Bane (Sinners of Saint)

by L.J. Shen

  I snuck a glance when he didn’t respond. He just pursed his lips and nodded. It wasn’t that he was impolite, he just seemed a little uninterested, as if relaxation would be superfluous to him over the next eight weeks.

  “Okay then, let’s head to the second lounge and dining room.” I led the way down two floors. “This is where you’ll eat if it’s too windy outside,” I said as we reached the living-dining space. I shrugged. “Or if you want a change, the main salon is bigger, but here there’s a television and some people think it’s a little cozier.”

  He chuckled, and I snapped my head around in case I’d misheard, but I hadn’t. He was laughing. It was good to know he could and it suited him. Made him look younger and less serious.

  “I don’t think there’s much about this boat that’s going to make me feel cozy,” he said.

  He had a point. He was going to rattle around the place. “Are you planning on having any guests? We’d be happy to accommodate additional people.”

  His smile disappeared. “No.”

  I’d clearly touched a nerve. I just didn’t understand why. I hadn’t asked anything controversial. Getting this guy to talk was impossible. “Okay, let’s head to the bedroom level.”

  At the bottom of the stairs, I paused. The space down here was tighter than elsewhere on the boat and there were no windows in the square hallway. He and I were alone in this darkened, small space, just inches between us, and the atmosphere seemed to shift slightly. He sucked in a breath, and I found myself staring at his expanding chest. I glanced up and caught his eye. Shit. “Of course you have six cabins for you to use.” Hopefully he hadn’t noticed.

  “And they’re all secured?” he asked.

  “Yes, privacy is a key feature.” I made my way into the second guest bedroom. As Captain Moss had indicated this would be a working vacation, I’d arranged to have all the regular furniture removed and replaced it with a large, white modern desk, a desk chair, two easy chairs and an additional office chair. “I thought it might be useful for you to have this room to work. If you need anything else, just let me know. I wasn’t quite sure what you’d want.”

  “That’s helpful,” he said, glancing around. “And you have the keys?”

  I pulled a key ring out of my pocket and passed it over.

  “Thank you.” He offered me the palm of his large hand and I caught an earthy, masculine scent. The outside of him—the suit, the hair, even his walk—was smooth, but the way he was so guarded in what he said, so private and measured . I couldn’t help but feel there were things below the surface I wanted to know.

  I dropped the keys into his hand, careful not to touch him, and he clenched his fist tight.

  “I don’t want other crew members down here, and no one else has keys to the rooms except me, right?”

  I nodded and turned to head out, not wanting to meet his eye. I had another set of keys nestling on my key ring. The captain had mentioned that Hayden wanted to be the only one with keys but there was no way that was going to happen. Moss had instructed me to keep a set. I hated to lie, but I did what the captain told me to do.

  “The master suite is next door. I presume that’s where you’ll want to sleep, but obviously you can choose any of the other four bedrooms.” I opened the door of the master bedroom. “Let me show you.” It was my favorite room aboard the Athena. It was luxurious but felt really fresh with crisp, white linens, a silver-gray carpet and velvet headboard, not to mention the freestanding tub for two and shower that could fit four. It was the kind of room I’d like to disappear into with a lover or my husband for a romantic week away if I were chartering a yacht or if I was a guest of someone like Hayden Wolf.

  But I wasn’t chartering this yacht and I wasn’t anyone’s guest. I was the help. A maid and a waitress.

  “Shall I unpack for you?” Eric had already placed Mr. Wolf’s bags on the luggage racks.

  He frowned. “I can unpack my own suitcases,” he replied, as if me offering to do it for him was the most ludicrous thing he’d ever heard.

  “Whatever you prefer. The closet space is here. If you need anything ironed, just let me or one of the other interior crew know.” I didn’t feel as if I were doing enough.

  “You normally unpack for guests?” he asked as he unzipped his first case.

  “Absolutely,” I replied. “It would be my pleasure.” Surely he was used to that kind of service. Even if he’d not been on a yacht before, he must have stayed at the best hotels. And he was British. Didn’t rich, British people have butlers and shit?

  He turned to me and blinked, his long eyelashes sweeping down and up. “Your pleasure?” The corners of his mouth twitched, and his gravelly tone sent a wave of goose bumps across my skin.

  I nodded, trying to keep my breathing even. “Absolutely. I want you to enjoy your stay.”

  He gave a half chuckle. “I can manage, but thank you.”

  Was he laughing at me? I ignored his amusement. “Chef Neill is preparing lunch for you. Can I get you a drink in the meantime?”

  “I have a call to make. Then I’ll come up and find you.”

  “You can press the buzzer by your bed and—”

  “You’ll appear in a puff of smoke like my fairy godmother?” He raised his eyebrows.

  I started to reply, but before I got my words out he clasped my shoulder with his large hand. “Thank you. I’m fine. I’m going to make my call.”

  I tried to keep my voice at a normal pitch. “I’ll leave you to it.” I slipped out of his room and paused at the bottom of the stairs. My shoulder was still hot where he’d touched me, and I placed my palm over my shirt, trying to retain the feel of his hand. I couldn’t figure this guy out. He was incredibly handsome but here alone. Clearly wealthy but didn’t seem to be used to being waited on. And worse, he seemed to find my desire to help him amusing.

  He might think my job was worthless, and maybe it was compared to whatever he did, but I’d show him how great service could make his life so much easier. This trip might be all business for him, but I knew I could make him enjoy it just a little more than he’d expected to.

  Before you go: here is the first chapter of Midnight Blue, my new, standalone rock star romance. Hope you enjoy.

  Alex Winslow in another meltdown: arrested for DUI and possession of cocaine.

  By Beth Stevenson, The Daily Gossip

  British singer Alex Winslow was arrested again Tuesday night for driving under the influence and for possession of cocaine. The twenty-seven-year-old singer had been released from California’s Lost Hill Sheriff’s Station after a night in jail. A night during which, it is alleged, he swung on the bars of his cell and wrote the lyrics to his song “Wild Heaven” on the walls using a blue Sharpie given to him by a smitten station employee (a Sharpie he later used to sign her breasts).

  As well as getting caught with three grams of cocaine in the glove compartment of his azure vintage Cadillac, the heartthrob is also accused of trying to seduce his way out of trouble when he got pulled over in the early hours on the Pacific Coast Highway cradling a nearly-empty bottle of whiskey.

  The twelve-time Grammy winner allegedly unleashed his famous, one-hundred-million-dollar smile at the officer on the scene, a forty-three-year-old mother of three, saying, “You really are f***** arresting, love, but I reckon I’ll be the one doing the cuffing tonight.”

  The “Man Meets Moon” singer infamously got arrested eight weeks ago for punching Steven Delton, owner of the website Simply Steven, and for stealing a Grammy statuette. Winslow stormed onto the stage at the Grammys mid-speech when fellow British singer William Bushell received the Best Album award, plucked the statue from Bushell’s hand, lit a cigarette, and launched into a rant:

  “Are you having a laugh? Raise your hands if you actually voted for this wanker without getting bribed with a complimentary handjob. Come on. Come. The. Fuck. On. His whole album sounds like background music at McDonald’s. No offense. To McDonald’s, not to Bushell. The
re wasn’t even one creative track in the entire album. In fact, if creativity met this bloke in a dark alley, it would run the other way, screaming bloody murder. I’m taking this home. Doesn’t feel too good when someone steals what’s yours, eh, mate? Well, boo-fucking-hoo. It’s called life, and it’s a lesson you taught me.”

  Previously close friends and former London roommates, Bushell and Winslow had a falling out two years ago over model/socialite sensation, Fallon Lankford, and have been labeled enemies since. Both Brits slammed reports concerning bad blood between them. It has been alleged that Winslow’s latest album, Cock My Suck—which peaked at number nine on Billboard and disappeared from the charts soon after, the worst in his career—had driven him into the arms of alcohol and cocaine.

  Shortly after word got out of Winslow’s arrest, Simply Steven ran an article titled, “Alex Winslow: The End of an Era.” It is believed that Mr. Delton is now looking to sue Winslow, after the latter assaulted him with a jab to the face when asked about Fallon Lankford’s new love interest, Will Bushell.

  Within hours of his second release, Winslow offered an apology through his long-time agent, Jenna Holden:

  “Alex Winslow is deeply sorry for doing a number of things that were very wrong and for which he is ashamed. He would like to apologize to the officer who arrested him, stretching the apology to her husband, children, and the local church in which she volunteers. Winslow acknowledges his out-of-control behavior can no longer be overlooked, and for the sake of his loved ones, his fans, and himself, has decided to check himself into a rehabilitation facility in the state of Nevada. We kindly ask you to respect his privacy as he fights this very personal battle against his demons.”

  Winslow’s former publicist, Benedict Cowen, who parted ways with the singer days after his Grammy meltdown, was not available for comment.

  Comments (1,937)

  xxLaurenxx

  He is off-the-rails crazy. Also: off-the-rails hot.

  Pixie_girl

  Dude, McDonald’s background music? Richhhh. Winslow’s last album was so bad my ears bled for two weeks after listening to it.

  Cody1984

  #LeaveAlexAlone

  (just kidding, he’ll probably shove a finger into an outlet or something if we don’t keep an eye on him.)

  James2938

  Guy’s a sociopath. You can very clearly see it in his art.

  BellaChikaYass

  I echo that thought…but I’d still do him. ;)

  xxLaurenxx

  Me too! Lol

  Pixie_girl

  Sadly, me three.

  James2938

  Good, because he’s not the kind

  Of guy who can offer you more

  than a quickie. He is bad news.

  LITERALLY.

  Six months later.

  TAP. TAP. TAP, TAP, TAP, tap, tap.

  The soles of my shoes slapped against the granite floor like a persistent canary. I had to dig my fingernails into my thighs to make my legs stop bouncing to the rhythm of my restless, foolish heart.

  Shut up, heart.

  Chill out, heart.

  Stop fussing, heart.

  There was no need to panic. Not even a little. Not even at all.

  I was going to get the job.

  I elevated my head, flashing the woman sitting across from me my biggest, most enthusiastic smile.

  “When we advertised the job for a PA position, we kind of, sort of, what’s the word I’m looking for…? Lied.” Slamming her chrome MacBook shut, she splayed her bony, manicured fingers on top of it, showcasing a ring that must’ve cost enough to buy the better half of my up-and-coming neighborhood.

  My throat bobbed, and I smoothed down my tattered pencil skirt. Actually, it wasn’t even mine. It was Natasha’s, my brother’s wife, and two sizes too large at the waist. I only ever got called back from food chain restaurants that didn’t require a suit, so I’d had to improvise. I tucked my knotted ankles under my chair, sparing my interviewer my silver Oxford shoes, a hint of my personality I’d forgotten to disguise.

  Everything in the woman’s office screamed excess. Her desk, white and sleek; the seats made of alabaster leather; and the bronze chandelier dripping down between us like liquid gold. The Hollywood Sign poured from her floor-to-ceiling window in all its promising, beautiful, broken promises glory. So close you could see the dirt clinging to the white letters. Her workplace was the size of a ballroom. There wasn’t a drop of color or personality in this office, and not by accident.

  Jenna Holden. Powerhouse agent to the biggest Hollywood stars. Owner of JHE Group. She didn’t have time to get personal. Least of all with the likes of me.

  “You’re not looking for a PA?” The forced smile on my face crumbled. I needed this job like Mark Wahlberg needed to show his real junk in Boogie Nights. Really, really bad. Case in point: I was living with my brother, his wife, and kid, and as much as they loved me, I’m sure they loved not having to share their one-bedroom apartment with a twenty-one-year-old avant-garde slob slightly more. My only source of transportation was my bicycle, which in L.A. was the equivalent of getting from A to Z on a dead turtle’s back.

  “I’m looking for…something.” Jenna tipped her chin down, bowing a thinly plucked eyebrow. “And it does involve some assisting.”

  My patience was hanging by a thread, ready to jump ship. I was hungry, thirsty, and desperate for the job. Any job. Summer had kicked my ass, and all the blue-collar positions had been filled by acne-ridden teenagers. This was the third time I’d come into JHE for this vague job this month. First, I’d gone through the HR girl who’d left me waiting for forty minutes because her pedicure appointment ran late. Then, Jenna’s personal assistant had grilled me like I was fresh back from an ISIS training camp. Finally, I’d met with the mega agent herself, and now she was telling me I’d been misled this whole time?

  “Tell me, Indigo, how carefully did you read the job description?” She sat back in her chair and laced her fingers together. She wore a crisp, buttoned shirt tucked into black velvet pants, and a smug smile. Her champagne-blonde hair was pulled into a painful looking bun, and my skull burned just from looking at the way her skin pulled around her hairline.

  “Careful enough to repeat it by heart.”

  “Is that so? In that case, please do.”

  My nostrils flared. I decided to humor her one last time before collecting my bag and remainder of self-esteem and walking away.

  “PA needed: resilient, responsible, patient, and thick-skinned. Non-drinker, NO DRUGS, with a flair for arts and life. If you’re twirling on the sidelines of mainstream, have great attention for detail, and don’t mind long hours and endless nights, we’re looking for you. *NDA needed, criminal record will be checked.”

  I pushed a copy of my job application, tapping it with my finger. “This is me. Sans the twirling part. I’m prone to migraines. Now, can you tell me why I’m here?”

  “What I’m looking for is a savior. A nanny. A friend. You’re the closest thing to perfect I’ve found, but frankly, this whole thing is going to be a lot like an organ transplant. We won’t know if you’re a match until we put you two together.”

  I blinked, studying her like she was a mythological creature. If this was a joke, I’d officially lost my sense of humor.

  She stood up and began to pace, her arms folded behind her back. “I have a client. No, not a client. The client. One of the hottest names in the industry this decade. He got himself into hot water recently and now he needs a big bucket of ice to cool his name off. Drugs, women, ego the size of China—you name it, he’s suffering from it. Your job is not to book flights and make coffee. He’s got an arsenal of people doing that for him. But you will be there when he goes on tour. You’ll cater to his emotional needs. You’ll make sure he doesn’t snort cocaine backstage, or stay out late, or miss a show. You’ll be there to grab his hand and pull him away when he gets into an argument with a journalist or a paparazzo. Your job, in shor
t, is to keep him healthy and alive for three months. Think you’re up for the challenge?”

  Her words were so sincere and sharp, they sank into my skin like teeth.

  A savior. A nanny. A friend.

  “That’s…a lot of responsibility. Sounds like that someone is in big trouble.”

  “Trouble is his middle name, a part of his charm, and the reason why I have a Xanax tab in my purse at all times.” She cracked a bitter smile.

  TMI, TMI, TMI.

  “If he’s in no shape to go on tour, why is he doing it?”

  “He was supposed to leave six months ago and canceled for personal reasons. If he cancels again, he’ll have to pay thirty million dollars to the production companies. The insurance will never pay up, considering the cause of termination was him swimming in enough cocaine to bake a five-tier wedding cake.”

  I tapped my toes against the shiny floor some more, gnawing at my lower lip. Jenna stopped moving around. She was now standing in front of me, her thin, golden Prada belt twinkling like a sad eclipse.

  “Three months on the road. Private jet. Best hotels in the world. If you’ve somehow managed to hang onto the leftovers of your innocence in this city and want to keep it, I’d advise against taking the job. But if you have a thick skin and a taste for adventure, know this—this job will change your bank account, your path, and your life.”

  She sounded serious. Concerned. Every word had a weight and it sat heavy on my chest. “You’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement. You’ll take what you see to your grave. And you’ll get paid mad bank.”

  Mad bank? Who talked like that? L.A. showbiz people. That’s who.