by S. R. Watson
The kinky crap stays in the back of the boat, so that’s refreshing. But everywhere else is considered neutral territory, which includes two cinemas, multiple lounges and bars, gyms, an indoor pool, an outdoor pool, and some other amenities I can’t remember. Atticus listed them but no need to retain them all since employees only have access to the amenities in the forward part of the boat. The indoor pool is located on the third floor forward, so that’s a win for me. The forty guest suites are situated on the first and third floor midship. I mentally keep track of all the information being thrown at me and summarize that the first and second floor in the aft is for kink, mid is neutral space and guest rooms, forward is for the staff, and Mr. Lair occupies the top floor.
I’m not sure I want to know what goes on in the back, but as long as that’s where it stays, I’ll be fine. Rich people are so weird. I’m assured no legality worries exist, but the NDA bounds me from discussing any aspects regarding Mr. Lair’s business operations or any guests who have been aboard. Atticus reassures me ample security will protect me against guests if needed. It is against the rules for us to have any inappropriate interaction with them. Invitations are only sent to a select forty people per cruise to maintain an intimate, prestigious experience. According to Atticus, many have been on The Playboy’s Lair waiting list for years. Only the most elite even know about the cruise. The Neumann’s had house parties with guest lists in the hundreds, and I managed, so I can do this for a chance of a lifetime to travel the world. That, and let’s face it, I’ll be out on my ass if I don’t.
“Okay,” I say after Atticus finally pauses and looks at me. His eyebrows knit together.
“Okay?” he repeats.
“Where do I sign?” I ask, reaching for the agreement.
“Just be sure, Brennan. Don’t take any of this lightly. This is not …” He doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he places the document in front of me and hands me the pen from his shirt pocket. He waits patiently as I sign my name next to the x. This is it. I’ve sealed my fate.
Atticus takes the NDA from me but lets me keep the manila folder. “I’ll show you to your cabin so you can get settled. I’ve decided that I don’t really need to go over the rest of the contents of the folder. It’s just new hire stuff, and I know you can read. It’ll give you all the info you need about your shift, duties, uniform, etc. You will be buddied with Tory to start your training tomorrow. She’s our senior housekeeper and will help you get acclimated. She’ll size you for a uniform tomorrow morning before you start.” We walk in silence until we reach my cabin on the first floor.
“A woman by the name of Glenda was supposed to be your roommate, but she had a death in the family and won’t make this cruise. Normally, staff without seniority have a roommate. We’re aren’t going to change room assignments this late, though, so it looks like you’ll get a cabin to yourself.” Atticus chuckles. Friendly Atticus is back.
“I know you hired me as a favor to Thomas, but thank you for the opportunity,” I say.
Even though this job is not what I would have pictured for myself, I have a job because of him. He reaches for my hand again to shake, and I spontaneously go in for a hug. He stiffens initially before settling into my embrace. I don’t know what came over me—nostalgia maybe? I’m feeling ambiguous. On the one hand, I left the one place that contained all the memories of my mom and me, and it’s hard to say goodbye to that. On the other hand, though, I have a chance for a new journey. One that I think my mom would be happy to see me take, even with the kinky people involved. I get to see and hopefully do things that she never got a chance to experience. I get to have a small piece of the lifestyle afforded only to the rich. Not the pretentious part, but the part that lets me broaden my horizons.
The alarm blares like a siren in the small confines of my cabin. I get tangled in the blankets trying to reach it to turn off the offending noise. Gah, I’m sure they can hear the stupid thing in the next cabin over. I finally break free, but the room is still dark since the curtains are closed. I feel around the bedside table until I have the clock in my grasp and then for a few more seconds until I find the snooze button. Okay, that was annoying. I don’t want to be traumatized every morning by that thing. Last night, I purposely set it a couple of hours earlier than I’m scheduled to meet with this Tory person. I want to see the indoor pool we can use on the third floor, but I also want to watch the sun rise.
I push the blankets back and make my way to the light switch near the door. I forgot there was an electronic button by the bedside table to operate the lights and the curtains. Oh well, I had to get up anyway. The room is bathed in light, which reflects off all the cherry wood furniture in the room. It’s so pretty. I love my new space. It’s better than my room at the Neumann’s, hands down. No expense was spared on décor or comfort. The mattress and bedding alone feel like they were made for a princess. I slept like a baby after I decided to have dinner in my room last night—well, until that alarm clock ruined my slumber. I didn’t even get a chance to try out the fancy flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, but I’ll remedy that tonight. Aside from the pool, I have everything I need right in here.
For now, though, I need to get a move on if I want to check out this pool. I quickly throw my midnight black, waist-length hair into the bun I usually wear. The mere thickness of it is too much of a hassle to do anything else with it. I’ve contemplated just cutting it all off, but I chicken out every time. The bun is not very stylish, but it’s convenient. If I cut it, I may have to actually style it. I throw on a hooded long-sleeve shirt and sweatpants. I’ll shower and get dressed for work after I get back. It’s nearly 6:15, so I need to hurry.
It’s only a couple of flights up, so I don’t bother with the elevator. I haven’t walked far before the indoor pool comes into sight. The water sloshes against the sides with each sway of the boat. The ocean must be rough this morning. The curtains are already pulled back to give a panoramic view through the floor-to-ceiling windows that look through to a spa of some sort.
It’s not as deep as the Neumann’s twelve-foot pool, but I can definitely swim laps with the eight feet of this one. I’ll have to find out what time is acceptable to avoid another fiasco. I follow the winding staircase off to the right that leads to yet another level. Surprisingly, this level is open to the outside where you can walk out to the railing of the boat and look out at the ocean. The waves and the salty smell in the air are very soothing. I watch as the sun peeks from behind the clouds, bringing with it an array of yellow and orange hues. It’s synonymous with my new start.
“Enjoying the view?” a male voice asks from behind me. Startled, I spin around on my heels, and the vision in front of me causes my breath to catch. A gorgeous man stands before me, not even two feet away. His piercing blue eyes hold me captive, and I can’t look away. Definitely no man who looked like him existed back at the mansion. Aside from his striking, gorgeous eyes, his brown with a hint of sun kissed hair is absolutely yankable. Shorter on the sides with considerable length on top for a woman to hold on to—just rolled out of bed tousled hair looks good on him. His mustache and beard contain just the right amount of facial hair without being too much.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Seems like you are enjoying the view very much,” he continues with a smirk. His dimples and perfect kiss-worthy lips add to this visual indulgence until he opens his mouth.
And just like that, the trance is broken. Smug fucker. He’s obviously talking about himself now because I’m sure I look like a staring idiot. It’s not my fault I have minimal exposure to hot guys—like none!
“Well, I was enjoying the ocean view and sunrise until I was interrupted,” I lie. The truth is, I was enjoying both views—him and the other stuff I mentioned—until he opened that conceited trap of his. “Do you work here?” I need to get the subject off his handsomely good looks.
Mr. Smug raises his perfect eyebrows at me in amusement. “What do you mean?”
“You know? The thi
ng people do to earn money—work? It’s also known as a job. Do you work on this boat?”
Although I can’t picture Mr. Smug Hottie being part of the help, I secretly hope so. Otherwise, it means he’s a guest and off-limits. Who am I kidding? I could never pull a guy like him anyway, but it doesn’t stop my vagina from reacting to this manly specimen. She perked up the minute his eyes met mine.
He seems to be a bit self-absorbed, so it cancels out his handsome sex appeal. I’ll just keep telling myself that.
“No. I don’t work on this boat then.” Mr. Smug Hottie grins. “What about you? Do you work on this boat?”
“Yes. I’m the new maid … um, housekeeper. Today is my first day, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be out here.”
“Why is that?” He steps closer, and my breath hitches for the second time. I stupidly look into those blue eyes again, and I’m rendered speechless. When I’m finally able to string together a coherent sentence, I stutter like a babbling idiot.
“This area, the … the … the forward of the boat is for the … the … employees. The guests have their own pool,” I finally get out.
“Ah, too bad. I happen to like this one,” he taunts. “I guess that makes me a rebel. Although, technically, the pool is down there,” he says, pointing at the pool one level below. He’s got me there.
“Look. I’m not going to snitch on you, but you can’t be on the forward of the ship. Guests are only supposed to be on the midship or aft. I don’t want to be caught with you out here. I need this job,” I almost plead. He’s right about the pool thing, but this area is still off-limits.
“Yeah, that wouldn’t be good. After all, snitches get stitches.” He lets out the most infectious laugh I’ve ever heard, and those dimples are so damn enthralling. I want to yell at him because he is not taking me seriously, but I can’t. I try to hold it in, and then I finally crack.
“Who in the hell even says that?” I giggle.
“Please don’t tell me you’ve never heard that saying?” he teases. “It’s street slang. A reference about not snitching to the cops?”
“Well, surprise, I wasn’t raised in the streets.”
I take a really good look at him now. He’s wearing joggers and a t-shirt that clings to his chiseled chest and abs. He runs a hand through his already tousled hair, and my eyes follow. I cross one leg over the other to encourage my vagina to settle down. He looks down at my crossed legs momentarily before his sinful lips curve upward. Does he realize the effect he is having on me? I give him another once-over, perusing the god-like body his attire is doing so little to hide. Only sexual perfection, nothing that screams he was raised in the streets either.
“And from the looks of it, you weren’t either,” I add sarcastically, hoping he doesn’t see through my lustful thoughts.
“Ah, but you don’t have to be raised in the streets to have street smarts.” He winks at me, and I swear my stupid vagina winks her approval. “It was nice talking to you, Miss. I’ll get going before you’re seen with me. Wouldn’t want you to get in any trouble on my account.”
That sexy grin is back. It hints at an underlying meaning, and I wish I knew what. He probably knows that he’ll make an appearance in my next get myself off session.
“Hey! Quick question before you go,” I rush out like I wasn’t just mentally cataloging him for later. He turns back slowly to face me, and I have to force myself to continue. It’s not fair for one man to be this sexy. Now his stride toward me is turning me into mush. “Um, where can I get a camera? Do you know if there is a shop to buy that sort of thing on this boat?”
“There is a small gift shop amidship, but I don’t think you’ll find a camera in there. What kind were you looking for?” he asks.
“Just a digital one. One that doesn’t need film.” He bellows out a laugh; only this time, it’s not so funny. He tapers it off after he realizes I’m serious.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that …Well, do those film based cameras even still exist? Unless you need one of those fancy cameras for something specific, why can’t you just use the camera on your phone? Most phones nowadays come with decent megapixels. What kind of phone do you have?”
The pregnant pause between us is awkward. “I don’t have one,” I finally admit.
“What happened to it?” he pushes.
“I’ve never owned one.” More silence. “I’ve never needed one.” He shakes his head as if to clear it.
“Well, I’d better get going. Maybe you can get one at our first stop. Hopefully, you’ll find one,” he says. “It was nice meeting you … I don’t even know your name. What is it?”
“Brennan,” I reply simply.
“Hmmm. That’s a guy’s name, but it somehow fits you. Take care, Brennan. I’m sure we’ll see each other again real soon.”
“Wait. You didn’t tell me your name,” I blurt out, stopping him for the second time.
“You’re right. Where are my manners? My name is Silas.” He winks. I guess that is his signature move to make the panties wet because he definitely has it mastered. “Can I share an observation with you, Brennan?”
“Shoot,” I encourage.
“I think you secretly want to get caught out here with me.” With that bomb, he turns and walks away, chuckling to himself.
He stirs so much in me. So much so that I’m surprised by my body’s reaction to him. I don’t know what he meant about seeing me again real soon, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to it. So what if he’s off-limits? I couldn’t have him anyway. Whatever, it doesn’t hurt to look and maybe get off to thoughts of him. I wonder what kind of kinky experience he’s here for. Chances are, he is already here with someone. Anyway, the moment is over. I stayed out here longer than I’d anticipated talking to the handsome, smug stranger. Now I have to forgo a shower in order to meet with Tory on time.
There is an unexpected knock on my door. I give myself one more look over in the mirror before I open it. A blonde bombshell stands before me wearing a black pants suit that hugs her every curve. The buttons on her white button-down shirt strain against her bosom. It is obviously part of a uniform since the breast pocket of the jacket is embroidered with The Playboy’s Lair logo. The blonde looks me up and down, and I can see the silent judgment in her narrowing eyes. I’m wearing a suit too; only mine is a mustard-colored skirt combination and about two sizes too big. It was my mother’s.
“Hi. I’m Tory. You’ll be shadowing me for your initial training today. I’ve come to get you fitted for your uniform before we go topside, and it would appear I’m here not a moment too soon.” I bite my tongue at her obvious insult. So she’s Tory? She doesn’t look like any housekeeper I’ve ever seen.
“Can I come in?” she asks when I don’t respond right away.
“Sure,” I say, stepping aside. She wheels in a rack of uniforms. They are all collared, button-down gray shirts and black pants. The shirts bear the same logo as her jacket, but nothing remotely close to the sexy sophistication she’s wearing.
“What size are you?” she asks. There is no friendliness in her tone.
“I’m a size six.” I keep my tone just as dry. The employees didn’t have to wear uniforms at the Neumann’s unless they were frontline employees, meaning they were going to be in proximity with their guests—basically for entertaining purposes.
“Hmmm. We have a few size fours and a couple of eights. No way you could squeeze into a four, though.” She winces while looking at my backside. My ass isn’t exactly small and perky.
“I’m a size four, I mean,” she adds as if that justifies her below the belt insult. “We’ll put you in the eight. With a belt, you’ll be fine. I’ll fit you with a large shirt to make sure it fits over the girls,” she says, pointing at my more than a handful boobs.
“Okay.”
Suddenly, my optimism is sucked right out of me. I’m the outsider—the new girl. To make matters worse, I have Barbie here making me self-conscious
about my considerable assets. We all can’t have long legs, a lithe, tight body, and huge boobs. Well, I have the boobs part, but I’d kill for her proportions. She’s every man’s fantasy. She’s the kind of woman who Mr. Smug Hottie would notice.
Will all the staff be this condescending? Will they all have the “just stepped off the runway” good looks like she does? Maybe Mr. Lair only employs gorgeous people like Tory for his sex ship, and I’m the anomaly—the favor. I enter the bathroom to put on the uniform while she waits. Just as I thought, it hangs on me without any type of shape. Not a curve to be seen. Not that I could hold a candle to her body. But it doesn’t matter; this is how most of my clothes fit anyway since I wear a lot of my mother’s things. I blow out a much-needed breath and rejoin Tory.
“Perfect,” she exclaims. “It’s a little big, but once you start cleaning, you’ll appreciate the extra breathing room.”
“How do you clean in that?” I foolishly ask. She’s wearing hot pink “fuck me” stilettos, for God’s sake. They’re a far cry from the slip-resistant clogs that were issued to me last night.
“Oh, honey, I don’t clean anymore. I supervise. Those days are behind me.” She flips her bottled blond locks for added emphasis. “We have to get going. There’s been a slight change to our schedule. Mr. Lair has called an impromptu meeting on some changes we need to know about.”
I look at my naked face once more in the mirror and make sure my bun is securely bobby pinned in place. Standing next to Tory is giving me a complex, and I’ve never been one to care about makeup and crappy glamour girl stuff.
“I’m ready,” I lie effortlessly. My feelings have been all over the place since I got here. Bosom Barbie sure as hell isn’t making things any better. I wish Atticus was training me. Wonder if he’ll be at this meeting?
I walk into the same conference room where I signed the NDA yesterday. The room is filled with people wearing uniforms similar to mine with slight style variations. Aside from Tory, they all seem like regular working people—not a single glamour bot in the bunch. I can feel their stares on me as I stand and wait for Tory to finish her conversation with the wiry, short-haired woman who has stopped us. She doesn’t seem too pleased with Tory’s response to her issue is all I can really piece together. They’re in deep discussion about it, but I try not to eavesdrop. A quick scan around the room when we first walked in gives me an idea of who I’ll be working with. It looks like mostly an older crowd, so that’s a plus. If I had to guess, I’d say their ages range from late thirties to maybe early sixties, which is the same demographic I’m used to working with. Tory must have been the youngest before I arrived. I would guess her to be mid-twenties. I’m just glad she is the outlier. I don’t think I could work with a bunch of people who looked and acted like her.
