Some days I hate my fucking job.
Okay, that’s dramatic. Hate’s a strong word. I know, but still, things suck sometimes. You know what I’m talking about, too, don’t you? We’ve all been there at some point where the FML abbreviation is one we chant. I’ve never liked the saying “Fuck my life,” because, dude, you only get one. Don’t fuck it. Live it. Even if it’s shitty, live it and make what you can with it.
What does suck? Working seven days a week, including Christmas Day.
Now here it is, two days after Christmas and my ass is still working just to be able to afford my one-bedroom shitty yet extremely expensive-as-fuck apartment.
Still. . . I won’t say fuck my life. I won’t. I have a good job, but rent in Seattle is ridiculous. I work at the Wellington Plaza in Seattle. It’s a five-star hotel right in the middle of Capitol Hill and probably the nicest one in Seattle. Nice enough that celebrities constantly check in on a weekly basis when they’re in town.
And me being one of the maids in said hotel, I know all their dirty little secrets. Like the ones who check in and tell their wives it’s a business trip when really they’re fucking their co-star in whatever movie they’re filming.
All that leads me to the penthouse suite, making sure it has all the accommodations of the VIP arriving tonight. It’s not just any VIP as far as I’m concerned, and I know it needs to be perfect. It has to be.
You’re probably wondering, why? Wouldn’t every guest’s needs be important?
Yeah, I suppose, but like I said, this particular VIP is special. I’ll get to him later.
For now, I’m starving and only have a few minutes for lunch today.
I’m just about to head to the break room with my bag of pretzels when my boss, Georgia, finds me. I sort of like Georgia, but not really. I only tolerate two women. My friends Mila and Izzy. The rest are back stabbing bitches, and I’ve got no time for that drama. And you can never trust your boss. I don’t care what your relationship is with them. Do not be friends with your direct supervisor because you’re the first person they’ll throw under the bus when needed.
Why?
Because they’re friends with you and two, they know your weaknesses and three, can ask for forgiveness easily, and you’ll probably give it to them because they soften your pancaked ass.
“Ms. Rose, did you finish setting up everything in the penthouse suite?”
Do you hear that annoyingly judgmental voice behind me?
I wish I didn’t.
Facing my boss, I fight the urge to smack a bitch with a good amount of struggle. “Why yes, Mrs. Kerns, I did. Why do you ask?”
Take a look at Georgia Kerns. She’s bitchy looking with her penciled-in thin eyebrows and her puckered smoker-wrinkled lips, isn’t she? It’s like her face is permanently stuck in the resting-bitch-face expression.
Georgia, who insists we call her Ms. Kerns like we’re in elementary school, isn’t subtle about her sarcasm. How can she be with a face that looks like that? She’s only living up to her reputation. It’s like a hot actor winking. He does it because he knows he can. Georgia’s a bitch because she’s allowed to be. But I do find it comical. “And you got everything Willa requested in Mr. Sawyer’s room?”
I take a deep breath, then another. If you want this fucking job, you can’t slap her, nor can you throat punch her. Strangely, I envision myself doing both, and it’s strangely gratifying. “Yep. Everything’s in there including the condoms in the bathroom.”
All that’s left is me in his bed.
“Great. I’m sure he’ll enjoy his stay. Thank you, Ms. Rose,” Georgia says, walking past me as though she is physically incapable of asking how the rest of my day is going.
She actually is incapable of small talk. That’s why Mr. Wellington hired her.
Speaking of Mr. Wellington. . . . Hmm, how do I describe him? Well, he’s the owner of the hotel, built it himself, and his daughter, Mila, runs the shit show. Mr. Wellington and Mila are very different. He’s. . . how do you say it. . . business oriented? I don’t even think that’s an accurate statement. He’s a one-tracked man, and if his employees aren’t doing their job, there’s no chance of correcting the problem. You’re just fired.
And Mila, she’s cool as shit. Nothing like you’d expect a general manager of a hotel to be. At twenty-seven, she’s also probably the youngest general manager ever.
When Georgia leaves me alone, I enter the break room where Tom is watching the news, completely oblivious to the world around him and what he’s hearing on the news. Ninety percent of what they’re saying he doesn’t understand because he’s dumb. I mean that in a nice way. I think.
As soon as I sit down on the couch, my smile can’t be helped when I notice the magazine in front of me. Remember that VIP checking in? The one I said I’d get to later.
It’s later. Shade Sawyer is that VIP.
And Shade. . . he’s on the cover of Men’s Health this month.
I’ll say his name again, because I need to and my entire body is vibrating in anticipation.
Shade. Sawyer.
Shade’s not just any VIP checking into the hotel. He’s my fucking VIP, goddamn it. And if anyone tries to get in the way, again, I’ll cut a bitch for sure.
Women? Have you ever had a celebrity crush? One of those crushes you know will probably never happen but it doesn’t stop you from fantasizing about them and stalking them on social media?
Don’t even try to deny it. I know you’ve stalked at least one of them.
Anyway. That’s me with Shade.
If there’s a quiz on him, I can pass it. I’d Ace the motherfucker. More than that, I’m in love with him. And by in love, I mean obsessed. I’m not entirely sure there’s a difference between the two, but there might be.
Have you ever been intent on meeting someone and convincing them you’re perfect for one another so you’ll do just about anything to bump into them?
Like every other woman who’d ever caught a glimpse of Shade on television, in magazines, or in person, I want to meet him in a more personable environment. By personal, I mean in bed with him between my legs, or me sitting on his face. Either one would work just fine. His body is a canvas, an insight into his formidable presence in the world of professional freestyle competition.
Hell, I’d settle for my head between his legs, too. I just want parts of me connected with parts of him.
“I don’t understand the fuss over this Shade guy,” Tom grumbles, staring at the magazine on the counter. “Is he a model or a racer?”
Check out his face. He looks disgusted, doesn’t he? Of course he does. Guys just don’t get it. I bet if this was Megan Fox or someone like Kim Kardashian, he wouldn’t be looking disgusted. He’d be drooling.
“Of course you don’t. He’s beauty is what he is. Look at this? His body tells a story. One I’d read any day.” I rip the magazine from his hands. Dude doesn’t understand beauty and he can’t hold that magazine in his hand if he can’t appreciate it. “And some would argue what you are. . . a singer or a bell boy.”
Easily offended, Tom shoots me a glare. “Don’t be mean to me.”
“Then don’t be stupid.”
I didn’t know Shade Sawyer until last summer. I knew who he was. Everyone does, but we met in passing when he was staying at the hotel. It’s not unheard of for Wellington Suites to hole up some of the best in the business. We get anyone from rock stars to movie stars and everything in between. Shade is nothing like any of those people. For one, he gets more pussy thrown his way than all of them combined. And if you ever came face-to-face with him, you’d understand. At least I did that one morning in July.
I had just finished supplying his penthouse suite with fresh towels, bottles of Vodka I’d never be able to afford, bags of Starburst, but only the yellow ones, and of course condoms, and I remember thinking to myself, damn, this guy knows how to party. I totally want to be friends with him.
Outside the room was when I got my first, yet unforgettable interaction with him. He didn’t know who I was, but I knew him. I’d heard the name and seen the pictures, but up close, he was something else entirely. Something drool-worthy in every possible way.
Standing outside his suite, leaned into the wall with one shoulder, his intimidating blue eyes drifted my way. Covered from head to toe in artfully displayed tattoos, he was incredibly sexy and handsome with deep, brooding eyes, the kind you couldn’t look at for very long because they’re the kind of eyes people shy away from afraid you’ll lose yourself in them. I don’t mean by daydreaming. It’s the kind of lost where you’ll literally forget everything you thought you knew about yourself, him, life, even time. It’s all nonexistent around him.
Pouty lips and a perfect smile unleashed and I forgot my own fucking name. With a lustful tough-guy demeanor, he stood straighter when he noticed me outside the room, then with confidence, his body moved toward me with unbridled sexuality.
Me? Goner.
“Thanks,” he said with a smile that could melt panties off any woman.
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I just kept staring at him. And then words came, after a moment. “You’re welcome.”
I wasn’t even sure what he was thanking me for. I could have agreed to anything right then and I wouldn’t have even known.
He reached his hand out to me. “I’m Shade.”
Despite my usual confident demeanor, I blushed but I did hold out my hand. “Everyone knows who you are.”
I won’t lie here, electricity pulsed through me at our touch and I used to think that shit was bullshit. I thought the theory of someone touching you and you felt tingles meant you should check your surroundings because there was a good chance you had been electrocuted. It wasn’t like that with Shade. I literally felt tingles. Mostly between my legs, but whatever. I felt them.
And that was the extent of our first and only interaction. I should have thrown myself at him that day. I don’t know why I didn’t. Maybe because we’d only met in passing, or maybe because despite what most think, I do have dignity. Or maybe because he didn’t say another word to me. Either way, I didn’t sleep with him. Now that he’s coming back to the hotel, I intend on making our interaction this time memorable for him.
Sitting on the couch in the break room next to Tom, he looks over at me again and points to the book in my bag on the table. “What’s that?”
Setting my snack size bag of pretzels aside, I pull out my latest smut romance novel and hand it to him. “Reading material. You should read it and take notes.”
“I’m not reading that.”
“Oh, sorry. I forgot you can’t read.”
“I can read.” He rips the book back out of my hand. “I just don’t see the point in reading that shit.”
“Well, you should.” My eyes drift intentionally south. “It might help you.”
“Oh please, woman.” He gives me a look of smugness. One he’s perfected well. “I don’t need any help in that department. You should know.”
He’s right. I do know that sleeping with Tom Chase offered me no complaints. Let’s just say he can fuck better than he sings and that’s saying a lot considering he’s pretty fucking good on the mic. Still, he’s no Shade Sawyer, and I bet you a million bucks Shade’s better in bed. I don’t have a million bucks, never will, so before you start making bets with me, you should know that going into it.
Flipping through the first couple pages of the book, the corners of his mouth lift in amusement. “I want your wanton little noises?” His voice is a low growl, attempting to be seductive. His eyes move from the book to mine. “What the fuck is this shit?”
“I didn’t say it was mind-blowing,” I point out with a grin. “I just think you should read it.”
He flips through a few more pages and then raises an eyebrow. “What’s mewl?”
“Did you graduate high school?”
Want to know the scary part? Tom thinks about his answer. His stares at me with the most perplexed look on his face. His brows crease into deep lines and his mouth downturns in a frown. “Yes.”
I fight the urge to say, yeah right. I’m sure he did, but I doubt it was with honors or anything. “It means to cry, Tom. Now I really think you should read the book.”
The break room door swings open to our left and in walks Mila, her eyes intent on mine.
In a panic, I reach over and punch Tom in the stomach.
He coughs and leans forward, pushing out a breath. “Why’d you do that?”
“Give that to Judah, from Mila.” I wasn’t sure what else to do. I know Mila talked to Izzy this morning and I know Izzy blabbed that I told her about the firefighter Mila fucked the other night.
Tom studies my face. “I’m not Judah.”
“You’re the closest thing to him.”
Rolling up the sleeves of his gray shirt, Tom shakes his head at me and moves away about a foot. “Whatever.”
With determination in her eyes, Mila slaps me on the shoulder. “Why’d you tell Izzy about the other night?”
It’s a natural reaction to being accused of gossiping when you clearly have been. My eyes widen despite my attempt at not reacting. It’s like a wide-narrowed look. Now it just looks like I might have to fart and I’m scared it’s going to sneak out. “I forgot it was a secret.”
“Damn it, Scar. You know I’m scared of Izzy, and now she’s lecturing me on what I should and shouldn’t do.”
She’s scared of Izzy? I’m terrified of her.
I toss my pretzel bag in the garbage beside the couch. “Well stop confiding in her, and she won’t feel the need to counsel you.”
Luckily for me, her phone starts ringing and her attention diverts.
Being the general manager of the hotel, my best friend is stretched thin most days and usually forgets my short comings, like blabbing everything she tells me to our other friend, Izzy Bizzy. It’s not that I don’t value my friendship with Mila, I do. I love her like a sister, but sometimes I talk to Izzy about her. All girls do it. If you say you don’t, you’re fucking lying.
“Just don’t tell her anything.” Her pretty blue eyes move to her phone. “If I want her to know, I will.”
I reach for my apron on the back of the couch and tie it around my waist. “Fine, I won’t.” I smile, attempting to crack her with my personality. She loves me and always forgives me. “What time does Shade check in tomorrow?”
“No idea. He never gives a time.”
She’s right. He can’t ever give a time of check in because if people knew when he was coming to town, the hotel lobby would be filled with screaming girls and paparazzi.
This time I might just be one of those screaming girls.