by Xavier Neal
Private
Private Series Book 1
Xavier Neal
Private
Private Series Book 1
By Xavier Neal
© Xavier Neal 2016
Cover by Angie Merriam
All rights reserved
License Note
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without authorization of the Author. Any distribution without express consent is illegal and punishable in court of law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedicated to The Universe...Thank you for giving me magical moments in public and in private.
“You do know you're not Batman, right?” J.T., my best friend as well as my business partner, questions on a chortle.
“Bruce Wayne.” I push the forms he had me sign back into the folder now that I've scanned them. “Bruce Wayne ran the business side of it all and avoided the professional conferences. Batman fought crime.”
Being the majority shareholder, I don't feel it's right to let the investor’s faint complaints fall on deaf ears. As long as I continue turning their millions into more millions, I am entitled to the extreme levels of privacy I've established over the past decade. There's no necessity for me to personally sit in a board meeting or be photographed at a charity event. It may be my name on the company logo, but there is no requirement it has to be my face.
J.T. nods slowly from his seat across from me. “That's right. Bruce ran Wayne Enterprises. Batman left the cave to save lives. Something you won't do.” Under his breath he adds, “Not even to save your own.”
It's ten years too late for that bullshit. Besides, I don't deserve it. I don't deserve anything more than somber shadows and cold nights filled with the haunting sounds of voices I'll never hear again.
My mouth twitches in response, only to be cut off by the house phone ringing. I simply give him a glare, shove the papers across my desk, and answer it. “Yes?”
“Wes,” Lucky, the head cook of my estate, cautiously begins. “I'm sorry to interrupt-”
“It's fine,” I assure and cut my eyes to J.T. “Our meeting is over.”
J.T. rolls his before snatching the paperwork to exit with it.
“Doctor Hamilton would like to speak to you regarding Ms. Winters' status.”
“Why didn't he just call himself?”
“He wanted to discuss it face to face. Insisted on washing up before your arrival.”
“I'll be right there.” I place the phone back on the receiver, snatch my black hoodie, and yank it on. Quickly, I exit the office and make my way down the long hall to the left for the closest side exit from the main house. Doing my best to ignore the framed photos on the wall, I keep my face aimed at the ground. Today is not a day for them to command my acknowledgment. To remember their lives as someone who was damaged during their death struggles to breathe. Seconds before walking out the door to the golf cart waiting for me, I flick my hood up, blocking much more than the sun from seeing my face.
Clark, another member of my staff, begins the drive across the property in silence. The warm spring air pushes leaves in our path reminding me once more that despite the fact I stay locked away, another year has passed since I buried them. Since I buried me.
“Sir,” his voice cautiously begins. “Is there anything I can take the liberty of ordering that you feel might bring Ms. Lauren comfort while she is in this state of illness?”
I adjust my hood as one of the yard workers trimming the green shrubbery attempts to steal a glance of me. “You know her as well as I do. Does anything in particular come to mind?”
“Not that I could order, sir.”
His implied request lands idly on my shoulder. I don't give him the satisfaction of a response. He knows it as well as J.T. does. It is a rule I will not change. For anyone. After all of this time, why is it still so difficult for people to understand that?
He parks in front of the servant's house and I slide out, putting an official end to the conversation.
To my surprise, Doctor Hamilton, the concierge doctor for me as well as my staff, is waiting at the end of the stairs. “Wes.”
“Matt.”
The older gentleman slides his hands in his pockets, his salt and pepper eyebrows furrowing. “I wish I had better news.”
I mimic his action. “But you don't.”
He shakes his head slowly. “It doesn't make any sense. I've run numerous tests. Nothing. She has symptoms. I can see them. You can see them. A blind man could see them, but all of her blood work is fine. It's an anomaly. And you know I hate those.”
That makes two of us.
“We could take her to the hospital-”
“She's basically in a hospital now, Matt. At this point what can they do for her that you can't?”
My question causes him to shrug. “I'm not actually sure there is anything.”
“Then she stays here,” I coldly command. “And you can keep trying to figure out what's making her sick.”
Matt sighs, “I'll do what I can, Wes. But...I suggest on the chance I can't find out what's causing the illness, you contact her family. Let them know what's going on. Give them a chance to see her in case she doesn't recover.”
“There's a chance she won't recover?”
“There's always a chance when someone contracts an illness they won't recover, Wes. Doctors are healers and helpers, not magicians. We do what we can but even our best at times can fail.”
“Are you saying-”
“I'm saying, her family has the right to this information and a chance to be a part of the decision-making process.”
“Her paperwork-”
“Wes,” he sharply snips me into silence. “Sometimes being surrounded by loved ones such as your children, can have a positive impact.”
I can't do that even if I wanted to. That's not how this works. People don't visit. I don't have guests. I can't have strangers around me. It's not safe. For me. For them. For anyone. I deny the request in a low whisper, “I can't do that Matt. And you know it.”
His aging face hardens. “No. You won't do that, Wes. There's a difference.”
“Not in my opinion.”
“Which is exactly the problem.”
“Excuse me, Wes?” a feminine voice interrupts the conversation.
When I turn to face her, Penny, one of the youngest maids I have, delivers me a warm smile. “Is there anything you need me to do while Lauren is still not on her feet?”
Her offer is proceeded with the pulling of her long red hair to one side of her cream colored face. Unlike the others who have lived and served with me for many years, she's not tattered or tainted. She's still fragile and full of life as someone her age should be. I honestly don't feel she belongs in this hell, yet Lauren begged me to hire her, insisting a little extra help was needed to provide everyone with the adequate amount of downtime and time away from here. She tried to persuade me by implying the fresh face would be able to brighten much more than the dusty rooms. I knew Lauren's end game. She'd never been clever about her optimistic meddling. She still isn't. Truthfully, I never want her to be. The motherly action is just one of the many reasons Lauren's much more than just an employee. Though I don't dare to call her family. That's not a right I'll ever earn.
“I can do many things,” Penny continues, a hint of something else lingering in her tone.
“Just...continue to follow Clark's lead. That should be sufficient for now.”
“As you wish.” She gives me a small nod. “Shall I check on Lauren
now? Perhaps bring her a cup of tea?”
My eyes cut back to Matt. “Can she continue to have tea?”
He shakes his head. “I'd rather she not.”
“Warm lemon water?” She tries again. “Can she have that?”
“I suppose,” he sighs. “That's just two basic ingredients.”
Penny smiles once more. “I'll make that for her. Anything for you, Wes?”
After receiving a shake of my head, she dismisses herself, leaving the two of us to return to a conversation I would rather not ever have.
“Look, I'm going to take the samples back to the lab. Get them tested. Do what you will about this situation, Wes, but give my suggestion some actual consideration. Lauren's devoted basically the last ten years of her life here. Doesn't she deserve something more than a paycheck for that?”
His callous comment constricts my throat. Silently, I watch Matt head back for the room we're monitoring her in.
The problem isn't with what Lauren deserves, it's with what she doesn't. And I know if I fulfill the doctor's request by bringing her daughter into this fortress of desolation, I'll end up destroying all she has left.
“You're really kicking me out?” I stop throwing clothes into a pile on my bed. “Just like that?”
“Don't try to play the sympathy card bullshit,” my roommate snips from the doorway.
“No one is asking your ass for sympathy,” I mutter, grabbing a hair tie off the nightstand. “Or a fucking favor. I'm just trying to understand how two days ago I had until Friday to pay you back and now I'm being kicked out.”
“This just isn't a good fit,” my about to be ex-roommate sneers.
As I wind my wavy brown hair into a high ponytail I snap, “Oh, you mean now that your scumbag boyfriend knows I don't suck dick for dollars? Let me guess. He gave you some cry me a river bullshit story about me coming on to him insisting it would probably be best if I was gone. Promised you he'd move in here instead. Start building some fairy tale future together. Feel free to stop me when I've gone too far.”
She presses her red painted lips together.
Typical. Shit like this always happens when you've got a rack like mine, an undeniable love of tank tops, and a helluva ability to say no to sexual advances. Or in rare cases a helluva ability to create sexual advances men can't say no to.
“I won't make you pay for the rent you missed,” she whispers, her own guilt over the situation kicking in. “Just...use it for a deposit on your next place.”
Shoving the clothes I was going to take with me into a trash bag, I grunt, “Yeah.”
“And I need all your shit out of here by the weekend.”
Disbelief jumps on my face as I sharply turn her direction. “What?”
“Yeah. Everything...Well, Tommy-”
“Tommy's opinion shouldn't fucking matter when he's trailing for blow jobs door to door!”
She bitterly bites, “You don't know shit.”
“No...” I correct with a snide smirk. “You don't know shit. You want me out of this trailer park version of 90210? Fine.” Swiftly, I snatch a few more of my favorite things from the floor, shove them in the trash bag, slip my cell phone into my pocket, and announce, “I'm out.”
As I shove my way past her, she questions, “What about the rest of your shit?”
“Keep it. Sell it. Give it to that jackass boyfriend of yours and let him jerk off on it.” Tossing her a playful look over my shoulder, I add, “Bet you didn't know he did that kinda thing either.”
It'll be hard to pretend that I won't miss a few things in that room like the chaise lounge I bought at a garage sale a couple months ago. But it's just stuff. However, the wise woman I'm about to go visit taught me early on in life, stuff is replaceable. People aren't. It's one of the few positive outlooks that managed to stick. Well, that and there's really no such thing as too much cheese in your mac and cheese.
I yank the apartment door open to see an attractive male cloaked in a designer suit. His build is slimmer than I personally enjoy yet matches his baby face features perfectly. Hypothetically speaking, I wouldn't invite him into bed but wouldn't kick him out if he somehow managed to get there. He flashes me a forced warm smile like a man who's practiced it his entire life. “I'm J.T. Reese. I'm looking for Miss Brynley Winters.”
“Your lucky day.” With a flick of the finger, my black sunglasses fall to cover my eyes. “You didn't have to look hard.”
The man gives me a long once over and his eyebrows scrunch in confusion.
“Guessing your confusion isn't over why my jeans have so many holes in them? I'm a halfie. My father was black. My lovely mother who is in your care is white. Now do you need a biology lesson or can we get going?”
His baffled expression makes me smile wider as I usher a hand for him to move forward.
“Did you....did you say halfie?”
“It's a politically correct term.”
He simply nods his discomfort and proceeds towards the black SUV waiting by the curb for us. The large white male positioned beside the passenger door gives the handle a tiny tug causing it to open.
“I bet the WWE doesn't even know what they're missing with you big fella.”
My joke is met with a scowl from the assumed bodyguard and a small chuckle from the man who greeted me at the door. He clears his throat and asks, “Is that your luggage?”
“You could say that,” I answer, still staring down the giant in front of me. “Is this guy gonna throw me over his shoulder and climb to the top of the nearest building because I gotta say....with the day I'm having that kinda sounds like fun.”
Eyes darting around me, the bald headed man says, “Mr. J.T. we really should be going.”
“Please hand Mr. Hurst your things,” J.T. insists. “He'll place them in the back.”
Extending the garbage bag in front of me for him, I playfully whisper, “You should lighten up lurch. Life's more fun when you're smiling.”
He leans forward and states, “I get paid not to smile.”
Knowing his forceful tactic is to intimidate me only causes me to push back. “Is it lucrative?”
As if he wasn't expecting a response, his jaw cracks open, which is when J.T. clears his throat again. “Miss Winters, if you could...please get in the vehicle. It would be a big help.”
I give him another crooked smile. “Don't like sharing your action figures? All you gotta do is say so.” With a wink his direction, I climb into the SUV and slide to one side to allow my new host room to sit beside me. To my surprise, there is another man in the passenger seat with a similar build and equally stoic demeanor. The only difference is his dark skin. Unable to resist causing more trouble, I sigh, “So you had to get one in every color?”
J.T. shakes his head on another laugh, unbuttons his jacket, and questions, “Can you hear the things coming out of your mouth?”
Fidgeting with the silver airplane necklace around my neck, I reply, “Of course. I'm loud and crass, not deaf.”
With an impressed expression, he braces himself against his door. “And you don't think being...well-mannered might be a better idea, specifically among strangers?”
The accusation of being rude only widens my grin. “I have enough manners to be honest about who I am. It's not my job or obligation to be who the world wants me to be. If I were to do that, to lie, whether it be to those who I love or those who do not know, that would be disrespectful. A quick tongue and a twisted sense of humor doesn't make me rude J.T. Just makes me, me.”
Why bother wasting time pretending to be someone you're not? Why care what the world thinks? The only person who has to wake up to me every day is myself. Might as well love and enjoy me. I'm obviously not going anywhere.
“Now,” I redirect the conversation at the same time the car pulls off. “What's wrong with my mother and why isn't she in a hospital? She's been fighting this cold or virus or whatever on and off for like weeks or something. And...I really only know that much because som
e guy named Clark she works with answers her phone to keep me somewhat updated.”
He clasps his hands together. “You're aware of what your mother does for a living, correct?”
“Sure. She went from cleaning toilets at The Frost Luxury Hotel to cleaning them at some mega-mansion for four times the pay.” Lives a glorious life for a widowed mother, doesn't she? All I can positively say about it is it helped put me through college despite my knack for finding ways to damn near get kicked out around every corner.
“Not quite,” he cautiously corrects. “Lauren is...head of the household. She's in charge of the entire staff at the Wilcox Estate. She....well, she very rarely is ever cleaning toilets. She handles scheduling, vacations, food orders, and numerous other things Mr. Wilcox entrusts her with. When he originally acquired her services he was looking for someone to help restructure those employed by him, as well as someone who could ensure everything would function smoothly for the coming years. More an administrative role.”