by Aven Jayce
“Shannon, take a walk around the place and pick up all the drinks you come across.” Our catering captain, Howard, hands me a broom. “And Amber, you sweep.”
I nod and get to work, cleaning the floor in the mansion’s kitchen of the family we’ve spent the past four hours catering for... catering through the Fox Palace Hotel and Casino.
Turning in the applications that Jack gave us was a test to see if our new identities would actually land us a job. We figured he must have some connections to the company or someone who works there, and if our new names and references sent up an alarm and we got into trouble, then maybe he’d also be able to get us out. But it turned out well, smooth sailing the entire way, and the owner of the catering company has been nothing but kind to us since day one.
Oddly enough, the Fox Palace used to be owned by the Jameson family decades ago. It’s dated now and in need of repair, with the giant expo hall on the lower level experiencing minor fire damage just last year. The current owners have neglected it, but we can tell by the architecture and ornamentations that at one time it was grand, possibly one of the nicest hotels and casinos in the city.
We’re also surprised that several people we work with have been at the Fox since it first opened. They say the pay has always been good, especially years ago under Paul Jameson... and Jesus, the stories we’ve heard from the workers about that fucker, Paul. We had to research him ourselves to see if it was true.
The casinos and hotels he owned seemed more of a front for his porn company, a sick and twisted porn company. People refer to him as “Paul the pedophile.” He was disturbed, using teenagers in his company and abusing young boys. Jack’s a saint compared to that man.
A saint.
Fortunately, the owner of the catering company hasn’t told anyone I’m part of that family. I made it clear that I’ve distanced myself from them, that we had a falling out. He said my secret’s safe with him, and suggested I keep my last name to myself, since having a Jameson around might not sit well with the other employees.
No problem.
I get it.
Anyone who’s ever been around a Jameson understands that one.
So I stick to Amber when people ask, or go by Amber Linnet. I love using my mom’s name, and I love it that Jack thought to give it to me out of memory for her.
“What’d ya think?” Quinn steps back inside. “Great party?”
“It was chaotic. There were hundreds of people here tonight, room after room of drunken fools running around naked, skinny-dipping in the pool, and screwing in the hallways. And the music was crazy loud.” I think for a moment, smiling when I realize that sounded grandma-ish. “Did I just sound like an old lady to you?”
“Mature.”
“Hmm.” I kick a piece of shrimp out from under the dishwasher and scan the piles of leftovers. “Such a waste.”
“Many of the rich we’ve served have been wasteful. At least it’s cool we get to take some of the leftovers home when we ask. I love free food.” He lifts another stack of trays and disappears out the back door.
My man, Ellis Moore.
He takes such good care of me, of us, working his ass off with two jobs, while insisting I spend my free time volunteering instead of getting a second one myself. And I love it that I can do both—work full-time at the catering biz, and volunteer at the animal shelter and the community food pantry.
And with all the volunteering, I feel like I’m turning into my mother.
That’s a good thing, though. She would’ve loved it that I volunteer. And I think she would’ve liked Quinn, I honestly do, and that’s important.
He’s so kindhearted.
Charming.
Protective.
A fab cook.
A great listener.
And such a god in bed.
“Whoa!” He raises his hands and moves alongside the door, letting a guy in the buff run past him. With a headshake and a grin, he says, “Vegas.”
“Yeah, Vegas. This is in the top three wildest parties we’ve catered.”
“And there’ll be plenty more. This one was packed though, wasn’t it?”
“I know. I could barely squeeze through the hallways. Even the great room was tight. And the size of this place, the kitchen alone is bigger than our apartment. These people are mega-rich.”
I stop sweeping and run my hand along the kitchen counter to the industrial-sized, six-burner gas stove with red knobs that looks like it’s never been used. It must’ve cost the owners at least ten grand, which is about the amount Quinn and I will spend on rent for the entire year. It’s amazing how this one appliance is worth as much as the entire place where I lay my head.
He gives my arm a loving squeeze as he walks past, piling more of the uneaten food onto the trays as he continues to de-clutter the counter.
I sweep around his feet, smiling at his shiny black oxfords, thinking back to the day we stepped off the bus at the Greyhound station and called Vegas our new home.
He had holes in his sneakers then, and we were both dog-tired, but we walked for miles searching for the address Jack had given us, which turned out to be an apartment building owned by one of his dad’s friends. That night we slept in a cheap motel that accepted cash, then made the plunge into our new lives as Amber and Ellis.
I’ll never forget the apartment owner’s face when he looked at our rental applications and saw our references and my name—a total state of shock. He rented to us without any questions, never checking to see if we had jobs in Vegas, credit, or even a bank account. He just wanted the cash and for us to get out of his office.
He gave us the keys with a shaky hand and a forehead dripping with sweat. The poor guy must be in deep with Jack’s family, and it’s becoming clearer and clearer each day that the Jamesons used to practically own this city.
The situation certainly made us uneasy, but we stayed, grateful to have an apartment, knowing we weren’t going to get so lucky anywhere else. Same with the catering jobs, we had an ‘in,’ so we took it.
“I saw you eyeing that stove, you still happy?” Quinn asks.
“Beyond happy. Our place is cute and cozy. This kitchen is sterile. It reminds me of my aunt and uncle’s home. People could have nice things by spending half the amount they do, and give a little more to the poor.”
“I think they’re giving plenty to the poor.” He raises a handful of strawberries that might end up in our fridge later tonight.
“True.”
“I know we only have a tiny kitchenette, not easy for either of us to cook in, and our living room overlooks a parking lot...”
“But it’s perfect, because it’s ours.” I take a scrunchie from the pocket of my white blouse and tie my hair back before brushing dirt off my black dress pants. He hands me a dustpan and I sweep the crumbs up and dump them in the trash, taking one last quick sweep around the room.
“What do you think they’d say about how you’re living?”
“Who, my aunt and uncle? Same old, same old, I guess... that I could do better.” I twist my lips and look for any missed crumbs. “That I’m ruining my life by not going to school, that I have no car, no luxury items... that my job working for a catering business out of a dilapidated Vegas casino is embarrassing. And that I’m disappointing my mom.”
He lifts a tray, hesitating before he heads out to the van. “Is that how you feel?” he asks.
“No, my life rocks,” I say with certainty. “I’m blessed with good health and have a fun job, and I walk around on cloud nine because of my kickass boyfriend. I have everything I need, and then some.”
He laughs. “That’s my Ad... Amber.”
“Amber.” I mouth.
I don’t know if we’ll ever get used to saying Ellis and Amber in public. We still trip up at times. I told him we should stop calling each other by our real names at home so the transition is easier, but so far, no go. When we’re in one another’s thoughts o
r hanging out in private, we’re Quinn and Addie, and when we make love, we’re Quinn and Addie. We’ve been lucky that no one’s heard us make the mistake.
Howard, our captain for the evening walks back in, rolling his white shirtsleeves, revealing his black, hairy arms. “You finished with the floor?” He inspects the room.
“Yes.”
“Good. Looks good. Go help Shannon and the others clean the rest of the place up. I don’t want to leave anything behind. Check for plates, silverware, cups, everything. Take a cart and pile it all on so we can get out of here within the hour, this place gives me the creeps.”
“Too big?”
“No, too haunted.”
My brows snap together, questioning his response. I think he’s serious. Hard to tell sometimes since he drinks like a fish and he’s always blabbering nonsense after he’s had a few, but he looks and sounds rather sober right now.
I push one of the catering company’s metal roll carts out of the kitchen and enter a massive dining room, clearing off the table that runs through the middle of the room.
The house is dim and shadowy. The floors, and beamed ceilings throughout the rooms are all dark, and this plank table that runs a good forty feet seems like it’s been here forever, like it grew out of the floor. Literally, I think the table is built into the floor.
My boss might be right about this place. It’s eerie now that most of the guests have cleared out. Cold, too. It could be haunted.
I flip a switch for more light and a fireplace with gas logs in the hearth and small white twinkling lights set into the mantle comes to life. It casts a warm glow on my skin and flickers across the walls. I walk around the room and check the seats of the chairs and under the table, making sure the space is clean.
“One room down, many more to go.”
I head out and down a long hall, passing a bathroom and multiple bedrooms, some in use... some really in use... there’s major fucking going on in this house.
Ignoring the moans, along with the ill-timed sight of an ass pumping up and down in one of the open rooms, I focus on my job, hoping we can get off early tonight.
Fuck me harder, don’t stop, don’t stop. I’m your dirty fucking whore. Give me that cock. Yes. Yes! Beat me. Beat the shit outta me.
Something’s making my skin crawl.
It’s dark and dank and now this woman is in the throws of an orgasm, screaming, pounding the walls, squealing like a pig being slaughtered... her sounds are blood curdling. Please stop—
“Amber.”
“Ahh!!!” I grab my chest, feeling my heart leap into my mouth. “God, you scared the crap out of me, Ellis.”
“Jumpy?”
“Howard said this house is haunted. Yeah, I’m jumpy.”
“It is haunted. There’s a ghost in here.” Shannon hurries past us, pushing a second metal cart. She stops beside a black shelf that stretches along the left wall of the corridor. It’s lined with tall gold candles, a color that exudes wealth and masculinity. She picks up the food that was left between the candles, and grumbles, “Olives, cheese, a cocktail wiener. People are such slobs. Who leaves a wiener on a shelf?”
“Why do you think this place is haunted?” I ask as we head into the two-story great room—a space that reminds me of a ski lodge, with a large iron chandelier and a colossal stone fireplace.
Her focus is on a wide staircase that leads to a balcony extending along the back of the house, overlooking the great room.
“I used to work a lot of parties in this house back in the day,” she says, swinging her long grey braid off her shoulder. “Twenty years ago it was the place to be on a Friday night. Not the casinos or the bars, but here. If you were somebody, this was the spot. And I was here the night the owner was killed, up there. He got his brains blown out.” She forms a finger gun and points to the left side of the balcony, toward a separate living area. “Up that way is where it happened. I was over there, next to the staircase by the bar. I heard the shots and everyone rushed out the back doors before the cops came.” She puts her hands on her hips and stares heavenward at the row of five small windows near the ceiling. I look up, seeing glimmering stars framed by each one. “After the investigation was over and the house was sold, rumors spread that the new owners thought the dead guy’s soul was trapped here. They said neither Heaven nor Hell would take a man so evil, so he remains here to this day. Others say he still lives in the minds of his family, speaking to them in their dreams.”
“Not their hearts?” I ask in a quiet voice.
“No, he’s stuck in their heads.”
Quinn and I squint at one another then scan the space with renewed scrutiny. We’ve heard countless stories like this one since we arrived in Vegas. Seems like everyone at the Fox knows someone who’s been shot or went missing in this city. And they all have the same attitude about it—mind your own business and, if you see anything shady going down, remember that you didn’t see anything shady going down.
But this story gives me chills because we’re standing in the house where it happened. Right here. It’s not across town or in another building. It’s right here.
And after working this room all night, it’s easy to imagine a crowd of people rushing the back doors after hearing shots. They’d be frantic, full of fright and confusion. I can picture that fear because of the incident at the river. That panic hits you hard and fast.
“Bet Dylan would’ve enjoyed this party,” I say in Quinn’s ear, as Shannon heads into another room.
“Bet you were just thinking about the river,” he replies. “You always mention him when you are.”
“I’m still disappointed we don’t know what happened to him. Not that I care to see the doofus, I just want the mystery solved.”
“So you think Jack sent him to one of his retreats to work, the one farthest away from Albany?” he asks.
“Yep.”
“I thought for sure he’d be at the address we got, living in our apartment complex, now I think he’s working for Jack’s dad at Jameson Hotel.”
“Nuh-uh, no way. You’re way off. We heard his dad on the phone; he sure didn’t sound the type to take Dylan’s shit. If he went there, he’s likely dead.”
“Let’s not worry about him, we still have a job to do. I’ll take care of the area around the bar,” he says.
I nod and take a hand towel off the cart, dabbing a spilled drink off the floor.
Noticing food and glasses were left on a coffee table in the middle of the room, I push the cart in that direction, over to where leather sofas are arranged to form a circle around the large table.
I start to clear the area and smile at an old gray-haired man who’s sitting on one of the sofas. He reclines in his black tailored suit and shows off his oxford-clad feet by placing them on the table. Sliding a cigar out of his front pocket, he lights it with quick puffs, emitting a cloud of smoke to rise high into the room.
“What’s your name?”
“Amber,” I say timidly.
“Amber, sexy name for a sexy girl. Why don’t you come sit next to me?” He pats the sofa an inch from his leg, then pats his thigh. “Sit right here.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Playing hard to get?” His croaky voice sounds like he’s been smoking for decades.
“Sorry, I have a boyfriend.” I look over at Quinn, seeing he’s busy cleaning up the bar.
“It doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t mind if you don’t mind.”
“I mind.”
I set a pile of dishes on the cart, disappointed that I have to get closer to him to pick up the rest.
“My Amber... my, my Amber. Have you seen the upstairs?”
“No.” I work quickly, giving a curt response.
“There’re empty bedrooms with big beds up that way. One of the rooms used to have a cage in it... an erotic playp
en. You ever been trapped in a cage with a man?”
I take a step back and look into his dark and beady rodent eyes. He has a scar on his forehead and his lips are cracked and bloody. He puts his arm over the back of the sofa and explores me from head to toe.
“You didn’t answer. Have you ever been fucked in a cage?”
“No.” I use my coldest voice back.
“Too bad. It’s gone now; I can’t take you in there.”
I yank the rag off the cart and hurry to wipe off the table.
“This home was as lifeless as a morgue for years.” He waves his hand through the air, looking all around. “Owned by a quiet and dismal couple. So fucking boring. Then all of a sudden they packed up and left. They didn’t even say goodbye.”
“Are you a neighbor?”
He pays no attention to my question and continues his story. “It sat on the market for months. People were afraid to buy it, thinking a spirit would plague whoever moved in. Do you believe in them? Spirits? Life after death?”
I nod that I do, picking up the wine glasses on the side table next to him.
“Ah, then you should go upstairs and meet him.”
“Who?”
“Up to where the original owner was shot. Go say hello. He’s been lonely for some time. He’d love some company for the night.”
Sounds like another ploy to get me into one of the bedrooms.
Quinn moves in and stands behind the guy with his arms crossed, listening to his bullshit.
“I have a job to do,” I say.
“Don’t be afraid, he likes them young. The younger the better.”
“I think you’re talking about yourself, not a ghost.”
He puts his feet on the ground and leans forward, responding in a slow whisper. “At some point, we’re all ghosts. Just a small trace of our former selves, a trace of who we used to be.”
Quinn rolls his eyes, thinking the man’s a loon.
I bet he’s the new owner of this house, trying to pull one over on us. He must’ve heard Shannon mention the ghost when we first walked in.
With a strenuous groan, he pushes off the sofa, taking a moment to steady himself. He’s in need of a cane, walking hunched over and appearing weak from old age. He stops next to Quinn and reaches out to him, giving his lips a gentle touch.
