Shaking, Milan had to conjure an image of the money inside her purse to keep herself from fleeing the bedroom. Breathing deeply, she dutifully extended her arm and then bravely opened her tightly closed damp fist.

  She wiped her sweaty palm on her pant leg. Unable to hide the grimace on her face, she unenthusiastically cupped her hand. Elise squeezed a few oily drops. Mr. Brockington lay prone as he waited for the soothing.

  “He likes for you to rub in circles,” Elise explained, sounding somewhat embarrassed.

  Mr. Brockington, apparently losing patience, jutted out his behind. “Hurry up,” he implored Milan.

  A middle-aged ass had to be the worst sight she’d ever beheld. Additionally, Milan had major issues with touching anyone intimately; still, she courageously took over for Elise. His ass was soft and mushy, but she persevered, making circular motions as Elise had instructed. In a matter of minutes, Mr. Brockington was snoring contentedly.

  Elise nodded knowingly. “I told you it wasn’t nothing to it. Now, that’s an easy day’s work, so stop complaining and let that money pile up.”

  Milan rushed to Mr. Brockington’s private bathroom. She had to wash—no, sterilize her hands. She ran hot water and pumped about an ounce of hand soap into her palm.

  As she dried her hands on Noah Brockington’s monogrammed cream-and-coffee-colored handtowels, she looked around the exquisite suite. The luxurious bathroom was actually a fully equipped spa, complete with a six-jet whirlpool tub, a separate steam shower, a double vanity with expensive sinks, and oak cabinetry that spanned an entire wall. So lavish, so utterly beautiful. What a pity it was being wasted on a despicable, degenerate, dying man.

  “Well, I guess you got the hang of it. I have a hot date with a new man I met at the Post, so I have to be on my way.” Elise giggled girlishly.

  The Post was a veteran’s club where a bunch of old fogies hung out. Anyone going there to have a good time deserved to be pitied. Milan refused to give Elise a “you go, girl” smile. “Have fun,” she said dryly and gave a mental head shake.

  Elise checked her watch. “Listen, you’ll have to give him another soothing tonight at ten.”

  “Tonight!” Milan shrieked as she followed Elise back into the master bedroom.

  “Yes. Three times a day. Eleven in the morning, four o’clock in the afternoon, and ten o’clock at night. He likes a different type of oil with each soothing, so switch it up. All the bottles are on the top shelf of the armoire.” Elise nudged her chin toward the ornate mahogany armoire.

  With disgust contorting her features, Milan regarded the elegant piece of furniture as if it contained deadly toxins or a colony of cockroaches. The sympathy she’d felt for Elise a scant few moments ago abruptly shifted to herself. How many times, she wondered miserably, would she have to rub the sickly man’s horrible buttocks before she had a complete nervous breakdown?

  “In addition to the bonus he gave you, you’ll get your weekly pay and you’ll get five hundred a day extra for soothing him.”

  Five hundred a day extra? Milan couldn’t argue with the money she was being offered. She’d have to grin and bear it. Let the money stack up, get her affairs together, and get on with her life.

  chapter ten

  The leather-bound collector’s edition of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens was heavy. The embossed front cover gave it an elegant and distinctive look, but Milan was certain that the unexciting text inside the impressive covers would have her yawning before she got through the first few pages. Now, if she were reading something hot by erotica author Zane, she’d really be able to stay alert and put her heart into the story. But then again, reading Zane’s spicy prose might not be such a good idea. She didn’t want the old geezer getting any sex tips from Zane; his own naughty notions were quite enough.

  Clearing her throat, Milan began reading. Mr. Brockington’s luminous eyes were riveted on her as if the main character, a boy named Pip, was an incredibly fascinating lad. Some of the paragraphs were outrageously long and so dreary, she wanted to hurl the miserable book against the wall. But when she thought of the primary role she played for her employer—a tawdry, live-in masseuse—she forged ahead and poured her heart into the reading of the Dickens classic. Perhaps Mr. Brockington would doze off from all the excitement of the reading and miss his eleven o’clock session.

  “My dear,” Noah Brockington said at exactly ten minutes to eleven. Milan cringed. Then, bracing herself for the dreaded words her employer would soon utter, she
marked the page with the sewn-in red silk ribbon and closed the book.

  Noah Brockington did not speak another word. He casually pointed to the armoire. Trying desperately to repress hysteria, Milan took several deep breaths. Then, in a carefully controlled manner, she placed the heavy leather-bound book on the bedside table.

  “Be sure to return that to the collection downstairs,” he reminded her. She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. If she could have gotten away with it, Milan would have used the book as a weapon and clunked Mr. Brockington upside his head with it, but of course, she couldn’t. She nodded an agreement to return the boring book to its designated spot in the maple-paneled library downstairs.

  With mounting trepidation, she opened the armoire and randomly selected a container of massage oil. When she turned around, Mr. Brockington had sneakily lowered his sleepwear and lay poised on his stomach.

  Having to rub an old man’s ass for pay was an all-time low and an extreme stretch from Milan’s perceived dignified persona. In order to survive this humiliation she instantly retreated to a vacant place in her mind. Now, successfully crossed over into an emotionless zone, Milan kept her eyes unfocused as she mechanically rubbed the sweet-scented oil in the prescribed circular motion.

  “I enjoy your technique, my dear. You’re much better suited for this work than Elise.”

  Earlier, Mr. Brockington had been silent during this procedure. His unexpected comments snatched Milan from her safety zone. Thanks a lot for bringing me out of my trance, asshole! Now, emotionally present and discomfited by the compliment, she responded with a curt “Thank you.” She began rubbing again urgently, as if the speed of her hands would hasten the session.

  “Would you be kind enough to slip your finger inside; I enjoy having my anus caressed.”

  Milan’s oily hands skidded to a stop. Surely her ears deceived her. “Excuse me?” she asked, shocked, prepared to puke and then take off running.