by Xavier Neal
“Because then you would realize it's okay to do more than stalk Brynley from the shadows.”
Her name alone kicks up the corner of my mouth. She is something extraordinary. Even though I'm rarely in her direct presence it doesn't stop it from radiating around the estate. You can always tell where she's been or who she's talked to by the smile on their face. She leaves no face unspoken to, with the exception of mine.
I drop my eyes back to the papers on my desk and mumble, “I don't....stalk.”
“Call it whatever you like.”
“Wes,” a male voice states. “Your deliveries are here, sir.”
Shoving my hands in my sweat pants pockets, I meet Clark's eyes. “Please inform Penny as well. I'd like her in charge of changing the flowers throughout the main house from this point on. With you responsible for Lauren's duties, I would like someone we both trust in charge of yours.”
He politely nods. “And your private order?”
“You can go ahead and place it in the vehicle. I'll be down shortly.”
“As you wish.”
His exit prompts J.T. to speak again. “Flowers? You ordered flowers for the entire manor?”
“I thought it would be a nice way to freshen the place up.”
He grins wider forcing me to stifle my groan. “Is that actually true or did you wanna buy the chick you find attractive some flowers, but didn't wanna admit it?”
To say I find Brynley attractive would be a pathetic understatement. She's breathtaking. Every way she moves is a hypnotic rhythm I'm defenseless against. Sometimes when she's wandering around the property it seems as if the rest of the world ceases to exist for me. My eyes, despite any effort to look away from the monitors, are glued to her actions. To the way her face lights up. To the way her body effortlessly curves in all her clothing. Most sessions like that have to end in an ice cold shower and burning hot coffee. The idea of asking Matt for a pill solution to blue balls is becoming a mortifyingly real one.
“You know even Batman found women attractive.”
I roll my eyes.
“Hey! He even had a thing for Catwoman.”
“She was a jewel thief.”
“I can honestly say the only jewels I would be interested in are the family ones dangling between your legs.”
Instantly my body turns, grateful my hood was low enough to keep the mutilation of my face hidden, while J.T. mimics the action in the opposite direction.
Brynley snickers, “How red is his face?”
J.T. leans over to humor her receiving a glare in the process. “Pretty red.”
If this Batman comparison were to continue, he would then be Robin and a very shitty one at that. Robin had the bat's back not switched sides every time one of the pretty villain's smiled. Not that Brynley is a villain. If anyone is the bad guy in this situation it's definitely me. I'm the asshole who destroyed her life and she doesn't even know it yet.
“So....” Her voice trails off and I shut my eyes to imagine her face. “I need a ride back to the city.”
Panic pierces deep. “You're leaving? Is Lauren completely well? Matt hasn't called me yet.”
“She's....” The hesitation to finish the sentence nudges at me to turn around and offer her comfort. “Alright. Slightly better, but not enough. Dr. Hamilton said to let her rest for a few hours and check on her again. I, however, have to go get my car. I go back to work tonight so that job I'm trusting you to do, Wes.”
Her conflicting emotions towards me further constrict my chest. As much as I want her to trust me, to trust that I do care about her mother just as much as she does, I can't blame her for being cautious. I'm just some billionaire asshole who hides in the unseen to her. She has no reason to believe I'm not doing anything more than covering my own ass. Part of me is thankful for that. If she knew why I was so desperate to ensure the safety of her and her mother she'd probably never speak to me again and that's not something I'm completely ready to surrender to.
“Of course,” I try to keep my tone soft.
There's a small bit of silence before J.T. announces, “I'm headed to the city now. You can ride with me.”
His offer lifts my eyelids and steals my attention.
“You driving?”
“No. Jeffrey.”
“Who?”
“Hurst. The one who drove when we picked you up.”
“Oh! Lurch!” Her exclamation causes me to smirk and shake my head. “He's your driver?”
“One of them. Driver and security,” J.T. informs me as he buttons his gray suit jacket.
“Oooo if you're not driving that means we can make out in the back seat like teenagers on prom night.”
Without thought, a snarl slips its way through my gritted teeth. J.T. begins a victorious chortle and receives another glare from me in return.
“That sound came from him, right?” The mirth in Brynley's tone soothes the insecurity of there being an inkling of truth in the joke.
“Oh yeah,” his reassurance twitches my eyes again.
“Good,” she hums. “Maybe one of these days the idea of me being hot and bothered for you will spur him to do more than just lend an ear to a conversation.”
J.T. gives me a firm look. “That's the hope....”
Without another word, he moves around the desk and heads for the door.
Anxious to give her what she wants, even if it's only a fraction, I call over my shoulder, face still blocked, “Have a nice night, Brynley.”
Impatiently, I wait for some sort of indication my friendly remark was heard. When I don't receive one, my head rolls around and drops in minor disappointment. What did I expect? Why would she acknowledge me after I growled like a fucking animal over a joke? Why would she even bother saying anything to someone who can barely muster up more than a hello?
All of a sudden there's a warm whisper in my ear. “You too, Wes.”
Unsure of what's caused the bigger shock to my system, her proximity or my almost exposed exterior, I grip the edge of the wooden desk harshly. With my breath caught in my chest, I listen to her joyful giggles fade out of the room, the sound so sweet I'm tempted to turn and admire the vision that goes with it. Once I'm certain, she's gone, I glance over my shoulder at the empty doorway with a bright smile. I hate how I'm beginning to wonder if I'm really hiding from her or myself. The only thing I hate more is knowing I don't deserve the answer to that question.
“Hey hot stuff, what's it gonna take to get you on that pole?” A customer asks as I deliver his friend's order. His hand grazes the side of my thigh, “I’m sure I've got the cash and you've definitely got the ass.”
And this is my biggest problem with men who have money. When it comes to women, no is not in their vocabulary. Sure. A man in charge with a vote of confidence does it for me, but a half drunk asshole who feels entitled to whatever he wants because his bank account is my age with several zeroes on the end of it, not so much. Forcing a polite smile on my face, I turn to him and declare, “Sorry, I only swing around poles for pleasure.” After he slightly chuckles and returns his cigar to his lips, I dismiss myself, “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“Off so soon?” He pouts.
“Yes, but Vanessa,” my head tosses to the dark haired female strutting our direction in bright red pumps, “will make sure you gentlemen get everything you desire.”
The grabby handed bastard quickly questions, “Everything huh?”
With a sexy smirk, I echo, “Everything.”
Once Vanessa has arrived and announced her presence, I stroll off towards the back to check out for the night. Smooth jazz from the house band seduces the ears while the women in corsets do the same to the eyes. Their black and white attire of the night paints a classic burlesque picture, yet many of their moves are less subtle. They're not exactly strippers since no additional clothes ever come off in the public area, but to call them dancers seems like an insult to people who can actually do more than use a metal device as a hump stick. From
the members only policy to the posh decor, everything shouts only the wealthy are welcomed. Truth is, it may read as a cigar lounge on the building, but it's actually nothing more than a gentleman's club in a fancy fucking suit.
To the right side of the stage, I slip down the hallway and take a right into the office area where my boss is trying to convince one of the younger girls to do something that isn't professional or legal for that matter.
“If you do this for me, I swear I'll give you first pick of private parties,” he tempts, hand sliding up the back of her thigh.
I shake my head at the bullshit line he tells all of us in hopes of getting a blow job. “Hey, Ricky. Can I check out for the night?”
The blonde giggles and buries her blushing face to the side at the same time he says, “Can you give us a few? We're in the middle of negotiating.”
“You're in the middle of a porn fantasy come true.” When he huffs his irritation over my remark, I state, “The sooner you let me go for the night the sooner you can get her on her knees and your nine-inch cock in her mouth.”
The petite blonde's expression grows in excitement indicating how quickly my potential lie intrigued her. Ricky gives her a small wink, strolls around his desk, and meets me closer to the doorway.
I pull the key card to the cigar room from my top as he mutters under his breath, “Appreciate the assist.”
“Appreciate it by adding me more to the schedule.”
His bushy brown eyebrows lift in objection.
“Or....I could casually mention too loud that I hope your crabs are gone.”
He snatches the object from my hand and grunts, “You know if your tits didn't help business, you wouldn't be worth the pain in the ass you are.”
“And you know if you didn't sign our paychecks no one would ever think twice about burying their face in your berry bush.”
Ricky tries not to glare. “I'll see what I can arrange.”
“Make sure you do. Unlike Bimbo Barbie waiting for you, I have actual bills to pay.”
Without another word, I twist around, and to the right towards the exit at the end of the hall. Unlike typical waitressing jobs where you have to go through the hassle of having receipts and cashing out, the membership cards are actually connected to whatever credit or debit card you use to pay your fee. It's the only payment type accepted here and cash is a requirement to tip. We get paid by the hour an alright amount, but tips are where my actual bill money comes from. Aside from having to dangle myself like high-class escort bait, it's not a bad gig. Take orders and deliver drinks or cigars. Flirt and pretend to give a fuck about whatever is driving them to drink. Beats a lot of the other bullshit jobs I've had to do.
Security helps me to my car across the employee parking lot. On my way towards the actual road, I shed the heels I hate wearing almost as much as having to squeeze my tits into a bra one size smaller than I normally wear. The drive out of downtown is practically traffic free. It's after midnight and most people don't spend their Thursday night trolling around for something to keep their bed warm. That's really more of a Friday or Saturday night chore.
A short drive down the highway later, I exit and pull off the direction of Wes' estate. While I do my best to remember every single turn we took, things look a little different in the dark. I take several wrong attempts on various unlit roads before pulling off to the side in a huff.
Quickly, I scroll through my contacts and hit J.T.'s number. To no surprise, it rings several times before he groggily answers, “This is J.T. Reese with Wilcox Enterprises.”
My face scrunches in disbelief. “Is that really how you answer the phone in the middle of the night?”
There's a small ruffling proceeded with a yawn. “We do business across seas. I get calls at random times.”
“Obviously.”
“Please tell me you're not just calling to have a snarky conversation with me.”
Uncomfortable with what I'm about to say, I rest my head against the window, and admit through gritted teeth, “I'm lost.”
“Lost?”
“Yeah.”
“Emotionally or physically?”
“Now who's being snarky?”
J.T. grunts a small laugh.
“Look, I honestly thought I remembered all the turns we took, but at night all these little roads look the same.”
“That's 'cause they practically are,” he replies. “You're in no man's land.”
“No man's land?”
“The estate actually reaches all the way to the main road, so all those little ones you feel lost on are actually a part of the property. They're decoys. Let me pull up the camera feeds of the roads and find you.”
“You have enough cameras to make the Jetson's jealous but can't put up road signs?”
He laughs again during his yawn. “Give me a few. I'll come out and bring you home.”
Rather than remind him I have no intention of permanently moving into a wing of the Munster's dream house, I simply reply, “Thanks.”
The call ends and I immediately look around at the dark settings trying not to think about every horror movie I've ever seen. After a swift lock of my car door, I give the rear view mirror another glance, the never ending darkness even more terrifying now than it was before. All of a sudden the music on the radio seems to cut out and the dead silence causes me to shift uncomfortably in my seat. Before I can convince myself it's all in my mind something scampers across my peripheral vision. I grip the steering wheel tighter. Any ability to breath seems to vanish. It's official. I'm boycotting all scary movies from this point forward.
About ten minutes later, a set of lights appears in the side mirror. Hope and skepticism clash as the vehicle creeps alongside my car. When it stops, the back window cracks just enough to flash me the sight of a hooded figure who instructs me to lower my window.
I shake my head at the same time my heart thumps painfully against my chest. “Absolutely not...No way. No way in hell am I about to be the inspiration for a terrible Texas Chainsaw Massacre spin-off.”
“Brynley,” the man states, his voice one I find sexier each time he graces me with it.
Cracking the window just enough for him to hear, I verify, “Wes?”
His head bobs. “Follow us.”
I give him a quick nod and they move forward enough for me to follow. The vehicle leads us around the remainder of the curvy road I was on before cutting through smaller short ones that I would swear were dead ends if I weren't following them. The moment the WX iron gates appear in my vision relief finally sinks in. For a brief second or two, I was convinced they might be lost. The security guard allows us through and I drive to the front of the house where J.T. originally had the car drop us off. Unsure of where else to leave my vehicle, I toss it into park and hop out with my heels as well as my keys in hand.
“I'll move your vehicle Miss Winters,” Clark informs warmly.
“I can move it,” I insist. “If you'll just tell me where. Haven't exactly seen a parking garage during my excursions.”
He chuckles lightly. “It's quite alright, Miss Winters-”
“Brynley.”
“Miss Brynley-”
“Just Brynley.”
He smiles. “Brynley. It's my job.”
“I know. But I really can park my own car.”
Clark extends his hands for the keys. “I understand you are a very independent individual, Brynley. Most people swept into a situation such as yours would take advantage of being waited on hand and foot, however, you are determined to maintain the majority of your self-sufficiency. It's admirable.”
“Thank you-”
“However,” he continues, “every time you deny one of us our ability to do our job, you take away the entire reason we're here, which is to serve. Most of us are not here because we have nothing better to do, but because we have found our calling, our joy, our path in life by serving households such as the Wilcox's. Therefore, I am asking you to please let me park your
car.”
His speech sends my jaw to the floor. Stunned, not only by the polite way he informed me of his feelings but the fact anyone would enjoy serving others as their life calling, I struggle to find a worthy response. Is that why my mother has done this for so long? Is that how she feels? Is that why even once I graduated and didn't need help with college anymore she stayed? Is being a part of the Wilcox family more than just a job to her?
My keys fall into his hand. With another warm smile, he asks, “Will you be needing anything else before you are tucked in for the night?”
“Um...could you...would you please bring me a late night snack?”
