I can’t wait until I finish my degree and never have to step foot into this place again, I think with disgust.
I definitely don’t feel like working the rest of my shift after that. I’m aching and sore all over. I’m seriously overworked, and I don’t think I can take any more surprises.
But at least I’m mostly finished, and I’ve got the next thirty minutes to chill out, try to get myself back together, and maybe pop a Tylenol or two before I do the last set of regular rooms, the suites, and then the floor that I normally hate most because I never know what to expect, the penthouse suites. They can range from sparkly clean to a pigsty as bad as the room I just left… depending on who’s been staying there. Sometimes, the ballers are too damn cheap and just trash a regular room.
The ding sound and opening doors pull me out of my reverie. I walk out of the elevator and head to the maintenance room. I wash my hands using rubbing alcohol and some germicidal stuff from the medicine cabinet in the staffroom before I apply two coats of lotion, praying that maybe this time I won’t be bleeding from between my fingers like the last time I had to do this.
I look up in the mirror and sigh, shaking my head at the reflection that looks back at me. Bra-length, dark brown hair, tired eyes, and a grumpy countenance. I look like I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in over a week.
I don’t need this shit, I say to myself. I can’t wait to get out of this place. Hell, I’ll take just about any job with benefits over this.
But more than benefits, I need money. Doing twenty-nine hours of maid work in a hotel just doesn’t cut it when you’re like me—Master’s degree student with no family, no credit cards, and about two thousand dollars left from a student loan. Somehow, I have to stretch this small amount of money to cover the gap in my living expenses for the rest of the year.
I shake my head again as I think about how close I’d been to that internship.
One computer error. That’s all that kept me from landing a paid internship. One idiot at school who typed in my GPA wrong, saying I had a 1.8 instead of a 3.8. By the time I got it all sorted out, it was too late. All of the internships were already snatched up.
“Face it, girlie,” I grumble to myself, “if this keeps up, you’ll be going down to the food bank for canned goods by Christmas.” I rub the last of the lotion into my hands. The sound of heels clicking against the tiled floor causes me to turn around, and I see my best friend, Mindy, holding a mocha latte in one hand and a cup of green tea in the other. She wiggles the latte at me.
I take it from her, feeling grateful for her thoughtfulness. “Tell me you put cinnamon in it,” I say.
Mindy steps back to survey me, shaking her head, her dark brown hair that’s cut into a side bob glinting under the lights and her large brown eyes flashing with a mischievousness that almost makes me smile. I have to say, she looks hot as hell in her uniform—a white dress shirt, open at the front, a short black skirt, an apron, and stockings, her feet adorned with black glossy heels.
“You bet your sweet ass I did,” Mindy chirps before going over to the free table in the staff break room and kicking out a chair with her foot before sitting down. “Double cream, double sugar, double cinnamon, basically double everything I could get my hands on. Come on, I know your schedule as well as you do. It’s the least I can do.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” I tell her, raising the cup to my lips and taking a sip. I close my eyes as the warm liquid hits my tastebuds and I let out a groan. It really is sweet.
“You know, you keep moaning like that, and people are going to think you’re up to no good during your coffee breaks,” Mindy jokes, sipping her green tea. “I mean, I get it. You skipped breakfast like you always do, but damn, girl, should I leave you and the latte alone with a necktie hanging on the door?”
“You keep making drinks like this and bringing me scones, and you may just have to,” I joke. “But how’d you know?”
“What? That you’d be tired?” Mindy asks, laughing. “Uh, in case you forgot, for the past two weeks, we’ve all been wiped out. I’m sure that V-man loves the money, but he’s not the one busting his ass” —Mindy glances down at her thighs critically— “or in this case, big ass.”
“Oh, come on, you’re a size two!” I protest.
Mindy scowls. “A big size two.”
“There’s no such thing!” I scoff.
“Want to see my ass?” she offers.
“I’ll pass.” I chuckle. Mindy always does this, complaining about her weight when there’s nothing to complain about. I just argue with her to get kicks. I take another sip of my heavenly latte before adding, “And if Mr. Vandenburgh hears you call him V-man again, you know he’s going to blow his stack.”
Mindy laughs and screws up her face, looking remarkably like John Cleese as she pitches her voice perfectly to match the hotel manager’s. “Ahh . . . yes, Miss Sayles, we’ve noticed that you’re taking your job far too seriously, and I’m going to need to make sure you don’t have a broom handle lost inside your buttocks. Please bend over and spread your cheeks for me.”
I laugh, barely holding onto the coffee in my mouth as I set my cup down, trying not to cough. I can’t help it. Mr. Vandenburgh does look a lot like a very short but chubby John Cleese, and Mindy’s got the voice down to a tee. Mindy lets up, and I swallow before sitting back, wiping at my eyes. “Girl, thank you. I so needed that. You don’t even want to know what I had to deal with today.”
“What, the production monkeys aren’t appreciative of the fine rooms we’ve made available to them?” Mindy asks. For the past two weeks, The Grand Waterways has been rented out by a Hollywood studio that’s producing a film in town. While the production team staying at the hotel haven’t exactly been the cleanest guests, they’ve been a hell of a lot better than the sports team that just trashed that room.
“No, actually, it was that rowdy ball team.” I shake my head. “And you don’t even want to know what I saw in their room,” I say, pinching my face into a disgusted scowl.
“Sure I do,” Mindy says, her eyes flashing.
“No. You don’t,” I say firmly. “Trust me.”
“Tell me!”
“No.”
“You suck.”
“Let me just put it this way. I had to call Jimmy and his team to handle it.”
Mindy makes a face. “Oh, it was one of those, huh?”
“Yeah. One of those.”
“I bet it smelled like toe jam and ass crack.” Mindy grins.
“Actually, it was worse.” I laugh, remembering the acrid stench that made my eyes water. “There were like stains . . . everywhere. It was so gross!” I don’t even think about bringing up the used condoms.
Mindy grimaces. “Good lord, what the hell were they doing in there? Having a golden showers competition?”
I snort, nearly gagging on my coffee, and then I start coughing so hard I nearly choke.
Mindy stares at me with concern, half-rising out of her seat. “Jesus, you okay, Bri?”
I motion her to sit back down. “Don’t do that!” I gasp when I’m able to recover.
“Do what?” Mindy asks innocently.
I wipe at my eyes. “Make me laugh when I’m drinking coffee. I nearly gagged to death.”
Mindy grins impishly. “Wouldn’t be the first thing you gagged on.”
I scowl at her. “You’re disgusting, you know that?”
“Oh c’mon, Bri, don’t be such a prude.” She pauses, nodding at the supply room. “So, what’s left on your schedule?”
“Too much,” I reply. “But at least the penthouses should be easy. One of the suites is being used by some film crew, so they don’t want us in there. One is empty until a guest arrives tonight. So, that leaves just one.”
“Then perhaps, Miss Sayles,” a stern voice says from behind me, “you should look at making sure you have that room prepared for our VIP guest.” I turn to see Mr. Vandenburgh, all five foot four inches and about two hundred p
lus pounds of him, standing in the doorway. He’s in his tailored suit, of course, looking like a thousand bucks from the neck down while looking like a grumpy ass disorderly from the neck up. “That is, unless you want to pay for that coffee you’re holding.”
Oh, God, please save me.
I shake my head. “No, you’re right, Mr. Vandenburgh.” I glance over at Mindy, who is barely hiding a smirk.
“Well then, get on with your duties,” he says acidly, his scowl hard enough to curdle milk.
Please let me find another job so I don’t have to deal with this shit anymore.
Seriously, after that bullshit upstairs, I’d almost be ready to tender my resignation if I were offered a job at McDonald’s sweeping the floors. I’m just so over this.
Vandenburgh opens his mouth as if to scold me further, but I hold up a finger as I drain the rest of my coffee.
“I’m going!”
I give Mindy a thankful nod as I pitch my empty cup into the trash. She flashes me a sympathetic look as I turn and walk out, making my way to the service elevators. I really can’t stand Mr. Vandenburgh’s presence for more than a minute, and I just want to knock out the rest of my shift and go home.
As I head up the hall, I can hear Mr. Van start in on Mindy.
“What the hell did you do to the machines, young lady? I got complaints about the coffee this morning . . .”
I crack a smile as I imagine the look of consternation on Mindy’s face.
By the time I finish the regular rooms, I’m nearly about to pass out as I push my supply cart toward the service elevator.
“Just a little while longer,” I tell myself, “and I’m free.”
By some miracle, a lot of the rooms on the next floor aren’t that bad. In fact, I’m feeling like salvation is near when I make it to the penthouse suites. My first stop is room 601. It’s reserved so I skip it.
Room 602 is occupied, with the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the doorknob.
So, that leaves Room 603, which should also be empty. The guest isn’t checking in until this evening. Before I step inside, I check the guest list. It just has ‘ANACONDA’ scribbled on the sheet. I frown at the name as I stare at the big bold letters. What the hell kind of name is Anaconda?
Shaking my head, I open the door and hold back a jealous grumble at the sight before me. Seriously, the living room of this penthouse is bigger than my entire apartment. Two thousand square feet, a master bedroom and a smaller bedroom-slash-office, and a sitting room. The damn thing even has a chef’s kitchen.
My grumble turns into a hiss of anger when I see that someone’s been up here, and it sure as shit wasn’t Goldilocks.
“None of this should be here,” I mutter as I take in the mess, frowning at a jacket that’s been thrown over the Italian leather sofa and a bag that looks like it was carelessly tossed into a chair and knocked it over.
Puzzled, I check my sheet again. Nope. No one’s supposed to be here. I step into the room, leaving my cart outside.
“Housekeeping?” I call tentatively. “Anyone here?”
Silence is my only answer.
“Hello?” I dare again. When I get no response, I walk over to pick up the chair that’s been knocked over. I figure that maybe someone has checked in ahead of the guest and left in a hurry. I’ll straighten things up and just leave.
A sound behind me causes me to spin around, and my breath stills in my lungs.
Holy fuck!
My heart skips a beat as my eyes take in the naked . . . god standing before me. Well, ok, he’s not totally naked. He’s got a towel over his head and he’s drying his hair.
But the way he’s built . . . sweet Jesus. He looks like he’s chiseled out of granite, with big muscular arms, breathtaking broad shoulders, a proud chest, an eight pack, and . . .
“Anaconda . . .” I whisper as I see what’s hanging between his legs, my pulse pounding in my ears. He’s got to be at least seven inches long already and he’s not even hard. My skin prickles as I gaze at his thick cock, my nipples hardening, my breath coming out in short pants.
The man freezes when his eyes fall on me, and I feel like I’m going to melt into a puddle on the floor. I have no words for how hot this man is. He’s not just hung like a horse. He’s fucking gorgeous too. Shaggy blond hair hangs down over his forehead, with startling blue eyes that seem to glow from the inside and a face that would make artists drool. He’s staring at me, his mouth, with full, sexy lips, hanging slack, the towel dropping from his hand to the floor.
Neither of us says anything for what seems like an eternity but has to be just a few seconds before he recovers and grins, his eyes boring into me with an intensity that makes me weak at the knees. “Hi, I’m Gavin,” he says easily, as if he’s not standing in front of me with a monster-sized dick dangling between his legs.
He’s not doing anything to cover it up either. Given what he’s packing, I understand why. It’s like he’s proud of it as he stares at me with a confidence that borders on gross arrogance.
Heat rises in my chest as he steps forward, a cocky smirk turning the corner of his lips, and I take a half-step back, my pussy clenching around nothing. It’s an effort to keep my eyes on his face as my heart hammers in my chest and my cheeks burn with embarrassment.
“You all right?” he asks. Even his voice is sexy, a low baritone that causes my pussy to clench again.
I open my mouth to reply, but my eyes stray back to it, and my heart skips another beat. Shit. Shit. Shit. I can’t deal with this right now. I tear my gaze away from it, my eyes darting this way and that, looking for a way out as he closes in on me.
I want to run away. But I can’t move. It’s like my legs have filled with stone. Against my will, my eyes flicker back to it.
Sweet Jesus! It’s swaying with each step, swinging back and forth like a giant pendulum, almost putting me into a hypnotic trance.
When he gets close enough to touch me, I’m suddenly free of my paralysis. Heart pounding, I spring forward, nearly tripping on my way to the door. I’m only able to mumble, “Sorry,” as I run from the room with a flaming red face, trying my damnedest to not glance back for one last look.
Chapter 2
Gavin - 2 Years Ago . . .
“Anaconda! Anaconda!” the reporters yell in my face after a particularly rough game, jamming microphones and cameras at me. “Do you have anything to say about what happened?”
God, I hate that fucking nickname.
I blink several times as rapid flashes of lights go off in my eyes, fighting down the exasperation that flares inside me. They’re herding me like a fucking zoo animal, each one of them fighting one another to stick a mic in my face.
A fraudulent smile spreads across my chiseled jawline as I wink into the cameras and prepare to formulate an answer. I’m trying to appear unruffled by the question, though I want nothing more than to tell them all to get the fuck out of my way. I know how they’ll spin it if I do. And I can already see the headlines now.
Gavin Adams Flies into a Rage after a Bad Game Because of Scandal.
I know I should ignore the trolls, who are only looking for a rise out of me or a soundbite to try and get another five minutes of story out of what was a total mistake. But after dealing with the team, the league, and all the drama that ensued, I’m pissed off. Losing 20-0 against our biggest rival isn’t helping much either.
“Mr. Adams has nothing to say,” Miranda, my agent who doubles as my PR rep, says loudly over the ungodly clamor of shouting voices and clicking cameras, beating me to the punch. My eyes are drawn to her. She’s dressed sharply, as usual, in her red designer dress that fits her shapely frame like a glove, the epitome of a middle-aged professional woman who’s still getting some mileage out of her body as well as her brains. “So, if you all would just excuse us. He has more important things to attend to.”
“Hold up, Miranda,” I interrupt her, maintaining my fake smile. I figure I can use my charm to defuse this situation an
d be on my merry way. I raise my voice and politely say, “I’m sure everyone’s heard about my little incident, but I want to let you all know it was just an accident. And that’s it.”
“There was nothing little about it!” a female reporter shouts, and then giggles ensue. I ignore her and the rest.
“So, you don’t have anything to say about the footage of you circulating on the internet?” asks one of the other reporters.
I scowl at him. That will teach you to stop for a photo op and try to smooth things over. “What footage?” I ask flatly, knowing exactly what he’s talking about.
He smiles, his freckles spreading across the bridge of his nose. “The one of you dropping your towel in front of Sara Jameson on live TV.”
I hold in a groan, irritation flaring. These people are acting like I whipped it out and gave Ms. Jameson a lap dance. All I did was bump into her in the men’s locker room after a game. It wasn’t ‘live TV’, and she shouldn’t have been back there in first damn place. It wasn’t my fault the fucking towel fell off. But as soon as it did, I apologized to the wide-eyed Sara and put it back on.
I thought we were cool after that. She even told me the cameras hadn’t caught my mistake and I had nothing to worry about. Until the cameraman with her, or someone at the network, decided to leak the unedited video dubbed Anaconda out to the internet. It’s spreading like wildfire now along with my new nickname.
This whole thing has been a goddamn PR nightmare too. Miranda has spent a week of sleepless nights sending DMCAs to various websites to get the footage taken down. It’s been an endless battle. When one goes down, another one pops up. Still, it’s fewer of them than when this all started.
I just wish I hadn’t been so careless.
“It’s unfortunate,” I say, keeping the smile on my face with massive effort, “but really, it was an accident. Now if you guys would please move out of our way, I have to get to—”
“What does your mother think about you flashing millions of people?” the same guy cuts in again, taking delight in my irritation.
Miranda winces next to me as I grit my teeth, no longer able to control my anger.
Stud Muffin Page 44
