by Max Henry
“She’s doing her job then.”
I glare at my phone, fingertips biting into the indentation of my obliques. “Yes.”
“Check-in is half an hour before your flight is scheduled, Roman. Don’t be late.”
And with that, my mother ends the call.
No “I’m sorry we’re doing this to you,” or “I wish we could give you more time.”
Just a “Don’t be late” from the executioner to the damned.
Precious.
I snag the phone from where it rests and shove it in the back of my black jeans to saunter down the long hallway to my bedroom. The slim mirrors offset either side of the walkway give flashes of my profile as I pass by. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I pause before one, unable to wait until I get to the full-size reflection that awaits me in my room.
My shoulders are nicely rounded, my arms noticeably thicker than when I left thanks to all the outdoor sports I whiled away the daylight hours with during my holiday. Holiday. I chuckle at the word as it rolls around in my mind. Can I even call it that when I have nothing to take a break from?
A holiday is what the working class craves; a reward at the end of another hard year shaving two off your life expectancy.
People like me don’t take holidays. We travel. Gain “world experience.” Learn the fine art of emotional manipulation before tasked with applying it to the seasoned men at the head of our family’s rival companies.
I tilt my head to the right and lift my chin to regard the fine stubble that graces my jawline. This rugged appearance adds a certain edge. A finesse that screams, “don’t fuck with me.”
I might keep it.
The clunk of something hitting the hardwood to my right draws me from the sweet decent into self-reflection. Eyes sharpening on the source of the noise, I move toward my bedroom door. Four weeks I’ve been gone, and already some opportunistic fuck from downstairs has made my house his home.
Feet firm with each step, I stride toward what is no doubt some immigrant asshole prepared to rip him a new fucking asshole. My fingers ache, balled tight at my sides before I lift both hands to punt open the double doors that lead into the master suite.
Afternoon light paints a cherry-orange hue across the gray carpet, my bed spattered in rays of life where it sits proudly against the left wall.
The fucking drapes are parted. I never open them, even an inch.
“Where the fuck are you?” My words bounce back at me, reflected off the polished concrete walls. “No point hiding, you filthy fucking freeloader.”
A scrape from within the expansive bathroom, a swish of water. Whoever this fuck is, he’s in no hurry to get his ass out here and face the goddamn music.
“Five seconds, buddy,” I holler down the length of the room. “Five seconds to get out here with a fucking good reason why you’re in my home.”
Fuck having such a vast apartment. Twenty feet between me and the door. Twenty fucking feet the cunt could use to get a head start on me if he chooses to run.
I narrow the gap, whittle away his chances.
“Five, four, three—”
“Christ’s sake! Would you let me finish?”
The fuck?
TWO
Sierra
Taking a job to clean some rich asshole’s house kind of spells the issues out before you even start. One—he’s guaranteed to be an entitled, arrogant, rude jerk. Two—he probably doesn’t know how to flush a toilet, let alone clean one. And three—he most likely believes he’s above the law, with one unto himself.
“I’ll be right with you!”
The rubber gloves snap off my hands, hitting the cleaning bucket with a slap. I toss the rag I’d used to dry the mirror on top, then stoop to collect the bucket and carry case of chemicals and assorted tools.
The array of shit provided to clean this museum of a home makes the two squirty bottles and single sponge I have at home seem like child’s play. I swear I should need a degree to operate the array of toxins I have at my disposal, but nope, all I needed was a good back and the ability to start straight away.
It was either this or hone my dancing skills. I know which hell I prefer.
“I’m sorry,” I explain as I head out the door into the bedroom that’s easily larger than my entire rented rooms. “I’m running late. I should have been gone by now.”
I lift my head to take in the fat, balding asshole…and choke.
He ain’t fat. And he’s sure as fuck not balding.
Nope. This guy has a head of thick black hair that sits tousled atop a classically handsome face. A face that belongs to a fit and taut guy who not only stands shirtless but rocks a body belonging to someone my age.
Not the greasy Fortune 500 creep I assumed I’d be working for.
Shit.
“You’re the housekeeper,” he drops as though the words on his tongue leave a physical bad taste.
I match his hard stare, tilting my head to the right a little. “Got a problem with that?”
“I’ve got a problem with you being here as though you have a right to be seen and heard while you’re at work.”
What the fuckity-fuck? “Excuse me?”
“Are you done?” The jerk lifts both muscular arms high, stretching his clasped hands above his head. “I want to take a shower, and you’re in my way.”
“By all means.” I sweep my hand with the bucket in its grasp toward the room I recently exited. “Go mess up my perfectly clear glass.”
He snorts, lips curled in a tantalizing smirk as he passes by. I resist the urge to stick out a foot and trip up the bastard. He leaves the door wide open, standing in the middle of the space and in full view as he takes to his black jeans. I’m staring; I know it.
I also don’t give a shit.
God gifted me with this incredible creature as my so-called boss. I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Anything else you need before I leave?”
He shunts both thumbs in the waistband of his pants and shoves them down to reveal a taut ass. “I’m relatively certain my mother wouldn’t have hired an in-house hooker to clean for me, so unless you do that kind of thing for free, no.”
Jerk. “I love the way you automatically assume I’d be interested,” I say on a laugh. “I’ll be back tomorrow if you’re home now.”
He disappears behind the wall to flick the showerheads on. Yep. Showerheads. That glass cavern had four. Four fucking pipes throwing warm rain over the floor. I didn’t even know you could get them installed with more than two.
“What time tomorrow?” His voice carries, echoed off the tiled walls.
“In the afternoon?”
“Make it the morning and skip tomorrow,” he instructs from inside the shower. “I’d rather you weren’t around in the evening when I’m more likely to have company.”
“Sick son-of-a-bitch,” I mutter under my breath. “How early?”
“Do you mean, how late?”
A heavy breath rushes from my nose, hands tightening on the bucket and carry case.
“After eight,” he hollers as the water ricochets with tiny pings and splashes. “If you turn up any earlier, I’ll get you replaced.”
“No need for the macho threats,” I holler, turning for the bedroom door. “I know how to follow instructions.”
When I thought he was old and disgusting, it was so much easier to overlook the wealth thrown in my face. If he was ugly, I could justify that he deserved some perk out of life when God hadn’t given him the skills to get a good woman. But knowing the man who lives here is six-foot of youthful dominance? Fuck it. I hate him twice as much.
Jerks like him are the ones who get life gifted to them on a silver platter, while honest hearts like me are the ones who struggle week to week, always wondering what roadblock life will throw up next.
I hate sounding so spiteful and jaded, but man, how the fuck is this fair?
The shower’s echo fades to nothing by the time I reach the far end of his ma
ssive apartment to stash the cleaning supplies in my butler’s closet. It’s not a room. Not when the rest of the spaces here are no less than ten by ten. Nope. This is a closet. I can’t even reach the shelves behind me without closing the door first to get it out of my way.
The pen scratches across the top of the monogrammed paper, marking down what supplies I need. I couldn’t believe it when the building super showed me the check sheet and informed that another paid servant of the family would be in once a month to order whatever I have noted. My stomach clenched even tighter with anger when I laid eyes on the swanky C decorated at the top of the page. I have no idea who the Carpithua’s are, but it doesn’t take a genius to know that whatever they do, they probably own more than half the industry.
I may have gone home the first night and googled the price of apartments in this building. I may have shaken with rage when I saw that places a quarter the size of this one go for more than a million.
One man. On his own. No family.
I have three of us in one shitty little house, sharing the monthly rent.
I decide to forgo my gloves, shoving them in the pockets of my coat instead. I’m too damn wound up from today’s interaction to need an extra layer our in the bitter winter winds. There’s nothing like a healthy dose of rage to get the blood pumping and negate the need for heat.
Settling my scarf loosely around the back of my neck as I head for the lift, I find the jerk now seated in the sunken living room. He reclines on the taupe settee; dark gray T-shirt stretched across his chest as he angrily scrolls through his phone. I run my eye down to his bare feet, to the way he seems so at home and yet equally unhappy to be here.
It’s a strange combination—one that I have no business finding curiosity in.
His gaze lifts from the device to find me paused a few feet from the call button. “You still here?”
Not wanting to be “heard” while I’m at work, I lift forefinger to my lips and back toward the lift slowly.
His eyes light up, yet the hard set of his lips never changes.
The soft chime signals my ride has arrived.
He waits until the doors slide open to ask, “What do I call you?”
With my back to the mirrored wall, I lift my chin to answer. “The help.”
“That how you want to play, is it?” He swings both feet to the floor, strong legs lifting him to his full height.
I smirk and shrug one shoulder.
The doors begin to close, framing him perfectly as he heads toward me only to stop a few feet from where I prepare to leave. “In that case.” He folds his arms; the accentuated size of his arms makes me hot all over again for an entirely new reason. “You can call me Sir.”
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ALSO BY MAX
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STANDALONE
Malaise
Tough Love
Echoes In The Storm
ARCADIA HIGH ANARCHISTS (Mature YA)
High Horse
Good Girls
Bad Boys
Rich Riot
Loyal Love
Done Deal
DARK TIDE SERIES (Rock star)
Down Beat
Amplifier
Bottleneck
TWISTED HEARTS DUET (New Adult/Age Gap)
Desire
Regret
Trust
FALLEN ACES MC SERIES
Unrequited
Unbreakable
Tormented
Existential
Misguided
BUTCHER BOYS SERIES
Devil You Know
Devil on Your Back
Devil May Care
Devil in the Detail
Devil Smoke
RED HOT READ NOVELLAS
One More Night
Playing with the Boss
Lady Killer
Physical Therapy
THE MUSIC
Listen to the songs that encouraged the book here: https://spoti.fi/3g3vO2Y
“Blinding Lights” – The Weeknd
“Don’t Let A Good Girl Down” – Thelma Plum
“Full Moon” – Gehringer
“Grounds” – IDLES
“Hooked” – Notion, My Nu Leng
“I Will Possess Your Heart” – Death Cab For Cutie
“My Mind’s Sedate” – Shihad
“Not Angry Anymore” – Thelma Plum
“Popular” – Nada Surf
“Roses – Imanbek Remix” – SAINt JHN, Imanbek
“Shazam!” – Spiderbait
“Sugar” – Peking Duk, Jack River
“You & Me” – Bassnectar, W. Darling
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born and raised in Canterbury, New Zealand, Max now resides with her family in beautiful and sunny Queensland, Australia.
Life with two young children can be hectic at times and, although she may not write as often as she would like, Max wouldn’t change a thing.
An avid lover of stories from a young age, she enjoys nothing more than to get lost in the pages while the characters dictate what direction she takes. Her favourite genre to write is young/new adult and the events in her stories may or may not be related to real life experiences (only she will ever know for sure).
In her down time, Max can be found at her local gym brainstorming through a session with the weights. If not, she’s probably out drooling over one of many classic cars on show that she wishes she owned.
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