by Callie Rose
It’s kind of cool to see her like this, actually. In Big Boss Mode. I know housekeeping was never her ambition, but I could see all the skills she’s honing here translating into a job she really loves somewhere down the line.
Hopefully sooner rather than later.
We’ve been at the Black house for less than six weeks, and I’m already itching to get out.
The activity and energy level of the house staff builds as the day goes on and peaks just before seven o’clock, when the first guests arrive. Mom answers the door and takes their coats before ushering them into the ballroom. It’s beautifully lit with a soft yellow glow, and the wet bar along one wall is fully stocked, with a professional bartender on duty.
I really wish I could escape upstairs for the actual party—I’m exhausted from cleaning all day, and I’m not the most social person under regular circumstances, which these definitely aren’t. But my mom needs help, and I want to support her, so I stay downstairs and help wrangle and greet guests.
The entire Black family is fashionably late to their own party, and when they do arrive, it’s with all the fanfare of royalty on parade. They converge on the upstairs balcony as if they synchronized their watches down to the second, then make their way down the stairs as a unit.
Mr. and Mrs. Black are arm in arm, and I almost do a double-take to be sure it’s really them. They’re both dressed like they’re headed to the Oscars, Samuel in a perfectly tailored tuxedo and Audrey in a deep maroon evening gown that drapes from one shoulder and has a two-foot train. I’ve never seen them this dressed up before, but that’s not what catches my attention.
No, it’s the way they’re looking at each other.
Like they’re… in love.
Maybe that shouldn’t be strange in a married couple, but for these two, it’s definitely unusual. On a regular day, there seems to be a wall between them; they might kiss or hug, but even those actions seem stilted, formal, and forced.
Now, though? She looks up at him and her eyes sparkle, a soft smile curving her lips. She doesn’t look as dazed as usual either, so maybe she skipped her daily dose of Prozac. But why would that make her seem happier?
Those questions fly from my mind when the two of them step off the stairs and turn toward the ballroom, leaving me a clear view of Lincoln, who’s been following several paces behind them.
Holy… wow.
As annoying as it is to admit, Lincoln Black is a stunningly hot boy. I’ve been drawn to him from the second I got here, despite all the protests of my rational mind. He usually dresses casually, in clothes that are obviously expensive but not flashy or overly formal.
But tonight, he’s also wearing a tux, and it makes him look lickably good. The tailored jacket hugs the broad planes of his shoulders and upper arms, tapering at his waist. He looks taller somehow, more powerful, and as always, his shocking amber eyes stand out against it all. He looks almost like a panther, sleek and dangerous.
His gaze lands on me, and I realize I stopped what I was doing to stare as they all came down the stairs. I’m not the only one—several guests are hovering in the grand foyer as well—but I still jerk into action, hoping the expression on my face didn’t give my thoughts away.
“If you’ll just follow me,” I say politely, ignoring Lincoln’s smirk and turning to the most recent arrival. It’s a local bigwig judge, Alexander Hollowell, if I remember right.
The man—who looks a little like George Clooney, with deep lines in his forehead, a little dimple in his chin, and salt-and-pepper hair—gives me a charming smile and gestures for me to go ahead.
People keep coming, and my mom and I exchange exhausted and bemused looks when no one’s watching. I’ve never been around this many massively rich people at once, and it’s almost like a cloud of money permeates the air around them.
A few couples have college or high school-aged kids who come with them, and I’m not all that surprised to see Dax and Chase show up with their parents, or River show up with his. River’s dad is a lawyer, but I’m not sure what the twin’s parents do for a living.
All the guys are dressed to the nines like Lincoln is, and I make a pointed effort not to stare at them. None of them really acknowledge me, which I guess shouldn’t surprise me. Our relationship at school is rocky at best, and in this context, the lines between us are even more starkly drawn. They already made it clear they just consider me the help, so expecting them to greet me like they know me, to acknowledge that we share several classes together, is apparently asking too much.
Once all the guests are settled in the ballroom, mom ducks out to check in with the kitchen staff, and I circulate to help the servers. As I’m passing through a closely bunched group of people, I feel a hand graze my ass. I jerk involuntarily, my steps faltering, and when I glance up, a sandy-haired man in a charcoal suit gives me a small smile as his gaze tracks down my body.
Ew.
I blink at him in disgust and then thread my way quickly through the crowd, trying to put more distance between us. But it hardly matters. More than one lechy rich man uses the crowded room as an excuse to cop a feel as I walk by—including the George Clooney clone, Judge Hollowell, who brushes his hand down my thigh while entertaining several other party-goers with an apparently hilarious story.
My rising anger is making it hard to focus, and I find myself having to tamp down the urge to elbow my way through the crowd defensively.
The younger guests have mostly all gathered in one corner, talking and laughing amongst themselves, but I don’t see Lincoln or the other three.
Good. At least he’s not here to see this. I’m sure he’d find some way to blame me for these gross men trying to feel me up.
“Hey, Low. You okay, sweetheart?” Mom grabs my elbow and leans in to whisper in my ear. “You’ve got a bit of a death glare going on.”
Fuck. I suck in a breath, trying to rein in my temper. “Yeah. Just not used to this kind of crowd. Can I take a little break? I’ll come back to help again soon.”
She nods encouragingly. “Yeah, of course. Go get something to eat. Grab some of those crab cakes from the kitchen before they disappear.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She gives me a little push in the direction of the door, and that’s all the encouragement I need. I hightail it out of the ballroom and head toward the west wing to the kitchen. Gwen, the cook, shoots me an indulgent smile as I snag a few crab cakes off a tray and fold them up in a napkin. Then I slip out the back door onto the terrace, anxious for a little bit of fresh air.
“Sneaking out early, Pool Girl?”
Dax’s voice to my right makes me jump—I’m already on edge from trying to keep my shit together in the ballroom—and my crab cakes fly out of my palm and land on the white marble of the terrace.
“Fuck!” I hiss, clapping a hand over my heart. “Do you guys always just hang out in the dark waiting to scare people?”
“No,” Lincoln drawls. “We came out here to avoid people.”
He smirks at me as he passes the joint between his fingers over to River.
“Well, you’re lucky you have that option,” I shoot back. “Not all of us do.”
“So what are you doing out here?”
“Just getting some air. And I was going to eat some food,” I add pointedly, gesturing to my ruined snack.
“Don’t blame me. I didn’t slap it out of your hand or anything,” Dax says with a grin. He takes the joint from River and inhales deeply, a satisfied expression crossing his face. They’ve taken off their jackets and untied their bowties, and Dax’s sleeves are rolled up over his forearms—and for some reason, they all look even better like this, casual and a little wild.
“Well, you can still make it up to me.” I hold out my hand. “Give me that.”
He holds the joint up and away, like he’s protecting a precious treasure, but I arch a brow and keep my hand out. “Remember under the bleachers? You owe me.”
“Under the bleachers?” Linco
ln’s eyes narrow as he shoots a glance at Dax and Chase, and I wonder if he knows they came and talked to me that day. He almost seems mad or…
Is he jealous?
The twins both ignore his hard stare, and Dax finally shrugs, handing me the joint. “Fine. Fair’s fair.”
I take a long drag. It’s smooth, and I feel it immediately. Even though I’ll have to spray myself with Febreeze before I go back to the party, it’s so worth it. I got a medical card for marijuana when I was going through treatment for leukemia, and Mom used to make me pot brownies. I don’t actually smoke all that often anymore, but it still relaxes me. It’s just what I need right now. Better than crab cakes, even.
A contented little noise falls from my lips, and Dax’s eyes heat as he takes the joint back from me. Our fingertips brush, and it’s probably the high I can already feel buzzing through my system, but I want to touch more of him. Want to grab his hand and run my fingertips over the planes of his palm. I pull back quickly, clearing my throat as energy pulses in my veins.
Lincoln’s gaze darts back and forth between the two of us, and I can see clear irritation on his face.
But whatever. Fuck him. If he’s got a problem with his friends being sort of nice to me sometimes, that’s his issue to deal with.
They pass the joint again, and when Dax hands it over to me this time, I don’t shy away from the electric current that passes between us. Our touch lingers long enough to be obvious, and when I take a deep drag from the weed cigarette, all four of them watch me.
Then I hand it back to Dax with a satisfied, cocky smile. “Thanks. That should get me through a few more hours of this bullshit.”
I’m not quite sure, but as I turn and head back inside, I think I hear soft laughter behind me.
12
The rest of the party is fine. The ass-grabbing attempts don’t really stop, but I get better at evading them while looking like I’m just trying to do my job—shifting sideways out of reach or moving away to pick up an empty glass.
I’ll have to perfect it, I guess, because apparently the Blacks like to throw a lot of parties. Hooray.
Afterward, Mom and I have a pajama party in her apartment, which basically consists of us eating ice cream in our pajamas on her little couch while watching old episodes of The Twilight Zone. It’s all either of us have the energy for, but it’s perfect.
“It’s crazy to think, isn’t it?” I mumble around a mouthful of mint chocolate chip, only half-watching the screen. “I bet million dollar deals got done tonight. On the surface, it’s a party, but underneath all that, there’s real shit getting negotiated, people schmoozing and worming their way into the right circles.”
Mom lets out a burst of laughter, rolling onto her back on the couch and poking me in the ribs with her foot. “Good lord, Low. They’re rich people, not the mafia.”
“Same thing at some level, right?” I argue.
Her eyes narrow. “Have you been watching too much Dynasty?”
I tickle her foot to get back at her. “No. I don’t have time. I’m just saying, I’m positive some under the table deals went down tonight. It’s just weird to think about.”
“My daughter, the conspiracy theorist.” Mom grins at me fondly before turning her attention back to the screen.
When the episode ends thirty minutes later, she’s snoring softly. I turn off the TV, put a blanket over her, and pad softly back to my room.
Mom refuses to let me do much work around the house for the next few days. She insists I need the time to catch up on homework, and she’s not totally wrong. The course load at Linwood Academy is intense, and the weekend was almost entirely taken up by party prep and party cleanup.
Besides, she’ll be going out of town with Mr. and Mrs. Black for five days starting on Wednesday. They apparently have a second home in upstate New York. Samuel is headed there to take care of some business, and he asked Mom to go with him to manage the house while he’s there. I was a little shocked Audrey wanted to go too, given how little interest she usually shows in anything her husband does.
But then again, maybe that look they shared at the cocktail party wasn’t an act. Maybe they are, in their own extremely weird way, madly in love.
Either way, they’re all going to be gone for a few days, so that’ll leave me with more cleaning duties than usual around here. I promise Mom I can handle it, since I can tell she’s freaking out a little bit about the prospect of leaving me. It’s amazing she didn’t turn into a total helicopter mom, given everything she’s seen me go through, but it’s times like these that make me realize how much she still worries about me.
They leave on Wednesday morning while Lincoln and I are at school, and even though the house is always quiet, I can somehow tell it’s empty when I get back in the late afternoon. I do my cleaning duties and then spend most of the night in my room talking Hunter down from a major fight she had with Kevin. I think they’re inching toward a break-up, but I don’t push her in that direction, giving her time to get there on her own.
Thursday is about the same—at least, until nine p.m., when the house suddenly explodes with noise.
Loud music blares from downstairs, and I can hear the growing sound of raised voices even from where I’m holed up in my bedroom.
Oh. Right. The couple of house parties I’ve been to since I got here have been at mansions where the parents were either traveling or absent. Guess with his folks in New York, it’s Lincoln’s turn to host.
I wish he’d fucking told me though. What, did he think I was going to rat him out?
And he didn’t bother to invite me either, even though I’ve been to other parties with Linwood students, and I’m already in the fucking house.
What a dick.
The pulsing thump of music carries upstairs for the next couple hours, and I try to ignore it, changing into my shorts and tank and lying on my bed to read. But there’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep through this shit.
Finally, at just after midnight, my annoyance is at a boiling point. I storm out of the bedroom, not quite sure what my plan is, but unable to stand another minute of staring at the wall with a pillow over my head.
I head down the darkened hallway toward the west wing stairs, but before I reach them, something catches my eye. In the spare room that sandwiches the laundry room on the other side of mine, figures are moving on the bed. The lights are off in there too, so I can’t see much, but I can tell there are people inside.
Is Mr. Black back already? This is the same room I heard him in the first time I snuck out to play poker. But that makes no sense.
Unable to stop myself, I creep closer, peering around the doorframe where the door hangs open several inches.
Oh my God.
It’s Dax and Chase, with a girl between them.
My heart picks up, slamming hard against my chest. I shouldn’t be seeing this. I should back away and pretend I never did see it.
But I can’t stop watching.
They’re both shirtless, and their defined muscles are cast in harsh shadows in the dim light. Their hands move in sync, as if they share a brain or something, as they work the girl up between them. She’s wearing a dress, and Dax has his hand between her legs. Chase is behind her, and his fingers delve under the scoop of her neckline to fondle her boobs.
I don’t know who the girl is—not someone from Linwood, I don’t think—but she looks like she’s in fucking heaven.
My body flushes from head to toe, and I’ve stopped breathing entirely because I don’t think I can draw in air without gasping right now.
Why is that so… hot?
Why do I sort of wish it was me in her place?
I don’t even like Dax and Chase. They’re rich, spoiled jerks. And although they’re undeniably good looking, I’ve never even thought about being with two guys at once. Never thought it would be the kind of thing that would turn me on.
Shit. I shouldn’t be here. I wish I hadn’t looked.
I still can’t tear my gaze away from the forbidden, arousing sight before me, but I manage to get my feet to move. My lungs burn as I shuffle backward slowly—
And run into a thick, powerful chest.
My yelp of surprise is stifled by a hand over my mouth, and lips brush the shell of my ear as my pulse races.
“It’s not polite to go snooping, Pool Girl. Didn’t anybody ever teach you that?”
It’s Lincoln. His voice is rough and low, barely more than a breath, and he’s got one arm wrapped around my ribcage just below my breasts, his grip like a steel band. I’m pressed up flush against his body, and I can feel every inch of him behind me. He’s a little hard, and the feel of his cock against my lower back only makes the confusing mix of arousal and fear inside me churn faster.
I shake my head, although it’s not really in answer to his question. I can barely remember what his question was.
“You like spying on people?” He angles our bodies so we can both see through the small crack in the door, where Dax and Chase have the girl between them writhing. Lincoln’s fingertips ghost over my ribs as his other hand leaves my mouth, splaying low across my stomach… so close to where a throbbing, demanding ache is building.
I can’t sort out any of my emotions anymore. Can’t delineate between what’s pissing me off and what’s turning me on. But I know that any minute, one of the three people in that room could glance over toward the door and see us. The hallway is shadowed, but we’re not invisible.
Digging my feet into the floor, I press back against Lincoln, trying to force him backward, away from the doorway. But it just melds our bodies closer together, and he lets out a harsh breath, his grip on me tightening.
“Do you want Dax, Harlow? Is that it? Or Chase? You want them both together?” His words are so quiet it’s like he’s pouring them directly into my brain. Like he’s invading my thoughts. “What do you want? Who do you want? Tell me.”
