I’m a manipulator.
Don’t look at me that way. It’s not necessarily in a bad way. I get what I want based on my fine persuasive skills.
Need an example?
Got one for you. I convince Dania, another maid at the hotel, to switch me assignments for the day so I can get up to the penthouse suite. Ordinarily she wouldn’t do this because the penthouse suite always tips well.
She does, for me, because I promise her I’ll give her whatever tips I get today. Oh, and I promised her an opportunity with Tom. I hate to break it to her, but Tom’s a slut and I doubt she’d have to try with him, but whatever.
I’m in the elevator, the same one I rode with Shade the other night, and I keep thinking about the way he looked at me over his sunglasses. I think about Rhya, and though I don’t know her, or knew her, I hate that she didn’t stop to think about what it’d do to him. It makes my anger for Asher surface, bubble up and spill over the edges. For so long I thought I’d gotten over him in the last eight years, but I haven’t. You never get over it. You just learn to deal with it and hide the pain.
Setting my phone on my cart, I check Twitter and Instagram again to see if he’s posted anything. Nothing. Could be a good thing, or very bad.
The elevator doors open and I tuck my phone between towels and I’m met with his security standing tall outside the door.
With a deep breath, I push the cart out of the elevator only to have him hold up his large hand, his gray eyes flat and unreadable. “What do you want?”
Rude much?
“I’m from housekeeping,” I point out, trying to keep the irritation from my voice. “I’m here for turndown service.”
The tall burly man eyes my uniform, much like Shade’s brother did. Do you see the way he’s looking at me? It’s crazy, right? “You’re seriously a maid?”
What’s with these guys? Don’t they have maids that look like this at other hotels? Sure, I fill out a uniform nicely, and I’ve made some alterations to my uniform this morning. A few extra buttons might be undone and my water bra is helping my usual B cup breasts. In no way do I resemble a fucking stripper.
“Yes, I’m a maid,” I stutter indignantly.
His shoulders stiffen. “Shade doesn’t want to be disturbed. We called down earlier and told guest services we didn’t need anything.”
Fuck. I didn’t think about that. “Well, I’m already here. Why don’t I just check to make sure? That way I don’t have to go all the way back down if he’s out of towels or something.”
Nice one, Scar. Way to recover.
Do you see the way I smile at him? I have a pretty smile. Not sure why it works so well, or maybe it’s the water bra, but for whatever reason, this man standing guard cracks the door open.
I think about barreling through the door, but I’m about as big as a toddler compared to this guy, and I’d probably end up knocking myself out on one of his biceps. “Mr. Sawyer, housekeeping is here. Do you need anything?”
It’s then I see Shade sitting by the window in a chair, hunched forward, his head in his hands. He doesn’t look up, but he shakes his head, declining.
Do you see that guy over there? The one by the window, dejected, dark circles under his eyes and wearing no shirt?
That man has lost something important to him. That man is struggling. That man fucking needs me to comfort him. I know this pain. I know that dejection, and I’m the only one who can help him through this. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
Before I can launch myself at Shade, the door slams shut. The security guard crosses his arms over his chest, again. “You heard it for yourself. He doesn’t need anything.”
Wrong. He does. He needs me, damn it. He needs me to sit with him. He needs me to tell him as much as this sucks and hurts, it eventually gets better. He needs me to tell him the one piece of advice I got from Asher’s mom that eventually led me to “accepting” his death.
“People who take their own lives are gone before we can make a difference.”
Do you understand it? I didn’t at first, but then it slowly made sense to me.
Maybe he’s not ready to hear those words. Actually, I’m almost certain by the look of him inside that hotel room, he’s not ready. It doesn’t stop me from wanting to comfort him.
My words are gentle, meant to deliver my concern for Shade when I ask, “Is he okay?”
The first look of sincerity crosses this stone-cold man’s face. “No, he’s not.”
“If he changes his mind, just give me a call.” And yes, I write my cell phone number on a soap package and hand it to him knowing damn well it’s not getting to Shade.
The man takes the soap, glances at the number and then hands it back to me, his eyebrow gathering. “I’ll let Mila know if he needs anything.”
Ugh. Of course. But still, Mila and I are tight. If they call and need something, who do you think she’ll send?
Bitch better send me or her ass won’t have a couch to sleep on.
I’M PISSED OFF by the time I find Mila in the lobby doing whatever it is she does as a manager.
She knows what I’m going to say. At least I think she does because she doesn’t even look up at me. “What?”
“Shade won’t let anyone in his room for turndown service. How can I present myself naked in his bed if he won’t even let the maid in?”
How can I let him know I’ve experienced pain like his and it won’t last forever? I’m not about to tell Mila that, as she doesn’t know about Asher, but I’m still thinking it.
After glancing around the lobby, Mila takes me by the arm and leads me over to the entrance of the restaurant, attempting to maintain privacy I assume. “He checked out.”
Does she think I’m stupid? I just literally saw the dude by the windows in the penthouse suite looking like if they opened, he’d hurl himself out of them. I wasn’t about to tell her the room looked trashed either. She’s lying to me and she sucks at it. “He did not, Mila.” I jab at her shoulder, annoyed. “I know he’s holed up in the penthouse suite avoiding the media, and you need to let me in there.” If anyone could convince Shade to let me in, it’d be Mila.
“Nope. Checked out.”
I roll my eyes. Does she take me for an idiot?
I know how this works though. Shade’s famous. And his friend killed herself and he hasn’t commented yet. Naturally, our hotel lobby is full of paparazzi trying to get a peek at Shade and get him to comment. If I can’t get to him, neither can these jerks.
Glaring at Mila, I place my hands on my hips. “Stop lying. You’re awful at it.” We step inside the restaurant, Mila’s eyes wandering around the room looking for someone. “Is it true?”
I have to give Mila credit here. Her expression is unreadable. “Is what true?”
“That his girlfriend killed herself?”
“Scarlet,” she whispers, “yes, he’s here, but I can’t tell you any more than that. I don’t know much other than he doesn’t want to see anyone and wants to be left alone.”
I could have told her that.
“Which is why you should talk to him about letting me in,” I say diplomatically. “I can make him forget.”
While my intention is sexual in nature, as we’ve established, I want to hold him. I also know nothing makes this pain go away, though I want to try for him. When Asher killed himself, I had no one. Absolutely nobody that could relate to the devastation I felt inside, the sense of loss I still haven’t closed because he ended it without closure.
Mila’s not so convinced and I know she’s trying to protect him, but damn it, so am I. “Really? He’d known that girl since he was a baby and he’s tried to protect her just as long. And when she needed him the most, he wasn’t there, and she died.”
“She shot herself in the head,” I deadpan, wondering if she truly understands dying and suicide are different, in my opinion, but I’m quick to add, “At least that’s what the news articles say.”
“I don’t know what she did and it’s not my concern.” Willa, Shade’s PR rep waves to Mila and I want to follow her. “He’s my concern.”
“Mine too,” I yell after her. “Let me in that damn room!”
“I can’t.” She fucking waves me off. “I have work to do. So do you.”
Yeah, well my work isn’t getting done if I can’t get in that room.
You’re wondering why Mila doesn’t know about Asher, aren’t you?
Well, I have a theory. I’ve spent my entire life trying to put up a protective, strong façade so no one will know what’s happened to me. Dad sucks. Mom’s a mess and my first love. . . killed himself because of me. Those walls, my tough girl attitude, it’s the security blanket I use against everything else in my life.
That’s why nobody knows about Asher, and I don’t hang out with anyone I used to know during that time of my life and why eventually, I want to leave Seattle forever.
TWO DAYS PASS. They’re the longest two days of my life where I don’t see Shade and he refuses to let anyone inside the room.
I also can’t blame him for his recluse behavior. Can you? His best friend shot herself. Most people would be a wreck. I don’t even remember the six months following Asher’s death. What I do remember is the paralyzing grief that took over.
I’m in the hallway, my cart in front of me going over my room inspection sheets as Mila passes by me, looking something similar to the time she snuck out of a married man’s apartment and I rescued her with a sprained ankle.
I smile, trying not to laugh. “Are you wearing the same thing you wore yesterday?”
“Yes. . . no.” She appears dejected. “Maybe.”
Fuck, I’m impressed by this girl. Most people think Mila’s uptight, but that’s just a show she puts on. She may not have her clit pierced like me, but she’s a fucking freak. Case in point, take a look at her. Day-old mascara under her eyes and the half attempt at combing her hair, which instead looks like she rode on the back of a motorcycle through Florida in August. Been there, done that, don’t ever want to do it again. Side note, if you do, keep your mouth closed. One word. Bugs.
Smiling with gratification, I tie my hair up in a top knot. Well, attempt to. I can never get all my hair up in a knot. It’s like trying to fold Top Ramen noodles once they’re cooked. “I think I’m proud,” I tell my friend, winking at her.
Her phone beeps, drawing her attention to her hand. After reading the text, her eyes dart to mine, dragging me with her toward the elevators. “We need to go check out the penthouse suite before my dad sees it.”
“Your dad isn’t here today,” I point out. And then it dawns on me she said penthouse suite. Guess who’s in that suite? Yes. Fucking yes, I will go up there with her. Maybe even junk-punch the security guard for not letting me in while I’m at it. I push my cart inside her office and out of the hallway. “Is Shade up there?”
“No. He checked out this morning.”
Of all the luck!
Inside the elevator, I stomp my foot. “Goddamn you, Mila. You said you’d hook a girl up.”
It’s not even about me wanting to be naked in his bed anymore. Well, that’s a fraction of a lie. But it’s more about me wanting to be there for him. Forget the fact that he has no clue who I am other than the maid who gives him condoms and stalks him in elevators, I just want to hold him and let him put his head on my nonexistent boobies while I rub his back. And then we can have sex.
Mila presses the button on the wall to the penthouse suite. “He wasn’t in any condition to meet you. Next time. He’ll be back in two months.”
“Well—” I pause, hmm. . . that does give me more time to come up with a better plan, doesn’t it? “At least I’ll have time to tan my ass. I bet those bitches he sleeps with are all perfectly tan ass cheeks and bleached assholes.”
Do you see me there? The one trying to make jokes? I’m only covering up the fact that I wasn’t able to help Shade. It’s called deflective humor.
On the top floor of Wellington Suites, Mila and I tentatively open the door to the penthouse suite, and I glance at her in fear she’s going to drop dead. I hope she doesn’t have a heart attack. Shade fucked this place up. Have you seen the movie The Hangover? Those guys have nothing on Shade Sawyer when he’s mad. There’s even blood on the wall next to a dent where I can only assume his fist landed a few times.
My first thought is no way he did this. Not Shade. Not the sexy motherfucker who can melt your panties off the moment he slides his sunglasses to the brim of his nose and smirks at you. Certainly not him.
But, with any man like him, the moment you see Shade Sawyer’s face, you know he’s one, beautiful, and two, capable of being out of control. Physically, emotionally, sexually. . . the list goes on, believe me. I’ve known a few like him before.
Do you see the room? Do you see the wooden chair stuck in the drywall and the hundreds of beer cans scattered over the marble floors? I’ve seen some messed up rooms before, but this is by far the worst. Even worse than the time the monkey was left in here.
“Holy shit.” I step over a mountain of broken glass and into the living room where I saw him sitting the other day. Beside the chair are two bottles of vodka. “He had to have been high on something.”
Though I say that, I know exactly what he was high on. Grief. It can make you do some pretty stupid shit. Do you know why?
Here’s my theory. Grieving, it’s our last act of love for the one who’s gone. Does it make sense? Have you ever lost someone you love? If you have, you know what I’m talking about. Grieving is the natural and last reaction to losing love.
And this, the destruction, it’s his natural reaction to her leaving him.
When Asher killed himself, I destroyed my bedroom. I don’t mean I dumped out my drawers and screamed like any teenage girl would over a breakup. I broke windows and doors, ripped clothing to shreds and hit walls until I was bloody. It wasn’t a breakup in my mind. It was devastation. Despite breaking up with Asher that night, it didn’t stop the love. It never would.
BACK IN THE elevator, Mila is on her phone, typing away messages, probably to Shade’s assistant when Tom enters the elevator.
Tom’s a child. He’ll do anything to embarrass you for his own entertainment, especially with Mila. He likes to make her squirm. And yes, he’d love to make her squirm in that way, too, but it hasn’t happened for them that I know of.
Have you taken a good look at Tom yet? If you have any ideas of what he looks like based on what I’ve told you about him so far, I’m guessing you might be spot on. That is if you’re picturing a rocker with black hair, blue eyes and is tattooed from head to toe. Throw in some black gauge stretched lobe earrings and you’ve got Tom Chase, the rocker slash bell boy at Wellington suites. He’s a nice guy, until he’s not. Don’t piss him off. I’ve seen that side before and he’s not friendly and holds a grudge.
Today he’s not grudge holding though and relaxes, leaning casually into the side of the elevator next to Mila. He winks at me, then grins. “Hey, Mila, I found a condom wrapper on the floor in the janitor’s closet. Wonder where it came from.”
Glaring at him, she places her hand over her phone. “Shut up, Tom. You’re living with a homeless man.”
When Mila’s stressed out, she says whatever comes to her mind, even if it doesn’t make sense. One of the many reasons I love her. She’s honest.
“How’s he homeless if he’s living with me?” Tom asks while my attention moves to the red numbers flashing on the wall beside me. “And you’re sleeping on her couch. And it has nothing to do with the condom wrapper or the dirty fucking that took place in there.”
Tucking her phone away, she slaps her hand over Tom’s mouth. “Stop. Talking.”
He grins, and I’m assuming he licks it because she rips her hand away and wipes it on her pants. “You have no idea where my hand has been this morning, and you just licked it.”
Tom shrugs, I think, but I don’t know, I’m not looking. “And honey, you have no idea where my tongue’s been today.”
She really doesn’t. Knowing Tom, I have a few guesses, all of them between the legs of women.
Mila’s on a mission, apparently, and exits the elevator on the second floor. That’s when Tom traps me on the elevator and pushes the Close Door button and stops the elevator.
He corners me, his hands on either side of my head, hard body pressing me into the side of the elevator. Tom’s forward and not afraid of making body contact with anyone. Don’t go thinking this is going anywhere either. It’s not. Been there, done that, probably won’t ever again.
“We need to talk about Dania.” He gives me a pointed glare, dark eyebrows knitting together before his tongue jets out and he licks his bottom lip. “What were you thinking telling her to call me. I slept with her. She bit my fuckin’ dick.”
My hands raise to his chest, pushing him back. “Don’t act like you didn’t like it. If I remember correctly, you’re into the freaky shit.”
He doesn’t budge and presses into me again, our bodies aligned with one another. Though it’s familiar, I don’t react because my body wants someone else. “I draw the line when biting and my dick are involved.”
Tom breathes in, deep, his stare drawn to my mouth when I reply with, “Yeah, right.”
“I do.” He drops his lashes quickly. “You’re the one who liked her clit bit, remember?” My cheeks burn like a heat lamp is suddenly on me. Yes, I remember. “Besides, I don’t like her.” He backs up, removing his hands from the wall and hits the Stop button again, the elevator begins to move again with a sudden jolt.
I don’t say anything else to him, but he also doesn’t get off when the elevator reaches the lobby. “What are you doing? Get out. I have to go back up to Mila’s office. I left my cart up there.”
“I got nowhere to be.” He flicks his eyes to mine, shrugging, his hoarse whisper drawing my attention to his again. “Did you hook up with the bicycle guy the other night?”
An inexplicable feeling of emptiness roots inside me. It’s more like dejection, or disappointment. Heartache? Probably all of it. “You mean the motocross racer?”
“Yeah, sure. Him.”
“No.”
“Couldn’t seal the deal?” There’s amusement now in the way the corners of his mouth lift and his tongue darts out again and toys with his lip ring.
My cheeks warm, again. No, I couldn’t seal the deal, but I also don’t want Tom of all people reminding me of it. “Fuck you, Tom. I’m not done yet, but don’t be an asshole. He’s dealing with some shit. His friend killed herself the other day.”
His eyes soften. “I think I read about that.”
I’m quiet, trying to think of any way where I could afford to go to California to see Shade. Maybe somehow run into him and convince him we’re meant to be. But then again, how can I do that when he’s clearly not in his right mind? If I couldn’t get inside his hotel room, what the hell makes me think I can find him in California?
And how exactly would I start a conversation with him?
Hey, so my boyfriend killed himself when I was younger. I think we can relate to one another.
Nope. Wouldn’t work. For one, if anyone had tried that on me following Asher’s death, I would have punched them in the face. And two, I’m not as brave as I seem. I’d more than likely find him, then stare at him like a complete idiot. Kind of like the elevator ride with him.
I know one thing. . . my heart goes out to him. His life will forever be altered by that day. Life, love, everything about him will be different because of what she did. They say suicide is selfish. I don’t believe that.
The only selfish part about suicide I found to be true was the way I’ve never quite found the girl I was before Asher.