by EM BROWN
“Is Virginia your real name?” he asks after a silence that seems to last forever but doesn’t seem to bother him.
“Yes,” I reply, not sure if it’s a good sign or not that he’s asking me questions.
“What’s your last name?”
I consider giving a fake name, but he could easily access the hotel payroll to get my full name, birthdate, and social.
“Mayhew. Actually, it’s Mayhew-Porter. Mayhew’s my biological mother’s name. Porter is my adoptive family’s name.”
“You have an accent.”
“I haven’t been in California that long. Born and lived most of my life in North Carolina. You ever been to the Carolinas?”
I recall that he already said he’s never been to the South.
“We’re not all rednecks,” I blurt, then wonder why the hell I said that.
“What is a ‘red-neck’?”
“It’s a derogatory term for a white person from the South who’s not very, um, cultured, and who’s often a bigot. What part of China are you from?”
“I’m not from China. I spend far more time in Vietnam than China.”
“You’re Vietnamese?”
“I’m Chinese, but my family settled in Vietnam hundreds of years ago.”
“Your English is very good,” I say, then wish I hadn’t in case he might take offense at that. I sip more of my drink.
“It’s okay. My French is better.”
“You speak French, too?”
“Vietnam was a French colony until the 1950s. Many families of privilege sent their children to Paris to be educated. My family temporarily moved to Paris after the war. I was born there.”
“Did you grow up there?”
“Mostly.”
“I’d love to go to Paris someday. My family didn’t travel a lot, not even to popular destinations within North Carolina like the Smokey Mountains or Nags Head. Did you like it in Paris?”
He draws on the cigar and releases the smoke in one long breath. “It’s worth visiting.”
That seems like an understatement for a city considered among the most beautiful in the world. “Are there places you like better?”
“No. They’re just different.”
We’re back to silence. I end up finishing my drink. I would continue the conversation, but I’m not sure he’s all that interested.
“We’re gonna hit the hot tub,” Eric announces. “Want to join?”
“I didn’t bring a swimsuit,” I reply.
“Who says you need to wear a suit?”
Sierra has started to unbutton the rest of his shirt. Eric looks over at Tony.
“I’ll pass.”
I’m a little relieved. If he went, I would probably be obligated to go, too.
Eric and Sierra remove various articles of clothing on their way to the hot tub, which is out on the deck. I hear Sierra giggling. The sliding glass door opens, then closes.
I’m alone with Tony.
CHAPTER NINE
My heart throbs with each beat. Here it is. The moment. It’s imminent. Now would be a good time to bail. I could probably catch a taxi home if needed.
I half expect him to slide over to my side of the sofa, but he seems content where he is as he finishes his cigar. My head has started to swim a little from the alcohol I’ve consumed. I don’t think I can take the suspense anymore. I need to make a decision once and for all about this.
“So, um,” I start when he doesn’t say or do anything. “I’ve never really done this before.”
He turns his dark eyes to me. “That’s obvious.”
“It is?”
“You wouldn’t be a virgin otherwise.”
God, I’m dumber than a box of rocks. Maybe alcohol really does kill brain cells.
He puts out his cigar and stands up, walks to the bar and comes back with a glass of water. “Drink it. It will help with the hangover.”
“I’m getting a hangover?”
“You had two glasses of champagne, a Long Island Iced Tea, and you look like you barely weigh over a hundred.”
I drink the water. Can I mess this up further?
“Where are your parents?”
He asks as if I’m a teenager hanging out after curfew.
“My adoptive father passed away when I was twelve, and my mother’s in North Carolina. My adoptive mother, that is. My birth mother lives in San Mateo.”
“Do they know what you’re doing?”
I flush. “I only met my birth mother six months ago, and...she’s not really that interested in me. And Lila, no, she doesn’t know.”
He watches me drink the water. When I finish, he takes the glass from me.
“You should go to bed. Try to sleep off the vodka and gin.”
“There’s vodka and gin in what I drank?”
“And rum.”
No wonder I feel like I’m halfway to being Cooter Brown. It feels good, but I get the feeling I’m going to pay for it later.
“I had no idea,” I half say to myself. I look up at him. Is he serious about letting me go to bed?
He stares at me for several intense seconds, then returns the glass to the bar. “Go.”
I stand up, and the room immediately wavers. I right myself. “Really? What about...?”
He waits for me to finish my sentence, but surely he knows what I’m referring to?
“You just want me to go to sleep?” I query. “That’s it?”
“I expect employees to follow their directives.”
But I’m not— Is he referring to me as a hotel employee or a different kind of employee?
“Does anyone else at the hotel, other than Sierra, know what you do or facilitate this in any way?” he asks.
“No! No, this was totally spur of the moment. Even Sierra didn’t know I was...”
Part of me wants to beg him not to fire me. It’s not that I like being a hotel maid so much, but I don’t want to have to go job hunting with midterms coming up.
I should beg him to let me keep my job.
That might come across too desperate.
I don’t need the hotel job. I’m going to get paid twenty thousand dollars.
Oh, right.
But that’s only if I go through with it.
“Come on,” he says, returning and taking my elbow. His grasp is firm but a touch gentle. It’s probably the alcohol, but I feel like melting into him.
“What are you doing?” I ask warily as he guides me toward the double doors.
“I’m going to make sure you don’t fall down the stairs.”
“I don’t think I would—”
I stumble, and he catches me with both hands to steady me.
“I’m just naturally klutzy,” I mumble.
Why do his hands feel so good on me?
He walks me up to the third floor to my room. His is down the hall facing the ocean.
“Next time you might want to skip the Long Island Iced Tea,” he says, sitting me on the bed.
I nod in agreement as the room wavers more than ever. I watch him go down on one knee to slip off my sandals. My pulse skips as his fingers brush against me.
He rises. “Do you have night clothes you want to change into?”
“Um, I’ve got a T-shirt. It’s in my bag.”
He spots my duffel bag and goes over to find the shirt. He comes back with a faded light blue Carolina shirt. It’s old and the seams are coming out, but it’s comfortable because it’s worn. He sets it on the bed next to me. I stare at it. So he’s really not expecting anything tonight?
“What’s the matter?” he asks. “You need help getting undressed?”
My mind is still pondering my own question, and he interprets my non-answer as an affirmative to his question. He takes a knee on the bed behind me and gently pulls down the zipper of my dress. I can feel the air on my back and the faintest of heat from his body. With a difficult swallow, I slip my arms out of my dress and pull the shirt over me. I feel his weight come off the b
ed, and I maneuver my bra off underneath my shirt, before sliding the rest of my dress off.
By now, Tony has gone into the bathroom and returned with a cup of water. My shirt isn’t that long and comes down to my upper thighs, and he seems to glance briefly at my bare legs. I feel practically naked in front of him.
“Drink,” he directs.
I do as he says. Honestly, I can’t imagine not doing what he tells me. I’m probably going to have to go to the bathroom half a dozen times tonight.
He pulls down the covers and nods for me to get in. He’s putting me to bed. I guess he doesn’t want to do it with a drunk girl. Maybe he’s worried that I’ll throw up on him.
After I crawl into bed, he pulls the covers over me. I watch him turn off the lights and close the door behind him as he leaves. No good night. Nada.
I lie in darkness, confused, a mixture of relief and concern. So what am I supposed to do now?
CHAPTER TEN
Because I hadn’t shut the blinds, light streams in, filling the bedroom. I block out the brightness by burying my head beneath a pillow. I have a headache, but the hangover could be worse. After lying in bed for several minutes without being able to sleep, I peek out from beneath the pillow and try to remember what happened last night.
Nothing. Nothing happened.
And part of me is disappointed. If I haven’t fulfilled my job, does it mean I won’t get paid? This concerns me. If I’m not going to get paid, I don’t want to lose my job at The Montclair.
The Montclair! What time is it?
I throw the covers aside and, stumbling out of bed, am rewarded with a throb of the head. I fumble for my cellphone. 10:48! I was supposed to be at work over an hour ago! With shaky hands, I quickly dial the hotel.
“Mrs. Ruiz,” I greet when the operator transfers me. “I am so, so sorry. I meant to call earlier that I can’t make it in today.”
“I know,” she responds.
“You...?”
“I saw the note when I came in this morning that you weren’t coming in. You’re not feeling well?”
“I’m not feeling well,” I confirm, puzzled.
“We have a wedding party coming in at the end of the week. Hopefully you’ll be better by then?”
“I—I hope so.”
After hanging up, I head to Sierra’s room. Maybe she called the hotel. But Sierra’s bed doesn’t look like it’s been slept in.
Back in my own room, I brush my teeth, remember Tony’s point to stay hydrated and drink two cups of water, and decide to run a bath. The bathroom Talia and I share only has a shower, so a bath is a rare treat. This tub even has jets. I snuggle into the hot water and consider what I’m going to do with myself.
Except for staring at my legs for a few seconds, Tony hadn’t shown any real interest in doing anything with me last night. Was I that unappealing? But then why did he choose me in the first place? Was it because I was drunk? Is he shy himself? That seems implausible. He seems the kind of man who knows what he wants, goes after it, and gets it.
If he has buyer’s remorse and decided he doesn’t want me anymore, then nothing gained, nothing lost. I should just get myself back home as soon as possible so I don’t miss any more days of work or class.
If he still wants to...do I still want to as well?
The answer comes back even stronger than before: yes.
Yesterday I had reasoned that I should jump in with both feet. I had recounted all the benefits of making twenty thousand dollars. And while he still makes me a little uneasy, I’m also drawn to him. Given how my body came to life at his touch, I can’t deny it. I wasn’t fully ready to go all the way last night, but I had wanted him to stay.
I envy Sierra her lack of timidity. Maybe that’s another plus that Talia alluded to when she talked about getting virginity out of the way. After you lose it, you can relax.
After the bath, I drink another cup of water and try to make myself as presentable as possible. I wear my skinny jeans and a black camisole. I consider wearing a sweater but decide against it. I blow-dry my hair, which I don’t usually do unless I have to, and apply my lip gloss and mascara. By the time I’m done, my headache has settled into a dull instead of throbbing ache.
My stomach growls, and I head downstairs in search of breakfast. The house seems empty again, but I come across a maid in the kitchen.
“Good morning,” I greet.
She looks up from wiping the counter to give me a quick smile before returning quietly to her work. Like me at The Montclair, we’re just ghosts moving in the background.
“I’m Virginia.”
“Luciana,” she replies with a heavy accent.
“Do you think anyone would mind if I help myself to a banana and a glass of milk?”
She looks confused.
“I’m just a guest,” I explain.
“I think okay?”
I get the banana and milk, not wanting to cook without the host’s permission or mess up the kitchen while it’s being cleaned. My usual breakfast isn’t fancy anyway, consisting mostly of a bowl of cereal and coffee. I miss Lila’s grits.
After eating, I wander into the living room and stare out the windows at the view. A gorgeous, cloudless sky of blue stretches from the hills of Marin County to the city skyline. California has more than its fair share of days like this, I marvel.
I make my way down to the den where I remember seeing bookshelves. The clothes Sierra and Eric removed last night, including Sierra’s bra and panties and Eric’s boxers, are neatly folded on the sofa. Probably Luciana’s doing. I wonder if she’s had to pick up and fold a lot of underwear in her line of work. I’ve come across the occasional forgotten clothing item at the hotel, but we usually just toss it unless we think it’s something the guest will contact the hotel to get back.
I browse the books on the shelves. I would have brought my econ textbook, but I think I left it in class. Many of the books before me seem to be biographies of famous golf players, how-to books on improving one’s golf swing, and reviews of the world’s best courses. There are a few biographies of famous football coaches and quarterbacks as well as biographies of American businessmen, from Henry Ford to Lee Iacocca to Elon Musk. I pick out a book that looks older than the rest: Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill. If only it were that easy.
Book in hand, I head back upstairs and find Sierra in the kitchen. Wearing only a satin robe, she peruses the refrigerator and finds leftovers from last night’s dinner.
“Ugh, I could really use some Starbucks right now,” she groans as she takes out a plate of the chocolate torte from last night. “Where did they go anyway?”
I shrug my shoulders. I could use some coffee, too, but I don’t see a coffeemaker, only a fancy espresso machine I have no idea how to operate. But I do find a kettle and a container of loose tea leaves and dried flower petals. It’s interesting because I’ve only ever had tea from bags.
“Want some tea?” I ask as I fill the kettle with water and put it on the stove.
Sierra scrunches up her face. “Gross.” She digs into the torte. “So how was Tony Lee? He make you bleed a lot?”
My face grows warm. “He let me sleep. He didn’t want to do anything.”
“What? What a weirdo.”
“I had a little too much to drink. I guess he was being nice about it.”
“You honestly think that?”
“Or maybe he lost interest.”
That seemed a more plausible reason to Sierra. “So you’re still a virgin. Hunh. Can’t even give it away?”
I let it go. It’s not worth it.
“Thanks for calling the hotel,” I offer.
“What are you talking about? I didn’t call anyone.”
Deciding further conversation with Sierra probably isn’t worth the effort, I open the Napoleon Hill book. She finishes her dessert and, deciding the same about conversation, shuffles out of the kitchen and back upstairs. I make my tea and drink half of it. It turned out bland beca
use I wasn’t sure how much of the tea leaves to use.
Unable to focus on the book, I get my sweater and decide to wander around the outside of the house. There’s a narrow dirt path that leads to stairs down to the beach. I can’t imagine how much a house with access to the beach in the San Francisco Bay Area would cost. Several million at least. Maybe tens of million. Rent in the city is like three times what I’m used to seeing back in North Carolina.
The beach isn’t very large and more rocky than sandy for most of it, but it’s a beach, and it’s beautiful. I close my eyes to better drink in the sound of waves crashing, transporting me away from my circumstances, away from my discontent.
Feeling a change in the air, I open my eyes. Tony Lee stands next to me, looking out at the ocean. He has on his trench coat, open in front to reveal the charcoal-colored three-piece suit he’s wearing. I don’t see many men in three-piece suits anymore, but he looks super stylish in his.
“There’s lunch back at the house,” he informs me after several minutes of silence.
“Thanks,” I reply.
“How’s the hangover?”
“Barely there. I think staying hydrated helped.”
We fall back into silence, and I’m more at ease with it than I expect. I almost like it, enjoying his presence without having to talk or hope I don’t say something stupid. But then I remember something.
“Did you call The Montclair?”
He looks at me.
“About me,” I continue.
“I said you weren’t coming in today.”
“Thank you...just today?”
He appraises me before saying, “I’m sending you back.”
To my surprise, I feel dismayed. “You’re—but—why?”
He pulls out a silver cigarette case from his coat and lights a cigarette. After inhaling, then exhaling, he turns back to me. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
Taken aback, I don’t know what to say at first. “Excuse me?”
“I understand that you want the money, but this is not something you can undo. If you get buyer’s remorse, there are no returns.”