Exposure

Property near fire that may become involved by transfer of heat or burning material from main fire, typically little or no outside logistical support.

 

Christmas.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year. My ass it is.

Anyone who really believes that never walked in on their boyfriend fucking the neighbor two days before Christmas.

And to top it all off, when I went to break up with the bastard, he dumped me before I could get a word in and asked me to move out.

What the shit?

How does that even happen?

To make matters worse, I’m standing in the lobby of the hotel I work at wondering what the fuck I’m doing here on Christmas Eve. I could have stayed home, or rather at Scarlet’s apartment, because as I said before, cheating, bastard boyfriend equals homelessness for me.

But, unfortunately, being part of the hospitality industry means we’re never closed, so here I am going to work on a holiday.

I’m still pretty new at my job, not to mention the owner’s daughter, so I figure it’s better to be here and prove I’m dedicated to my job.

Standing in the lobby of The Wellington Plaza, I’m reminded of the fact that my dad doesn’t go halfway on anything, and he certainly didn’t half-ass anything when he built this hotel. The Wellington Plaza is a five-star luxury hotel consisting of thirty-one floors, one thousand guest rooms and suites, eight restaurants, three bars, four pools, a salon and spa, eight meeting rooms and two convention centers.

When you walk into the lobby, rich, bold colors greet you. Pops of red and black walls—my father’s favorite colors—meet sleek polished black marble floors. It sits in the outskirts of the city on Capitol Hill and boasts breathtaking views of the Space Needle, Elliott Bay, Lake Union and Union Bay.

Turning to walk toward the front desk, my heels click against the marble and I can’t help but think even though I’ve been walking through these doors since I was a little girl, I still find myself stopping to appreciate the visual impact this place has on a person when they enter.

It’s pretty damn spectacular.

“What are you doing here?” Tom asks, standing to the side of the front desk with two sets of keys in his hand and running his hand over his scruffy cheek. There’re some people who shouldn’t be a valet driver, and Tom Chase is one of them. Not to mention he’s too pretty for his job and he’s wrecked like four cars in his five-year employment here. “I thought you had the weekend off for Christmas?” he asks, looking at the keys in his hand like he’s trying to figure out what keys go to what reservations. If it wasn’t for Stevie, the other valet attendant, Tom would be lost. Actually, most of the time he’s lost.

I choose not to say anything because Tom is a friend, a friend who knows about my relationship with Judah and more importantly, he knows Judah so if I answer him, it will be glaringly obvious something is wrong. Soon after, he’ll put two and two together and come up with the fact that I got dumped by an asshole who cheated on me.

Keep in mind this is not natural for me. I have to physically purse my lips not to say anything because one of my major flaws is me not being able to keep my fucking mouth shut.

I’m not someone you want to share a secret with. It’s a curse I have.

“I did . . .” I catch myself, digging through my bag for my cell phone as it’s ringing, again, always. “I do. Or I should, but I just . . .” I can’t come up with a good enough lie, so I shake my head and give up.

Turning quickly, I avoid eye contact with him, toss my phone on the counter and pick up a folder in an attempt to at least appear to be reviewing the upcoming reservations for an investment firm looking to book fifty rooms for their employees. It’s also an attempt to distract myself from saying any more to Tom.

A quick glance from the corner of my eye and I notice Tom staring at me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. After a couple of minutes, I turn so I’m still not looking at him, but I can see him looking at me and notice what seems to be understanding taking place in his inquisitive stare.

Stupid intuitive ass.

“I take it you and Judah are having problems?”

Having problems? Oh, isn’t that cute. He’s trying to pass this off as a simple misunderstanding? I think the only misunderstanding involved in what happened with Judah is him misunderstanding he wasn’t supposed to have stuck his pierced dick in someone else.

“Well, gee, Tom if you mean ‘misunderstanding’ in the sense that Judah fucked our neighbor, and then told me I should move out before I could tell him to kiss my ass then yes, yes we had a big fucking misunderstanding!” The moment the words are said, a sharp pain hits my heart. Oh God, does my pride hurt admitting this.

I think it would have been better if I broke up with him first, if for no other reason than my dignity, but the asshole beat me to it, which is just so Judah Prince. If nothing else his timing is always on and he takes orders from no one.

Tom’s face twists slightly, and he swallows, hard, the kind of swallow where you’re wondering if he’s choking down a peanut without chewing.

I think he’s having this type of reaction and hesitation because he’s in a band with Judah, which is how I met the bastard in the first place. Tom’s attempting to gauge whether I blame him for this whole mess.

Well, the answer is yes. I definitely hold him responsible for bringing that dick lick into my life but unfortunately, there’s no one to blame but myself for moving in with him after only a few months of dating, but let’s not dwell on my bad judgment and get back to blaming Tom.

In Tom’s defensive, he did warn me before I started my so-called relationship with Judah that it was a mistake, but I was being thoroughly fucked by the hot drummer in a band, so any warnings were heard about as clearly as Charlie Brown’s teacher in every damn cartoon, “whaa whaa, whaa.”

“Shit, Mila, I’m sorry, girl.” He’s cut off from any other conversation when something over my shoulder catches his eye. Tom shifts his stance, nodding toward the lobby behind me while he pulls at his dark gray button-down shirt trying to smooth out the wrinkles and then zips his black jacket up.

It’s then I realize he notices my father in the distance hovering near the lobby doors. Tom is deathly scared of my dad. Not for any other reason than he owns this hotel and can fire his car parking ass at any time. “I gotta go.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Tom. Run away.”

“I got cars to park, woman.” With his hands buried in the pockets of his black slacks, he doesn’t turn back around. Not that I expect him to.

He’s not sorry. At least I don’t think he’s as sorry as he should be. Remember how I said Tom’s in a band with Judah?

Well, he’s not just in the band, he’s the lead singer. When I heard from some of the other staff at the hotel his band was playing at a local club, one highly intoxicated night I decided to go check them out. I told myself I’d go and listen, but that I wouldn’t fuck the singer. Made an actual pinky promise to myself. You see, Tom being said lead singer of this particular band, and well let’s face it, singers in any band are bad news, and there’re about twenty or so hostesses and maids here at The Wellington Plaza who can attest to Tom’s reputation.

He’s a dirty motherfucker who likes to spread his love.

So what do I do? I’m sure you can guess. I go for the drummer because in my drunk-ass mind as long as they’re not the singer, how bad can they be?

Wrong. Dead fucking wrong. Dating a guy like Judah was cool, until he wasn’t. Sure, the sex was good. Who am I kidding? It was amazing. Though his fetish with anal play was a bit alarming at times, and he wasn’t exactly what you’d call boyfriend material. Didn’t stop me. I still moved in with him.

When I graduated college a year ago, I slept on Scarlet’s couch and at a few other friend’s places. I refused to move back home. Essentially homeless, it left me in Judah’s bed every night. One night after we’d fucked for like four hours straight, he suggested I could you know, keep some things at his place. So I moved in. Didn’t even think twice about it.

Maybe he didn’t mean all my stuff. Maybe he just meant my toothbrush or a few articles of clothing. I didn’t ask. I just moved in and started sleeping over every night like the bed jumping whore I’d become.

This was one of those times where you wished you knew someone who had lived your life before you so they could warn you before you did stupid shit. So appreciate any advice I give you. You don’t have to thank me, just appreciate it.

Also, do yourself a favor, don’t date a drummer. Hell, stay away from the whole fucking band! I’m living proof. That old saying, drummers hit it harder yeah, well, my ass is definitely proof of that. There’re marks down there I’m sure will never go away. He wasn’t abusive by any means, just, how do I say this . . . Actually, let me rephrase now that I’m giving this some thought. Have sex with drummers, do that a lot and you won’t regret it, but do not under any circumstances “date” them and for fuck’s sack, do not move in with them.

Take the advice. Trust the advice. For once I know what the fuck I’m talking about.

And if his name is Judah Prince, run as fast as you can.

Look past the fact that he has a vibrating tongue ring and a pierced dick. You’ll thank me for that too. After you fuck him, you’ll thank me. Before fucking happens, you might be intimidated by his dark controlling eyes, as you should be. But seriously, take advantage of the vibrating tongue ring a few times though.

And if you decide not to heed my warnings and you somehow find yourself shacking up with a drummer, don’t get too comfy there because sooner or later, you’re going to find him fucking your neighbor and about to pass out in the hallway with his pants around his ankles because guess what, he didn’t even have enough decency to mount the single mom next door in a bed. They did it against her apartment door. Probably because her kids were sleeping in the apartment. Classy.

And the best part, the part that really puts the icing on the, “Are you fucking kidding me?” cake, just as you finally get him sober enough to break it off with him and his pierced dick, he breaks up with you and asks you to move out.

Truth is, I don’t know why I thought things would have worked out with Judah and me. We’re complete opposites. Where he would stay out until three or four in the morning, I liked to be in bed by ten, and up by five to start the day. Where I liked black coffee, Judah liked Black Label and downed that shit like it was water. But whatever, it’s over now and I’m not going to be bitter.

Oh fuck that. I am bitter. How the hell do you get dumped by someone you catch in the act of fucking someone else? Bastard wasn’t even man enough to let me have the satisfaction of breaking up with him!

Drummers. That’s all I can say.

Unfortunately, my relationship with Judah was my third strike, and in my book, that means I’m out. Out of the game. No dating for me. Obviously, I wasn’t meant to have a successful relationship.

Need more evidence?

Before Judah, I had two serious relationships that ended in breakups. One was a tearful first-love devastation, and one was something similar to me begging my parents to tell said breakup boy I was dead so he’d leave me alone. And now you know about Judah.

So love life status?

Awful.

 

“SO . . .” A VOICE beside me draws my attention to her. It’s Scarlet, my best friend who is now my roommate. Shh. She doesn’t know I snuck into her apartment last night while she was out.

Actually, now that I think about it, that slut didn’t come home last night.

“Why are you here? I thought you had today off?” She slides a muffin across the counter to me.

You’re probably thinking, aww, that’s sweet. She brought you breakfast. Don’t let Scarlet Rose fool you.

I know where she got it from. She hijacked it from the breakfast bar we’ve set up on the third floor for the Department of Labor and Industries. They’re occupying most of the floor’s conference rooms during their annual electrical training. They’re also part of the reason I’m using to explain my being here this morning. Without me here today, it leaves Heather in charge, and I don’t trust her as far as I can throw her bony ass. She’s one of many who questions my position here, and I wouldn’t put it past her to do something to make me look bad. I know I can’t be here every minute but I can be here today, broken hearted or not.

I don’t make eye contact with Scarlet and continue to look over Shaw Investments requests for their meeting next week. “I did have today off but there’s just too much to do here.”

“I know you don’t trust her, but it’s Heather’s job as the front desk manager.” Scarlet leans into the counter, scrunching her light brows together just before she adjusts her tight, somewhat overly curly hair in her ponytail. “I’m calling bullshit. What’s going on? Did something happen with Judah last night?”

I turn to her and give her the look. The one that says, I needed you last night and your slutty ass wasn’t home!

Isn’t that what best friends are supposed to do? Comfort you in the time of need? I mean yeah, she didn’t know I was in need, but that’s not the point.

“You know,” I begin, glaring at my friend. “It’s funny you mention last night because I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t come home after your night out.”

Her eyes widen, and she tilts her head to the left, just a smidge. “And how do you know that?”

“I know because I was on your couch, waiting for you so we could cry while eating ice cream, and Doritos nachos.”

There’s a quick moment when I can see she feels bad about not being there for me. But she says, “Yeah, well I was out and anyway, how was I supposed to know you were stalking my couch?” She stands up straighter, smoothing out her uniform. “Wait a minute . . . how exactly did you get into my locked apartment?”

“You left your window open in your nonsmoking apartment you can’t seem to stop smoking in.” Grabbing my folders, the muffin, and cell phone, I walk toward the elevators. “I’ve gotta go. I have a meeting.”

I hear her sigh. “We’re talking about this later.”

“Uh-huh.”

She’s right. We will, but right now I don’t have time.

 

AS THE GENERAL manager at Wellington Suites, I have a meeting every single morning I’m here, which is usually a minimum of six days a week.

While I’m an early riser, I wouldn’t exactly describe myself as a morning person. I’m even less inclined to describe myself as someone who enjoys meeting with my staff who may or may not be plotting my demise first thing in the morning. Unfortunately, in the hotel industry and especially with a property this large, it’s necessary because of everything we have going on any given day.

Wellington Suites is one of the most successful luxury hotels in downtown Seattle. We’re a popular destination for anything from over-the-top weddings to multiday conferences. Sometimes multiple functions at once so for me to be managing a property of this size at the age of twenty-six definitely has many people waiting for me to fail.

Some of that animosity comes from the fact that the owner of the hotel, Weston Wellington, is my father. It’s nepotism at its finest, but don’t let the fact that my dad gave me the job fool you. This hotel has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. I’ve spent my entire life walking these halls.

My father made sure I worked every job held here so that I would understand the ins and outs of what makes a hotel of this magnitude truly successful—its staff.

Truth be told, the hardest part of my job has been proving myself. Every other senior manager in the hotel thinks the position should be theirs, so it’s a constant battle of having to show them daily that I’m not only competent but also capable.

Our morning meetings are held on the second floor in the Evergreen Room. It’s one of our larger conference rooms, making it big enough to house all our department heads and their egos in one place.

As I walk into the meeting room, I notice Heather, the front desk manager, is sitting in the room alone, twirling locks of her curly blonde-roots-showing hair around a pen. When she notices my presence, she shoots me a look of disapproval, “Where is everyone?”

Bitch acts like she’s been sitting here for hours. “They still have a few minutes.” I smile, despite wanting to take this folder in my hand and slap her right across her pretty pale face. “I’m sure everyone will be here soon.”

And then she has the nerve to say, “I have so much to do this morning.”

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. It’s the same complaint I hear from her every morning. She’s one of those people who is constantly chattering about how busy they are yet I never actually see her doing much of anything but bossing the front desk assistants around.

“I’ll try to make it quick so you can get back to it.” I take a seat at the head of the table trying to force a smile on my broken-hearted face.

There’re a few people at this hotel I can’t stand. Heather is one of them.

We have a total of five senior department heads and with their titles comes some impressive egos. Needless to say, I have my hands full in these meetings.

Just as I thought, people start to slowly file in within minutes. The first to walk in and take a seat right next to Heather is Larry, the Food and Beverage Manager.

When he notices me, Larry cocks his head to the side and clicks his pen, notebook laid out before him the instant he sits down. “Mila, you’re here today?”

Everyone’s so perceptive.

Larry applied for my position too. He almost got it but my graduation with a Master’s Degree in Hospitality Management at the same time the position became available derailed his chance for the job.

Don’t get me wrong. I get why that would chafe some people’s asses, I really do. But the facts are between my degree and my lifelong exposure to this world, I’m completely qualified for the job. Some people just need to get over themselves.

Taking a large bite from my muffin, I chew slowly and then smile. “Well, Larry, here I sit, so yes, I’m here today.”

Soon enough, the rest of the senior department heads come in and before any of them can ask why I’m here this morning, we get started on what’s happening over the next few days. We have a couple of VIP’s coming in this week including an FMX motorcycle racer, Shade Sawyer, who always throws the hotel off balance. Mostly because he brings with him not only a full entourage of friends, family, agents and business managers but also a string of woman who he expects should have access to his room at all times. And don’t even get me started on the nightly parties in the penthouse suite which usually require us to remodel afterward. Ever seen chairs glued to the ceiling?

Have Shade Sawyer stay at our hotel and you’ll find them there and a monkey in the bathroom taking a bubble bath. Shit you not. The monkey was adorable. I wanted to keep him, well, until he shit all over the room.

Why do we put up with it? Because money talks and he’s got it in spades.

The meeting goes smoothly, which is surprising because it usually never does.

I check in with guest services to make sure everything’s set for Shade’s arrival, and then with the facilities manager. So far today, everything seems to be running smoothly.

I’m settling into my office when Scarlet comes barreling through the door, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. “Holy shit,” she gasps, attempting to catch her breath and holds up one hand as if to say I have to stop everything and listen to her, “am I hearing right? Because word in the breakroom is that Shade Sawyer will be here this week?”

I laugh. Scarlet is obsessed with Shade. He once said hello to her in the hall after she changed the sheets in his room and stocked his bathroom with condoms. Ever since then she thinks they made a connection, and it’s only a matter of time before he eventually falls madly in love with her in passing, should they meet again.

“He checks in on the twenty-seventh.”

She taps her chin, contemplatively. “Perfect! I’m working that day. Do a girl a solid and make sure I’m assigned to his floor that day, would ya?” And then she fist-pumps the air and plops down on the couch in my office. Shifting, she turns so she can take in the view from the office window. “Shit, you really do have the best view.”

She’s right. My office is on the fifth floor overlooking Elliott Bay. The view is fabulous, and I spend more time in here than I do in anyone’s bed. Notice how I don’t say home? I clearly don’t have one.

While I’ve considered moving into my office because it’s certainly big enough, there’s just something about sleeping at this hotel on a permanent basis I don’t like. I feel like I would still be living under my parents’ roof and while I may have been given an opportunity because of my last name, I work my ass off to be financially independent, and I refuse to feel like I’m being supported by them any longer.

Scarlet looks around. “Okay, you know I love you and all, but why don’t you just stay here until you figure out your next step?” Instantly, I frown at her question, and she’s quick to add, “Don’t get me wrong, I totally don’t mind you crashing at my place, but it’s a shit hole. This hotel’s like the mack daddy of hotels. I’d kill to live here.”

I sigh, staring out at the bay. “Aside from the fact that I don’t want to deal with the whispers and snickering that I’m living off my parents, there’s no way I’m gonna risk my parents knowing I picked another fuckup to move in with? No, thanks.”

I moved out of my parents’ house on Lake Washington when I was eighteen to live in the dorms on campus at the University of Washington where I went to college. They didn’t live far from the school, but I wanted the complete college experience, and that meant not living at home any longer.

On top of that, I was having sex with one of my dad’s business acquaintances and needed some space to sneak around. It was purely for sex, so I don’t count it as a relationship fail, in case you were keeping track.

And here’s another piece of advice to go along with not dating band members. Don’t date bankers. They’re like politicians. Shady motherfuckers who will pretend you mean the world to them just to spread your legs. Lies. All fucking lies.

I face Scarlet. “Scar, I can’t live at the hotel. Can I just crash at your place for a few weeks?”

“If you introduce me to Shade.”

“You’ve met him.”

She holds up a finger. “Technically, no, I haven’t met him. We spoke briefly in passing.”

“Why do you want to meet that guy so bad?”

“Because I want to have his love child.”

“Fine. Deal. I’ll introduce you when he arrives.”

“Perfect.” Scarlet tosses a pillow from my couch at the back of my head. “And since it’s obvious that you and drummer boy are through, we’re going out.”

Going out is Scarlet’s answer for everything life hands you. Started your period? Go out and drink.

Sprain your ankle falling from a two-story fire escape after sneaking out of married man’s apartment? Go out and drink.

Letting out a dramatic sigh, I spin around in my chair, knowing any argument would be fruitless. I turn to face her. “Fine, but only one drink and then we’re going back to your place.”

I say this knowing damn well I’m completely full of shit. I don’t know one person who has ever—once they declare out loud a “one drink maximum” night—actually accomplished that goal. Ever.

At this point, it’s like a sin to say that because you know damn well you’re never going to keep with it.

Before you know it, you’re doing shots and licking salt off a guy named Vin’s arm, and he’s motorboating your tits on the seat of his Ducati hours later.

True story.