“Wow.” He actually seems quite surprised. “What else do you handle?”
I spit out the rest of the list. “I get your Starbucks coffee every morning, make your travel and restaurant reservations, prepare your lunch, send out your two hundred pairs of jeans for laundering and take care of your dry-cleaning, stock your refrigerator, order your supplies, coordinate things with your entourage, and even help you with your lines. Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. I give you massages. I’m a certified massage therapist. That’s one of the reasons you hired me.”
His eyes dart to my hands, lingering on them. His eyes flutter as if he’s trying to remember them. And then he twists his luscious lips.
“How did you end up working for me?”
“I got the job through an agency that specializes in placing personal assistants with celebrities and VIPs.”
“What’s it like to work for me?”
The words tumble out of my mouth. “You’re a conceited, egotistical, arrogant asshole.”
His brows jump to his forehead. “Hmm. If I’m a total jerk, why do you work for me?”
The truth. Well, almost. “I need a job, and you pay me decently, plus you give me room and board along with a car allowance. It sure as hell beats being holed up in a dark, claustrophobic massage room.” I add in one other reason. “And despite what you may be thinking, I actually really like my job.” And could look at you all day long.
He studies me. I can feel his eyes raking over my body.
“How old are you?”
I think that question is banned by some equal opportunity employment act, but I tell him anyway. “Twenty-four.”
“Have I ever fucked you?”
What? That out-of-the-blue question takes me aback. Every muscle in my plus-size body tenses while my ovaries do a somersault. I somehow manage not to fall off my stool and find my voice.
“Your cock is the one thing I don’t handle.” I rebound nicely. “Unless you count all the times I’ve booked a hotel room for you and your hook-ups.” And dreamed about it.
My eyes flick to the bulge between his legs and then quickly return to his pensive face. I feel myself flush and my awareness only heightens the sensation.
“Do I share my social life with you?”
“Uh…no. I just know what I read online and in gossip magazines.”
A short silence and then he breaks it after a chug of his drink. “Do you know my fiancée, Katrina Moore?”
At her name, my blood curdles and my chest clenches. I gulp my bottled water and swallow it over the rising lump in my throat.
“I’ve met her a couple times,” I stammer. Two times too many. The second encounter flashes into my mind—at the hospital after Brandon came out of surgery. The bitch was with Scott and she told me three was a crowd. Especially with a heifer like me. Her insult stung me, and if the tears from Brandon’s life-or-death condition weren’t enough, I shed another round and fled. In retrospect, I wish I hadn’t. It was just too much.
Brandon’s voice hurls me out of the painful memory. “What do you think of her?”
Mama always told me if you have nothing nice to say don’t say it all. But growing up with my uncle and his family, I learned to speak my mind. So, this is hard. I take a deep breath. “She’s okay.” Fucking stuck up bitch. I hate her guts! “I guess I owe you a congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Brandon’s voice is distant. He polishes off his Scotch, and I take a last sip of the water. A blue feeling washes over me.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to settle back into my quarters. I’ll have your Starbucks for you first thing in the morning—right after your swim.”
“I like to swim in the morning?”
“You never miss a day.”
“That’s good to know. Can I help you with your bags?”
Well, that’s a first. It’s just a simple roller bag that’s in the trunk of my car, so I politely decline.
Brandon’s eyes stay on me as I hop off the stool. “Good night, Zoey. I hope you can help me piece together the last ten years of my life.”
Silently, I pray and hope they include me.
Zoey
It’s good to be back home. Three weeks at that new age spa was unbearable. It was closer to being in prison. Cell phone and computer usage was banned, and even if you managed to sneak some time with your devices, there was no cellular or Internet access. I bunked in a small room no bigger than a jail cell, and there was no air conditioning in the hundred-degree desert heat. And I’m the kind of person who’s always hot to begin with. I almost died doing hot yoga. I couldn’t even cool off in the pool since I’m not a swimmer. And don’t get me started on the food. The food Nazis forced me to do a cleanse. All I ate—or should I say drank—was vile-tasting green juice that looked like Nickelodeon slime. I learned a new four-letter word. KALE. I hate the way it tastes and hope I never see another one of those monster-ugly leaves ever again. Ugh! Cabbage with a bad perm.
Next to my “spa” accommodations, the furnished guesthouse I reside in is a palace. It sits on the edge of Brandon’s property just off the pool. With a bedroom, living room, and kitchenette, it’s small but functional. Mimicking Brandon’s main residence, the contemporary furniture is high-end Italian stuff—not exactly my taste, which leans toward funky, but I can’t complain since I live here rent-free. Plus, the multiple windows offer a view of the city that so many would kill for. On a clear day, I can see all the way to the ocean. As I stash away my garments, the sky darkens and the timed lights of the city kiss it a gentle goodnight. Twinkling like stars, they never cease to amaze me.
Just as I unpack my last bra, my cell phone pings. Sure enough. It’s a text from the slave driver. I haven’t been back for more than ten minutes and he’s already bugging me. So much for wishful thinking. Nope. Nothing’s changed. Scrunching my face, I read it.
I’m hungry. Pick up a burger and fries.
Fucking great. I was looking forward to curling up in bed and watching some TV before getting some work done, but now I have to run out to service his majesty. And it’s not like I can just go down the hill to close-by McDonald’s. Mr. Taylor is very particular about his burgers—and in fact, just about everything. The only burgers he’ll eat are from In-N-Out, so I have to schlep all the way down Sunset in rush hour traffic to get him what his heart desires. But wait! Maybe he doesn’t remember what he likes and I can go to McDonald’s. I almost give in to temptation but in the end decide weathering his bad temper isn’t worth it.
If battling the insane traffic is not enough, the drive-thru line at In-N-Out is thirty cars deep. Moving at the speed of a slow freight train, it takes me forty long minutes to get my order, and by the time I get to the pick-up window, I’m famished. I ask for another cheeseburger with everything on it but then change my mind. Thanks to the spa, I’ve lost some weight (the one and only benefit), and I’m determined to keep it off. So instead, I force myself to order a Protein Burger—a measly hamburger that’s wrapped up in a lettuce leaf and not sandwiched between one of those delicious toasted buns. My stomach rumbles. Trying to be thin sucks.
“What took you so long?” snaps Brandon as I strut into his living room. Now wearing perfectly ripped jeans and a white tee, he’s sitting on the couch fiddling with the remote.
“Can you show a little appreciation, please?” I snap back at him before handing him the bag with his burger and fries. “I got you a cheeseburger exactly how you like it with ketchup and grilled onions.”
Without thanking me, he reaches into the bag. I watch his toned biceps flex as he bites into his burger.
Bite me, asshole.
With my burger bag in hand, I march off.
“Where are you going?” he asks before I’ve taken two steps.