The Anatomy of Jane (WJM #1)

by Amelia LeFay

  I sat down on the arm of my couch, trying to calm down. I was thirty-one years old, but I had the hormones of a seventeen-year-old boy.

  Damn you Wes.

  Without a word to him, I headed back upstairs to take a shower before heading to work.

  I couldn’t believe it had been four years since we’d first met. I had been covering a story in Paris, and on my first night there, I went to a restaurant recommended by my mother. She had gone with a few colleagues and couldn’t stop raving about the food.

  He hadn’t been lying when he’d told the maid that his food was ‘orgasmic’. It was then and still was, but in Paris that evening, I wanted to meet the person who had created such delicacies. I asked the maître d’ and the chef, Wes, came out, dressed in his whites. His sleeves were rolled up and his hair was tied back in a bun.

  Some people believe in love at first sight. This wasn’t love; it was lust—raw, plain old lust the moment our eyes locked. I had always kept my lustful urges in check, but that night I had no idea what happened.

  He gave me his card. I called and not even an hour later, we were in his flat fucking like wild animals. Not just that first night. Or the next or the next, but every night for the whole week I was there.

  Then I left.

  Six months later, he had opened a restaurant in Boston.

  He didn’t ask why I hadn’t called him, or if I had thought about him. That was one of the differences between women and men. Men don’t ask. Yet, I showed up at his restaurant, and we picked up right where we’d left off. I’m sure we both thought we’d get sick of each other at some point, but we didn’t stop to question what we had.

  Four years later, and I wasn’t even slightly annoyed with him.

  “Room for one more?” He opened the glass shower door and stepped in beside me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders.

  We just stood there for a moment, pressed up against each other, the hot water beating against our skin.

  “I don’t want her,” I whispered.

  “Okay, just you and me.”

  That was more than enough.

  Truly, even though parts of me didn’t mean it; I couldn’t get her big hazel brown eyes out of my mind.

  No more complications. Considering my family, I already had enough just being with him.

  Chapter Two

  Maxwell Emerson.

  I wasn’t sure what I was doing Googling his name, but once I clicked ‘search’, I couldn’t stop reading. It wasn’t like I had anything else to do on Friday nights any more.

  “Wow.” You knew someone was famous when Google had a sidebar section for them. I thought it was because he was a news anchor. I was wrong.

  Maxwell Alexander Emerson III, born April 10th, son of the hotel mogul and former governor, Alistair Crane Emerson, and now sitting senator Elspeth Yates, the head of YGM, the media company that not only controlled Maxwell III’s conservative news outlet, The Emerson Report, but also the Boston Rover and several other networks which weren’t listed. The family’s net worth was in the billions. That number was so out of the stratosphere for me that I couldn’t even comprehend it, so I ignored it.

  He was an only child, but his family was so cookie-cutter that the more I searched, the more depressed I felt.

  So logically, I Googled the other man, Wesley. Thinking he might be just a chef…wrong again.

  Wesley Uhler was the son of famed British novelist and poet, Brenda Uhler, who had traveled the world by the time she was thirty-four. She was now married to a woman, a former professor of astronomy at Cambridge. She’d also written a few books on that subject.

  I kept reading until I saw that Wesley had lost his little brother. After that, it felt too personal to read on, and I didn’t want to pry any more than I already had.

  Since I was nobody and they couldn’t Google me back, it felt very stalkerish. Closing my laptop, I laid back on my mattress, staring at the tear in my apartment’s ceiling. One by one, water droplets dripped from it into a bucket below. My phone rang.

  “Hello?” I answered while lying down. My whole body ached.

  “Hey Jane, it’s Mary.”

  “They fired me didn’t they?” Damn it. What was the point of talking to me if they were just going to change their mind?

  “What? Who?”

  Shit. I sat up. I wasn’t supposed to say anything. “Sorry Mary. What’s going on?”

  “Do you have time to fill in for a maid that’s called in sick? The client is throwing a party in three hours, and while I have two other maids there, I could use the third set of hands to finish cleaning in time. Can you help? I really don’t want to lose these clients.”

  “More work is more money, Mary. You don’t need to ask. What’s the address?” I asked, grabbing a pen and random notebook to write it down.

  “317 Beacon Street. It’s a brownstone. If you take a taxi, I’ll reimburse you for it.”

  “Music to my ears. I’m leaving now. I’ll call you when I’m there,” I said, already pulling on my jeans and stepping into my Vans.

  Grabbing my bag, I rushed out. Three hours to clean a townhouse was barely cutting it. It was mid-August, and yet every time I stepped outside, it felt like the North Pole. I could already tell it was going to be a cold winter.

  I had to walk for a good ten minutes before I saw a taxi. They didn’t come down to my neighborhood for the same reason I had a taser on me at all times.

  “Taxi!” I ran onto the street corner and waved one down like a madwoman because I was freezing.

  “317 Beacon Street, please,” I said, buckling my seatbelt and rubbing my hands.

  “You want the heater?” he asked me.

  “Please,” I said, sitting on my hands.

  It was one of those nights where it felt like everyone was out or going into the city. My favorite thing to do was people watch. To me, everyone had a story or somewhere to go. I couldn’t afford to live in this city—hell, only half of us really could—but I loved it all the same.

  Thanks to the driver’s shortcuts, it only took about twenty-five minutes before he pulled up at the elegant, cream-colored townhouse. Paying with everything I had in my wallet, I grabbed my bag and took the stairs two by two. A butler—yes a full-fledged butler with penguin tails and everything—opened the door.

  “Hi, I’m one of the maids.”

  He looked me up and down. “Next time use the service entrance below.”

  “Yes sir.” I nodded as he moved aside to let me in. The very first thing I noticed was that everything was colored in beige, green, and off-yellow, but that was before I saw an expensive of marble flooring.

  “Oh good there is another one!” A woman with short blonde hair in a red robe came out holding a glass of wine. “Please tell me this one speaks English. That Earlena, or Erelenea or Earlina—I have no idea how she pronounces it, but she swears she doesn’t understand a thing I’m saying. She just keeps nodding like a bobble head repeating okay okay, okay.”

  “Yo no hablo ingles.” I shrugged at her.

  At that, she sighed and her shoulders dropped while she rubbed her temples. “You’re in America now. Learn to speak English.”

  “Okay.” I nodded to her, fighting the urge to give her a few other words. She was probably in her early to mid-thirties; there was no reason for her to be this ignorant.

  She stared at me then started to shoo me away with her hand like I was dirt going into the dustbin. “Well! Go clean!”

  “Yes.” I ran around her and saw the second maid in the kitchen, then heard the woman sigh once again.

  “Jesus. I swear, Foster, finding a good person like you is impossible nowadays,” the drama queen cried out before downing her wine.

  “Eres español?” an older woman with dark brown-gray hair asked me skeptically. The white skin, though I wouldn’t call it ivory white—more like sun-kissed white—was probably the giveaway.

  “No,” I whispered. “But she won’t know.”

 
She laughed, shaking her head. “Earlene.”

  “Jane,” I said, shaking her hand. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Carlotta upstairs. Kitchen, dining. You living room, bathroom, and outside.”

  “Got it,” I said, reaching for the gloves and cleaning products. I wanted to put on my earphones and listen to music, but I wanted to make sure I heard her if she called out for me.

  The place was a mess.

  She had rim stains. The old water stains on her coffee table made me feel like I was going insane. Use coasters people! They were only an inch away. Her floors had cracker crumbs all over them, and to make it worse, her couch cushions reeked of wine. I sprayed them down before taking them outside to air out, hopefully before her party. I wasn’t sure who the hell her maid was, but she needed to be hogtied given the amount of crap she missed. All of these things didn’t happen in a week: stains, dust behind the mirrors and on picture frames—she was slacking off. The owner might be a bitch, but we still had to do our job.

  Moving over to the bathroom, I rolled up my sleeves to use the toilet bowl cleaner when the rude owner came up behind me.

  “Don’t forget to use bleach,” she said, nearly scaring the shit out of me.

  “Okay.” I nodded to her.

  She just eyed me up and down before moving back to the butler. “I still can’t believe she doesn’t understand English,” she said rather loudly.

  “Watch them, Foster. If anything goes missing, I will hold you responsible. I’m going to get dressed.”

  Rolling my eyes, I just scrubbed since there was no point getting upset with people like her. They never changed.

  “So you don’t understand English?” the butler asked me as I wiped a strand of my hair back with my wrist.

  Smiling at him, I shook my head. “No.”

  He grinned. “Keep up the good work.”

  “Thanks,” I replied.

  It took us exactly two hours and twenty-three minutes to finally finish—which was amazing really, if all things were considered. My back ached as I leaned on the counter. The caterer had been there for an hour and was carefully preparing every dish along with his staff.

  “Okay, I’m not sure of your sizes, but these should work.” The owner was now out of her bathroom and in a tight pink floor-length gown with a built-in pushup bra that screamed ‘stare at my tits’. Around her neck was a long diamond necklace. Her blonde hair was swept to the side, and I wouldn’t lie, she looked stunning. I had found out from one of the guys who were setting up the caviar tray—which looked disgusting—that the lady’s name was Irene Monrova and that she was the daughter of some big investor or something. She’d just come back from France and was holding a welcome home bash…for herself, which seemed really sad, in all honesty.

  “What?” Earlene moved to the stack of real black and white maids’ uniforms. “No. We clean.”

  “I just called your boss, so don’t worry. I’ll pay extra. Come on, go change. Can anyone translate for me?” she glanced over at the food staff.

  Earlene looked at her watch. “Mi hijo.”

  “Go.” I nodded to her, taking the dress from her hands. She needed to be with her son.

  “Wait what? No! I need you all.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll stay and cover whatever she needs to do,” I said. Carlotta came over, grabbing the black dress and an apron.

  “You speak English?” she glared at me.

  I shrugged. “A little.”

  “You’re not funny, and if I didn’t need you right now, I’d throw you out for making a fool of me.”

  I wanted to tell her she was doing a fine job of that on her own, but I just nodded, though I was tempted to add an ‘okay’.

  She spun around and marched over to sample the food.

  “How much you think we will get paid for this?” Carlotta asked. She was probably a few years older than me, though she was a full head shorter. Foster pointed to the back room where we could change. It was filled with boxes upon boxes of unopened paintings, chairs, and cabinets. There was barely space for us to change, but we managed.

  The moment I tried to button up my dress, one around my breast popped off.

  “Are you serious right now?” I said, staring at my chest. My tits weren’t even that big, but the dresses were just so tight. I looked at Carlotta, whose dress fit her perfectly, and I realized this costume was not tall girl friendly.

  “Can you ask Ms. Monrova if she has another one?” I asked Carlotta and she nodded then headed out.

  I didn’t bother covering up. If my boobs offended them, they were going to have to get over it. I was too damn tired to even care at that point.

  “What is the problem? Now I’m—” Ms. Monrova came forward, stopping when she saw my black bra.

  “You ruined it?”

  “It was too tight. Do you have a bigger one?”

  “No, I don’t have a bigger one. What are we going to do? People are going to be here any minute, and there is no way you can go back out in jeans.”

  “If Mr. Foster could spare T-shirts and bow ties, I can make formal uniforms for Carlotta and me.”

  “Who’s Carlotta?” She stared, utterly confused.

  I pointed to the woman standing right beside her and who had just cleaned her entire house.

  “Oh okay. I’ll have Foster bring you the shirts, but hurry. Don’t ruin this.” She huffed before exiting. You’d think it was her wedding day.

  Stripping out of the dress, I reached into my backpack and grabbed a pair of scissors and my sewing kit. It wasn’t going to have a perfect seam, but at that point, I didn’t care. Carlotta handed me hers as well.

  “You’re so good at that,” she said as I cut off the tops and sewed down the extra material.

  “Years of practice.” If the Bunny Rabbit had taught me anything, it was how to be good under pressure. “Step in, and hold. When I get the shirts, I’m going to make it a little tight, but you can rip it later to get out of it.”

  “Miss.” There was a knock at the door.

  Opening it, I reached out and took the clothing from him. “Thanks Foster.”

  “No, thank you. Sorry for the short notice.” He wasn’t the one who should have been apologizing to us.

  Carlotta took the bigger shirt and buttoned up the front quickly as I tucked it into the skirt. Some clever cutting into the front made it look like we hadn’t stolen shirts from a guy. I then pulled the extra material to the back and pinned it in place. Carlotta reached for the bow tie and I took it from her, cutting the neck part of the shirt before placing the bow right above her breasts.

  “Good.” I gave her a thumbs up before skipping over to my own. I was sewing and cutting so fast that I cut my finger.

  “Ah.” I hissed and immediately put my thumb in my mouth so I wouldn’t get any blood anywhere. I then reached into my bag for a Band-Aid.

  “Are you okay? You are good at everything.” Carlotta laughed at me.

  “Years of practice means years of mistakes too.” I smiled while wrapping my finger. I then stepped into the skirt after I buttoned up my cutout top with a bow. It was a little tighter when I was done, but it was better than nothing.

  “Good?” I asked her while spinning around.

  “Maravilloso.”

  “Yeah, let’s just hope the boss thinks so,” I muttered, stepping out the side.

  When I did, she was waiting and tapping her foot nervously. She glanced over us and took a deep breath.

  “Okay, let’s do this Boston. Irene is back in action.”

  It was a little after ten by the time I swung around to Irene’s townhouse. Max had said he was only five minutes away, and I hoped he was right. Irene was going to need her cousin that night of all nights.

  There were a total of four people who came to welcome her back, not including the staff. They all looked like bloody captives, eyeing the door, but were too afraid to take any steps toward it.

  “Welcome sir, may I have your
coat?”

  “I’m fine mate. I won’t be staying long,” I told him, clasping my hands on his shoulder and looking for anything to get me drunk fast enough to forget this cluster fuck already.

  Irene and I weren’t close at all, but she frequently brought her ‘friends’ to my restaurant to show off that she knew me personally. As long as she enjoyed the food, I didn’t give a bloody hell, either way. My plan was to watch Max struggle to make small talk and then sexually frustrate him across the crowd until he’d make up some bollocks scheme to leave, but that was no longer a possibility. Shame.

  Drunk sex would just have to do.

  “Pardon me, are you the keeper of the alcohol?” I spoke to the server at the bar cleaning glasses.

  “I’ll bring some now—” She whipped around, nearly tripping over her own feet as the glass in her hands dropped to the floor. Catching her, I held her still. “You all right?”

  “I’m so sorry!” she gasped out, brushed back her auburn hair before bending down to pick up the shattered glass.

  “Thanks, but I got it,” she said when I bent down to help her.

  “I’m a professional at broken dishware.”

  “Oh really? This happens a lot?” She snickered, glancing up at me, and at the same moment, I looked at her. Our faces were barely an inch apart.

  Her hazel brown eyes were stunning as she stared at me in shock. They were warm brown in the center and seemed to have this honey-colored hue toward the edge.

  “Sorry,” she said again, backing away and standing up. “I’ll get a broom.”

  Just like that, she escaped. I couldn’t look away from her. I didn’t want to. However, because the master of the universe loved misunderstandings, that just so happened to be the same moment I saw Max standing at the door. He had no expression on his face, which meant he was doing his best not to let anyone know what he was feeling or thinking.

  He stared at me once more before walking toward the kitchen.

  Angry sex it is then, I thought to myself as I reached over the bar and helped myself.

  “You cut your hands again?” I heard a maid speak when I stepped into the kitchen. The caterer and his staff were all just sitting around, either eating the food they were supposed to be serving or mesmerized by their phones.