Married in Michigan

by Jasinda Wilder

  I turn away immediately—well, almost immediately. Sort of. I mean, good grief, how can a girl not take a second look at that? Or a third? God, get out of the room, Makayla.

  Okay, okay. Moving on.

  Nothing to clean up in here, clearly, so no reason to be in the master suite.

  But damn, the man is perfect—one last look: dark brown, nearly black hair, jaw stubbled with a days’ worth or so of beard growth. I assume the occupant of the master suite is Paxton deBraun himself—so my assumption is that he’s as arrogant and awful as he is beautiful.

  None of my business, though. My job is to clean this room.

  Which I assume doesn’t include evicting the occupants, as they’re guests of Mr. deBraun, which means check out times do not apply.

  Clean the mess, Makayla.

  I return to the public living spaces—to where the worst of the mess is. First things first, the animals.

  I click my walkie-talkie. “Rick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m going to need animal control up here.”

  A long, significant pause. “Animal control?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Should I even ask?”

  I sigh. “There’s a donkey in the living room, and giant-ass boa constrictor in one of the bathrooms.”

  “Haha. Yes, Paxton deBraun is an ass, and no, I don’t want to know how hung he is.”

  I swallow hard to keep from laughing somewhat hysterically at that. “Um, no. I mean, there’s a literal, actual, real-life donkey in the living room, and a literal, actual, real-life snake in the tub.”

  “Shit. For real?” At that moment, the donkey lets out a deafening HEE-HEE-HAW-HAW-HAWWW. Rick cackles abruptly. “Holy mother of shit. That was a donkey.”

  “Told you.”

  “And a snake, you say?”

  “A big, giant-ass snake. It was all coiled up in the tub so I couldn’t guess at a length, but what I could see was thick as my thigh. So unless you know how to handle donkeys and snakes, call animal control.”

  “Yeah, I’m on it.”

  I pause. “Is there an animal control for naked hookers?” I ask.

  Rick snickers on the other end. “I volunteer my services.”

  “Judging by the number of used condoms I’m gonna have to clean up, I’m guessing they’ve been very well…serviced.”

  “Yeah, well…still my services are still available. Assuming they ain’t ugly, and being that deBraun hired 'em, I’m guessing they ain’t.”

  I sigh. “Men.”

  He laughs. “Just remember, we’re all the same, deep down. When you think you’ve found Prince Charming? Just remember he’s still a dude.”

  My turn to cackle. “Yeah, right—I’ve come to the conclusion that Prince Charming has never existed, and never will.”

  “Listen, I got a bathroom with a leaky faucet to fix, and now animal control to call.”

  “Over and out,” I say.

  Another laugh. “Exactly. Try not to need me for anything else, yeah?”

  “I’d love nothing more.”

  That conversation over, I go back to the mess in the kitchen, and it takes me more than two hours just to bag up all the trash, at which point the foyer is filled with piles of bulging contractor-grade garbage bags. And that’s just the kitchen. Another hour to collect the trash elsewhere—I don’t exactly tiptoe in the guest rooms, but the naked occupants are clearly down for the count and don’t stir.

  I turn the walkie to the housekeeping channel. “Tanya? This is Makayla. I need some…directions.”

  After a minute, the walkie crackles. “Channel nine.”

  I change to the correct channel. “Tanya?”

  “What’s up?”

  “What do I do about the beds?”

  “Change them?” Tanya answers, somewhat testily.

  “There are people in them. Several people per bed, passed out.”

  “Oh.” A hesitation. “I guess do everything but the beds, and hope they wake up and leave before your shift is over.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  I huff, annoyed, and go back to cleaning—wipe down the counters and cabinets, scrub the sink to gleaming, empty out the refrigerator, clean it, and replace the items; sweep and mop the kitchen floor; vacuum the area I’ve cleaned. Animal control still hasn’t shown up, so the donkey is still here, which makes trying to clean the living room pointless. Argh. Bedrooms, then. I can clean the bathrooms and vacuum the floors, just not make the bed, and I’m not touching the tub with the snake in it.

  The first bedroom, then. Ugh, so many naked people—penises, butts, and boobs galore. Condoms everywhere, used and unused. I put a third pair of rubber gloves on, and start picking up. Throw out no less than eight used condoms and their attendant ripped-open wrappers, shove the strings of unused condoms in the box and set the box on the nightstand, trying to keep my eyes on my work rather than the two dicks and eight sets of silicone tits immediately to my left.

  “Unnngh—” a female voice moans.

  The sounds of imminent vomiting can be heard—I leap with alacrity to grab my garbage bag. The woman nearest the edge of the bed is rolling to the side, mascara and eye shadow and lipstick smeared beyond all recognition, making her look like a cartoon clown. She’s groaning, holding her hand over her mouth. I hold the garbage bag under her mouth just in time to catch a long, splattering stream of vomit…, which turns my stomach, but I’ve dealt with worse, so this doesn’t entirely faze me. Babysitting alcohol-poisoned prostitutes isn’t in my job description, but it’s better to catch the hork in a bag rather than have to clean it off the floor.

  She blinks at me blearily, clearly still drunk. “Water.”

  I restrain the urge to snap, knowing Mrs. deBraun would expect me to go out of my way to care for the hotel’s guests, no matter who they are, no matter the request.

  I find a cold bottle of water, and even an industrial-sized bottle of off-brand acetaminophen, and bring both to the bedroom. Upon my return with water and painkillers, I find the rest of the bed’s occupants waking up in various stages of illness. Sighing under my breath, I provide them each with wastepaper can-sized garbage bags and bottles of water.

  One of the men—hugely muscled and well-padded with fat, covered in body hair, with a receding hairline and a Rolex still on his wrist—eyes me as he spits bile into the bag. “Paxton sure knows how to party—even provides wake-up drunk services.”

  I can’t quite stop myself from glaring at him. “I’m with the hotel housekeeping, actually. Giving you bags to puke in just makes my job of cleaning up after you easier.”

  His head wobbles on his neck. “Ohhh.” His bleary eyes go to the naked women in the bed with him. “Oooh—nothin’ better than waking up to hot naked bitches in the bed.”

  One of the aforementioned women gives him a death glare. “Our contract was through six this morning.” She glances at the digital clock on the nightstand, which reads well past ten in the morning. “Which means I don’t have to listen to you talk to me that way.”

  “How about I hire you for the morning, then?”

  “How about you fuck off?”

  “How about I talk to your madam about your attitude?”

  I huff in disgust as I push my cleaning cart out of the room, leaving them to hash it out. Donning my backpack vacuum, I reenter the room and make quick work of vacuuming, ignoring the bickering. I pile the various items of clothing on the couch under the window.

  I scurry through scrubbing the toilet, cleaning the mirror, the floors, and the shower, even as I realize I’ll just have to do the bathroom again since the occupants will likely use the bathroom before leaving. But maybe if I make a nuisance of myself, they’ll leave sooner. I leave the cocaine where it is, cleaning around it.

  I finish the bathroom and head for the next bedroom. A quick check in the living room says animal control still hasn’t shown up, as the donkey is still braying noisily and shitting everywhere.

 
The occupants of the second guest room stay passed out as I clean—once more piling clothing on the couch, vacuuming, cleaning the bathroom and not touching the drugs on the bathroom counter.

  Once the guest rooms are clean, I grab the walkie-talkie again. “Tanya?”

  “Yes?” she asks, a minute later.

  “Two questions.” I hesitate. “Wait, this is a private line, yes? And you’re alone?”

  “Hold on—” a silence, and then the walkie crackles. “Okay, go.”

  “First, there’s cocaine in both guest bathrooms—bags of it, and lines. I cleaned around it, but I wasn’t about to touch it, and I’m not sure what you want me to do with it. Second, I told Rick to call animal control, but they’re not here yet, and I can’t clean until they come take care of the donkey and the snake.”

  A silence. “The what?”

  “A live donkey in the living room, and a live boa in one of the tubs.”

  “I really don’t want to know,” Tanya says.

  “Me either,” I say. “I just want them gone so I can clean up and go home.”

  “A donkey?”

  “Yep.”

  “What the hell?” Tanya mutters. “Fuckin’ weird-ass rich people.”

  “No kidding,” I answer.

  “Okay, I’ll call them and see what’s up.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t touch the drugs. Leave it for the deBrauns to handle, especially since I’m guessing our guest of honor is still there.”

  “That’s what I was thinking, just had to be sure.” I sigh. “And yes, he’s here, as well as a few others.”

  “I don’t want to know. The less I know, the better.”

  “Lucky,” I mutter into the walkie. “Okay, back to work.”

  “I’ll let you know what animal control says.”

  “Great.”

  And…back to work.

  The master suite is last, and the room I want least to enter again. But, it’s my job. At least there are no weird surprises in here. I go in, clean the bathroom, even though it’s mostly clean already and doesn’t really need much besides a little shine and polish. I ignore the figure in the bed—now more covered, thank god—and start the vacuum.

  “Shut that fucking thing off, goddammit,” I hear a deep, angry, sleepy male voice growl.

  “Sorry, sir,” I say. “Housekeeping.”

  “Well housekeep somewhere fucking else.”

  I dare a glance at him: he’s upright in the bed with the sheet pooled around his waist—seems like his morning issue has subsided, thank god. Mussed dark brown hair that’s entirely too sexy for someone waking up drunk, and deep, wild, irritated, sleepy brown eyes—although brown is nowhere near descriptive enough. Golden—not quite tan, not quite khaki, not quite brown. A pure animal golden-brown.

  I decide the better part of valor is to simply listen, so I take the vacuum and my cart and head for the door.

  “Coffee.”

  I pause, summoning every ounce of self-control I possess. “I’m housekeeping, sir, but I’d be glad to call room service for you, if you like.”

  “My family owns this hotel and I’m telling you to make some damn coffee. There’s a pot and a bag of grounds in the kitchen.” He waves a hand at me. “I’m not asking you to serve it to me, just…fuck. My head is pounding.”

  “Well, you brought it on yourself, you know.” A new voice startles us both—female, crisp, authoritative, brusque, and impatient; I turn to see Camilla deBraun waiting on the other side of my cart. “Excuse me please, I need to speak with my son.”

  Tall, at least five-ten, with raven black hair pulled up in a sleek, elegant chignon, dressed in what I’m guessing is a custom-made designer sheath dress; she’s slender, beautiful, elegant, and exudes authority.

  I pull the cart backward out of the room and wheel it aside. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  She waves a hand, sparing me a quick glance. “I know it’s not your job, dear, but please start the coffee maker. He’s ever so much more tractable once he’s had caffeine.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I leave the cart, slip the vacuum off my shoulders and set it on the floor near the cart, heading for the kitchen.

  I hear Camilla as I walk away: “Now, Paxton. I’d like you to explain, if you can, why there is a donkey in my penthouse.”

  I can’t help myself—I poke my head back in. “Sorry to interrupt, but, um…there’s also a giant boa constrictor in the second guest bathroom.” I pause. “Animal control should be on the way to handle it, ma’am.”

  She stares at me. “A boa constrictor.” Her voice is flat. “You’re joking.”

  I shake my head, eyes wide—Mrs. deBraun is intimidating under the best of circumstances, and I’m far from easily intimidated. “No, ma’am.”

  Her eyes narrow at her son. “A snake?”

  He shrugs. “I dunno, Mom. It was a party. People do weird shit.”

  I head for the kitchen, dump grounds into a filter, add water to the reservoir of the coffee maker, and press start—within seconds, there’s a gurgle of hot water percolating through the system; a few moments later, coffee trickles into the carafe. The coffee maker is sleek and expensive-looking, a clear plastic reservoir, carafe, and a basket for the filter. No extras, no timer or auto-start or fancy buttons, but the coffee is made within minutes. God, I want one. I have been using Mom’s ancient Mr. Coffee machine from what I imagine is the 1970s, and it takes forever to make coffee, the hot plate doesn’t work, and it only makes three small mugs worth of lukewarm, weak coffee.

  This thing? Probably costs more than my car.

  Sigh. Rich people.

  When there’s enough coffee in the carafe, I pour some into a mug and grab a bottle of water from the fridge—I snag the bottle of painkillers from the guest room, where the occupants seem to have come to some sort of arrangement, as there’s moaning under the covers; I hurry out and close the door, but the moaning—faked female screams—gets louder and louder by the moment.

  I bring the coffee, water, and pill bottle into the master suite and set them on the nightstand. Without a word of thanks to me, Paxton deBraun tosses back three pills with a swallow of water, and then settles back against a nest of pillows, the sheet once again draped low over his waist; no erection this time, thankfully.

  A voice calls from foyer: “Animal control!”

  Camilla shoots me a glance. “Deal with that, will you, dear? Thank you.” She suddenly looks to one side, at the adjoining wall from which comes ever-louder screaming. “And that too, please.”

  I widen my eyes. “Um, that’s…that’s Mr. deBraun’s…guests, ma’am.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “By guests, you mean his degenerate friends and their gaggle of prostitutes?”

  I nod. “I…yes, ma’am. As far as I can tell, ma’am.”

  She sighs. “Fine. You deal with the animal control situation, and I’ll deal with the prostitutes and degenerates.” She stands, sniffing. “Honestly, I have no problem with the prostitutes. It’s your so-called friends I cannot abide.”

  “They’re not degenerates, Mom,” Paxton growls. “They just like a good time.”

  “We’ll discuss that in a moment, Paxton.”

  “Whatever.”

  Camilla stalks toward the bedroom door and rolls her eyes at me, as if commiserating. “You’re a grown man, Paxton, and one with several Ivy League degrees. Let’s graduate beyond monosyllabic grunts, shall we?”

  I head to the foyer and find two animal control officers looking a bit out of their element. I show them the donkey, and then the snake. Of course, to get to the snake, they have to go past the occupants of the second room, who have woken up at this point, and who are now engaged in a rather acrobatically flexible display of oral sexual three-way exchange. They don’t seem to notice us as I show the officer the giant snake—the officer is a female, and she has a large plastic crate with a lid containing air holes, and one of those long-handled poles with the adj
ustable loops at the end. She makes easy work of snagging the head of the snake with the pole, and then heaves the bulk of the massive snake into the crate—the snake seems to not care a whit, and even complies by tucking its head down into the corner of the crate so she can close the lid. The crate now containing the snake is so heavy that she has to drag it by one end, but even so the orgy in the bed doesn’t stop. I shake my head, following her out. The other officer, at this point, has the donkey somewhat under control, with a halter around its muzzle and a leash attached to the halter, and he’s struggling to lead the recalcitrant animal out of the living room and onto the elevator. The donkey is less inclined to cooperate than the snake was, however, and fights all the way onto the elevator. Eventually, the officer, a large man with graying blond hair and a wispy goatee, gets the loudly braying creature onto the elevator, and the second officer drags the snake crate after her and, with a quick thank you to me, they’re gone.

  I sigh, then.

  Turning, I find Camilla loudly shooing people out of the first bedroom. “Enough, all of you. Ladies, if you haven’t been paid, you can rest assured that my son always pays his debts. Gentlemen, the party is over. Please leave.”

  There’s grumbling, but two men hobble out, hurriedly hopping into pants and carrying the rest of their clothing. Rightly afraid of Mrs. deBraun, they’re gone within minutes. The women are slower to leave, taking their time to dress.

  “We were paid up front,” one of them says to Camilla. “But after the way this party went, if he calls us again, we’re doubling our rates.” She snorts. “We didn’t get paid anywhere near enough for what they wanted us to do.”

  Camilla shakes her head and holds up her hands. “No, no, no. Please, spare me the details. Charge him whatever you wish, I don’t care, I’m not paying for it anymore. Just please be on your way. There’s coffee made, if you want some.” She’s oddly solicitous of them, I’m noticing, as I go about the nasty business of cleaning up after the donkey; her next words make clear why. “Did my son have you sign a nondisclosure agreement with your contract?”