A Bona Fide Gold Digger

by Allison Hobbs

  Mr. Brockington cleared his throat and spoke with his face turned away from Milan, his head rested upon several pillows. “I’m rather ashamed to admit it, but I allowed Elise to introduce me to something that many would deem unnatural and pervasively taboo.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, now that I’ve developed a penchant for anal play, I find it extremely difficult to drift off to sleep without the benefit of my naughty little pleasure.”

  His request was more than troubling; it was absolutely revolting! Milan immediately envisioned herself running down the staircase, but when Mr. Brockington followed his expressed desire with “Of course, there’s a one-thousand-dollar cash bonus for you. It’s in the top drawer of the armoire,” Milan’s physical body did not cooperate with her fleeing mental image. Her feet remained in place.

  “Please continue rubbing while you consider my offer,” Mr. Brockington said. There was a smug self-assurance in his tone that told Milan he expected her to bite the bait.

  She’d been employed by Noah Brockington for a little over a week and her money was accumulating faster than she’d imagined. But her growing nest egg gave her little comfort. Never, ever had she touched anyone’s asshole, it was a despicable thought. But she needed to pay off her debt and get back on her feet. Short of murdering someone, there wasn’t much she wouldn’t do for money.

  Expecting an unpleasant whiff when she spread Mr. Brockington’s squishy butt cheeks, she pursed her lips and scrunched up her nose. Fortunately, the man was clean and the only thing she smelled was the scent of the papaya massage oil she’d randomly selected. Her middle finger tensed in objection as she directed it toward the ridged flesh—the outer ring of muscles that surrounded the anal opening. After stroking the area for less than five minutes, she heard the familiar sound that was music to her ears—the hum of Mr. Brockington’s snoring.

  After retrieving a hand towel from the bathroom, she wiped the oil from his behind. The gesture was not an act of kindness or even consideration. Milan was removing evidence. She’d die of mortification if Mr. Brockington’s private nurse discovered his oily backside and became enlightened to how Milan really earned her keep.

  She pulled up his pajama bottom. The snap of the elastic waistband against his skin caused him to wince in his sleep. Milan smiled, satisfied by the small degree of discomfort she’d caused her perverted employer.

  She held her hands under scalding hot water and scrubbed them until she could no longer endure the pain, but her hands still didn’t feel clean enough. They never would. With that realization, Milan used a clean monogrammed towel to pat her defiled hands dry and rushed to the armoire. She pulled open the top drawer and scooped up the crisp, neatly stacked bills—her thousand-dollar bonus. For a fleeting moment, the money delighted her, but a flash of the pages and pages of credit card debt brought her back to reality. She felt like an indentured slave.

  Ravenous after showering, Milan returned Dickens to the library and then trekked to the kitchen. She wasn’t much of a cook, but she intended to put together something for lunch.

  Irma, the maid-slash-cook, was at the stove, stirring something in a pot. The compact, round woman turned to Milan. “Hungry?” she asked kindly.

  “Yes, I was going to make a sandwich. Do you have sliced turkey?” Milan asked, pulling open the fridge and snooping around inside.

  “You need to eat more than a sandwich; you’re still a growing girl,” Irma fussed playfully and fixed her face in a thoughtful scowl. “Let me see…” She looked at the pot on the stove. “I’m a good cook, but something tells me you don’t like pea soup.”

  Milan wrinkled her nose. Though appreciative for Irma’s interest in her appetite, she couldn’t hide her disdain for pea soup.

  Irma wiped her hands on her apron and began opening cabinets. “You’re gonna have to order some take-out. There isn’t much to work with right now, but if you let me know what you like, I’ll pick up the ingredients when I do my grocery shopping tomorrow.”

  Milan was thrilled that Irma was amenable to shopping and cooking for her. “That’s really nice of you, Irma. Thanks. I’ll make a list. What’s the food allowance here? How much does Mr. Brockington allow me to spend on food?”

  “The sky’s the limit, sugar. Put anything you want on that list,” Irma said excitedly.

  “Great. Are you sure you don’t mind cooking for me?” Since Milan had no talent or patience for culinary undertakings, she wanted to be absolutely sure Irma intended to prepare the items she listed.

  “I’m a good cook. I used to have my own restaurant, but that’s a long story. Mr. Brockington pays me good money to clean and cook but all he wants me to do is fix him a couple poached eggs in the morning and a variety of soups with pumpernickel bread for the rest of his meals. He eats like a bird and his menu bores me to tears. It’ll be nice to show off my skills in the kitchen while that nurse is away on vacation,” Irma told her.

  “Greer’s going on vacation?”

  “Uh huh. She’s going back to Alabama to visit family. She’ll be gone for two weeks.”

  Milan smiled inside. She was surprised Greer hadn’t mentioned something as important as being away from the household for two whole weeks. It would be nice to be out from under Greer’s scrutiny for a while. So far, she hadn’t enjoyed any of the amenities of the Brockington estate. She hadn’t even worked out in the gym. After all the dirty work she’d been doing, she definitely deserved a taste of the lifestyle of the idle rich.

  “Speaking of Greer, where is she?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. She’s probably taking her tennis lesson. She gets paid for eight hours, but all she does is give him his pills, walk him up and down the hallway a couple times a day, and the rest of the time she’s out getting facials, taking all kinds of lessons and whatnot.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not kidding. Greer’s preparing herself for the good life. She has every intention of moving in here when the old man dies. She thinks he’s going to leave all his money to her.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. She’s only been with him a few months. How did she get so much power?”

  Irma shrugged and said scornfully, “She’s a foxy ol’ girl. By the way,” she added, her tone suddenly cheery, “did you get that money he asked me to put up in that armoire for you?” With a twinkle in her dark brown eyes, Irma gave Milan a wink.

  It hadn’t occurred to Milan that someone other than Mr. Brockington was handling her earnings. The thought should have crossed her mind since he had to get around with a rolling walker and the assistance of his nurse.

  Suddenly sickened that her dirty little secret was out, Milan narrowed her eyes in feigned indignation. “What money?” she asked, her voice nervous and high-pitched.

  “Sugar, you don’t have to worry about me running my mouth. Elise told me all about it. She didn’t tell me any details, mind you,” Irma blurted. “But I have a general idea of what goes on up in that room. The thing of it is,” she said, pausing in thought, “Elise used to give me extra cash after I picked up the groceries I needed to fix her those fancy meals she liked.”

  “I thought you said the sky was the limit.”

  “It is for the groceries. Mr. Brockington has an account at the market. The grocery bill comes right out of his bank account. Nobody even pays it any attention. I buy food for me and my family on his account. The thing of it is…” Irma paused. “Me and Elise had a nice little arrangement. She paid me five hundred a week.”

  Milan gave Irma a long, significant look. It now occurred to her that the seemingly kindly, stout little woman was trying to hustle her. She wanted Milan to pay her to keep quiet about her sessions with Mr. Brockington. But five hundred a week was a bit steep for hush money. And though it wasn’t the type of information she’d want Greer to be privy to, besides turning up her nose and looking at Milan as if she were pure scum, there wasn’t a damn thing Greer could do about Milan’s arrangement with Mr. Brockington. She certainly cou
ldn’t fire Milan. Mr. Brockington wouldn’t hear of it. Irma had to be out of her mind if she thought she was going to extort five hundred a week to keep the secret from Greer.

  “With ol’ Brock leaving all his money to Greer, that leaves us in a hell of a pickle,” Irma said with a snort. “A black man leaving all that money to a white woman! Now, that’s a damn shame. Excuse my language,” Irma said, shaking her head. “So, sugar, as you can see, we have to milk that old man for all he’s worth while we still got a chance. Yes, indeed. Black women have got to start sticking together.”

  Milan was silent as she tried to figure out how forming an alliance with Irma would benefit her.

  “That man got a big ol’ steel trunk full of cash money. It’s his secret stash. Greer doesn’t know anything about it.”

  Milan looked at Irma with renewed interest. Now Irma held Milan’s undivided attention.

  “That’s how he pays you, with the money from that trunk. Greer withdraws your weekly pay out of the regular bank, but I’m the one who counts out anything extra he decides to give you.” Irma paused, lifted the lid from the big pot on the stove and stirred the soup. After stirring, she placed the green gook-covered wooden spoon on a wide ceramic spoon holder.

  “I don’t know exactly what Elise was doing,” Irma continued. “And Lord knows I don’t want to know. But she made out like a fat rat. That woman won’t ever have to hold down a job as long as she lives. Now me myself,” she said, pointing a finger at her chest. “I’m not the lazy type. I’m not looking to retire and sit around on my tail all day watching TV. All I want to do is open up another restaurant, be my own boss. I want to make some real money so I can leave something behind for my children and my grandkids.”

  Milan considered Irma’s words but was still confused as to why Irma, who dusted and polished a few items and served the old man poached eggs and a couple bowls of soup, felt entitled to more than she was already being paid. She’d already admitted she received a generous salary.

  With her brow furrowed, Milan said, “So, enlighten me, please. Why exactly should I give you five hundred a week?”

  “I know where he keeps the key to the trunk,” Irma said with a trace of pride in her voice.

  Milan’s eyes locked on Irma’s. Her nerve endings tingled with excitement.

  “While Greer’s gone, you and me are gonna get all that money in the trunk.”

  “How? Taking money from the trunk is stealing. And stealing is a crime. And believe me, I don’t need that kind of trouble.”

  “Sugar, there’s well over a million in that trunk. Probably a couple million. There’s more money in that trunk than I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  Milan’s heart started beating wildly.

  “The only time I can get my hands on that key is when he wants you to do something special during your private time.”

  Stunned by the mention of tons of money hidden in a trunk—money that she could possibly possess, Milan was rendered speechless. Then she began to worry at the thought of the seedy role Irma intended her to play. Milan swallowed nervously.

  “It’s up to you to keep him interested.”

  Milan peered at Irma uncomprehendingly.

  “You have to keep it interesting,” Irma explained. “Whatever it is you’re doing, you have to do it better. It’s all just a game to him. Raise the stakes. He can afford it. He’ll just tell me to take out more money. The way I see it, instead of getting a bonus every now and then, you should be getting a bonus every time you’re in there with him. That’s the way Elise worked it and that’s why she’s sitting pretty right now.”

  Milan appreciated the information and intended to make good use of it. Who would have thought that such a pleasant and sweet-looking woman could be so calculating? Still, there was no way Milan would allow herself to be pimped by a cleaning lady or anyone else for that matter. The thought was insulting and absolutely out of the question. She’d get that money in the trunk but she didn’t intend to share with either Irma or Greer.

  chapter eleven

  A few days later, Milan noticed Greer’s appearance had changed. With her eyebrows raised to the rafters, the nurse looked ridiculously startled. Judging by the red areas on her face, her complaint of a headache, and her unchanging expression of frightful surprise, Milan quickly assessed that Greer had not been taking tennis lessons at all, but had instead been spending her time pursuing the ever-elusive fountain of youth with Botox injections.

  In Milan’s opinion, Greer would have done better with the tennis lesson. At least her body would have benefited from the exercise. It was hard to look at the nurse without bursting into laughter, so Milan was greatly relieved when Greer announced she’d be leaving early. She asked Milan if she’d be kind enough to give Mr. Brockington his medication.

  “Sure, no problem,” Milan said indifferently.

  “I forgot to mention it, but I’ll be off for two weeks,” Greer said, waiting for a reaction from Milan.

  “Oh, really?” Milan assumed a look of worry that suggested she didn’t know what she’d do without Greer.

  “Don’t worry. The agency will be sending a replacement,” Greer assured Milan.

  “Oh, okay.” Milan allowed her speech to falter as if she weren’t quite sure whether the agency employed a nurse with qualities that matched Greer’s. “Good for you,” Milan said after appearing to have tossed the idea around and finally coming to reluctant acceptance. “Enjoy your vacation,” she exclaimed happily. Now hurry up and get your scary-ass face out of here. I have serious business to handle.

  Irma had left a half hour ago, so after walking Greer to the door while assuring her that she could handle things, and yes of course she’d make sure the agency nurse walked Mr. Brockington twice a day, Milan practically clicked her heels in celebration of her sweet freedom. She now had the house all to herself. She checked her watch. Two forty-five. An hour and fifteen minutes before she had to deal with Mr. Brockington.

  Instead of relaxing in the Jacuzzi for an hour as she’d planned, Milan spent forty-five minutes hunting down the million-dollar trunk. She had no plan of action, no specific knowledge of what she’d do if she found it, but she considered knowing the whereabouts of the trunk as useful information.

  But she’d wasted her time. The freakin’ trunk was nowhere to be found. Winded and perspiring badly from the fruitless treasure hunt, she dashed to the bathroom to take a quick shower. She intended to add some flair to her appearance with heavy makeup, provocative attire, and a brazen attitude. It was entirely possible that acting like a slut in addition to getting her employer tipsy might garner the key to the trunk. But Mr. Brockington demanded promptness and, with no time to apply makeup, style her hair, or make a trip to the wine cellar, Milan rushed into Mr. Brockington’s bedroom, breathless and five minutes late.

  Clean-faced, with her hair pulled back into a boring ponytail and wearing a plain denim skirt, she felt drab and unattractive, but there was nothing she could do. She’d have to wing it.

  “My dear,” Mr. Brockington greeted her cheerfully. “You look like a schoolgirl. A very tardy schoolgirl,” he added, noting the time.

  He was sitting up, propped against his mountain of pillows. Surprisingly, despite her lateness, Noah Brockington smiled at Milan delightedly. “How ingenious,” he said. “I must say, the schoolgirl look becomes you. You’ve made an old man’s failing heart flutter.” With a glint in his eyes, he readjusted himself against the pillows and straightened his shoulders. “What a shock. I didn’t think that I was still capable, but the heart doesn’t lie…I believe I’m quite smitten.”

  Oh, cut the crap, she wanted to shout. But she humored the old goat by bashfully lowering her eyes. She covered her mouth and pretended to try to stifle a giggle, and then she blushed in the manner of an innocent young girl.

  “Little girl,” Mr. Brockington exclaimed and patted the side of the bed. “Come, sit next to me and tell me all about your day at school.”

 
; The shame of being so callously fired from Pure Paradise and the humiliation of being hunted down like a dog for making use of the company credit card, something she felt entitled to…well, the entire tragic affair had broken Milan’s spirit and caused her to stray from her true nature of skillful survivor until now. Sick and tired of playing the role of cowering victim, her well-honed survivor skills suddenly kicked in.

  The ability to change like a chameleon in order to make a favorable impression on those in power was one of her many talents. Making money was another. Hmm. Maybe she was just like her father. Oh well, she’d think about their shared characteristics at another time. Meanwhile, if this multi-millionaire sleazebag wanted her to prance about and pretend to be a nubile preteen…so be it.

  Feeling as victorious as she would if the key to the steel trunk was already in her hand, she climbed upon the sick man’s bed with the sense that there’d been a shift in power. “I don’t want to wear this stupid uniform to school anymore,” Milan said in a pouty, childlike voice.

  “Why not? You’re required to wear the mandatory attire while you’re at school,” Noah Brockington stated sternly.

  Milan folded her arms stubbornly. “I’m in the seventh grade now and I don’t want to wear this silly skirt anymore.”

  “What do you want to wear?”

  “Pants,” she said, poking out her lip.

  “Pants! That’s outlandish and out of the question. You have to wear a skirt to school.”

  “Then, I’m not going back. Not ever!” Milan folded her arms defiantly.

  “Did something bad happen at school today?”

  “Yes,” she whispered and dropped her head. “During math class, I caught Tommy Alston trying to peek under my skirt. He’s such a bad boy; he has to sit next to the teacher’s desk. I was working hard on the class assignment and I forgot to keep my legs closed.” Milan’s voice was tiny and filled with remorse. “The counselor says when little girls are seated, we should make certain that our legs are tightly closed, both knees should be touching.”