Juanita, a motherly older woman who hailed from Honduras, smiled down at me. "I want you to take Presidential-North, Presidential-South and the Ambassador suite this morning. As soon as you're finished with those three, go down to ten and clean as many rooms as you can before your shift ends. If you want some extra hours, I need help on the second shift, probably down on five, seven and nine."
"I'm on it." I didn't hesitate. The mega-luxury suites took three times as long to clean as the smaller rooms, but there were always big, fat tips. The chance at a second shift was exactly what I needed. Something told me Juanita was fully aware of my precarious money situation. Maybe I could finally get the van into the shop.
"Wait a second!" Amanda butted into the conversation. "Why is
she
getting three suites? What about the rest of us?"
Juanita cocked her head to the side and gave Amanda a withering stare. "Jemima gets three suites because I know I can count on her to get them done and get them done right. She's been with this hotel for three years, and I trust her work." Juanita took a step forward. "She gave up her chance at the suites last month to help out another maid who needed the hours and the tips. Now it's her turn to get some of that good karma back.
Me entiendes
?"
Amanda didn't answer. She haughtily turned on her heel and headed for the employee elevators. I watched her leave, a knot forming in the pit of my stomach. I had heard a few unsavory things about her from other maids who used to work with her at the other hotel. I hadn't missed the way she took every chance possible to ingratiate herself with Richard, the hotel manager. My internal radar went crazy. That girl was going to be serious trouble for me.
"Don’t worry about her," Juanita said. "She'll learn her place here, or she can hit the unemployment line. Now, listen. You've got a banker in from Hong Kong in the south suite, and some big-time rock star in the north. Take the rock star's room first. Those guys are such pigs. They always trash the rooms." She shook her head with disgust. "Go on. Get moving."
"Yes, ma'am." I made my way upstairs to the top floor and into the locked and cleverly concealed supply closet where I stocked a cart with all the cleaning supplies, toiletries, linens and towels I would need to tackle the first suite. Before pushing my cart into the hallway, I scanned my ID card on the digital reader connected to the small screen attached to the cart.
Our supervisors and managers were able to keep track of us using the high-tech system. By logging the preferences of frequent guests into the system, we were better able to anticipate their needs on subsequent visits. This morning, I would log in all sorts of useful information like the number of towels used, the snacks and drinks consumed and whether the guest had used a firm or soft pillow.
I glanced at the screen and read the name of the guest in the presidential suite.
S. Vasiliev.
It didn’t sound like the name of a rock star, but a lot of VIPs checked in under their legal names or under the names of their managers to avoid paparazzi or crazed fans. For all I knew, S. Vasiliev was this guy's accountant.
Standing outside the door, I rang the doorbell and waited for an answer. I rang again and nothing. Using my keycard to unlock the door, I knocked on it as I opened it a few inches and poked my head inside. Instantly, I heard the low thump of music coming from the bedroom at the rear of the suite. "Hello? Mr. Vasiliev? This is housekeeping. May I come inside?"
I pushed the door open a few more inches and stepped into the entryway. My gaze flitted around the parlor, and my heart sank. Trashed was an understatement. There were liquor bottles, soda cans and glasses on every flat surface I could see. A red vase had been broken. Glass shards, flowers and water left a mess on the travertine tile. The drapes on the other side of the parlor had been ripped down, and the door that led out to the balcony overlooking downtown Houston was wide open.
Certain the rest of the two-bedroom suite was in even worse shape, I lifted my voice and called out, "Mr. Vasiliev? Sir? This is housekeeping."
Again there was no answer. Cautious and expecting a drunken rock star to come staggering out of the master bedroom at any moment, I carefully crept into the suite. When I got a better view of the dining room, I wanted to cry. It looked like a food fight had taken place in there. Whipped cream dripped down the walls. Raspberries and blueberries had been smashed on the floor. Half a steak was sitting on a chair. Sweet potato fries were all over the counter.
What. The. Fuck.
I couldn't understand these people. Did they think it was funny to leave a mess like this? No, it was even worse than that. To most hotel guests, the maids and support staff were invisible. We existed to serve. We weren't supposed to have feelings. We didn't matter. We were just minimum wage losers.
"Mr. Vasiliev?" I left the dining room and headed toward the master bedroom. The music playing on the other side of the door was loud and heavy on the bass. I segued to the balcony and shut the French doors. I spotted the burned out stubs of blunts littering the ground and railing.
"Really?" I muttered angrily. Rolling my eyes, I walked toward the master bedroom and knocked on the door. "Mr. Vasiliev? Sir? This is housekeeping. Would you like me to clean the room now or come back later?"
Company protocol said I could go ahead and open the door, but I hesitated. I didn't like invading personal spaces, and I really, really didn't want a run-in with an angry, hungover rocker.
But there was something off about this situation. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach. This whole scene had a weird feeling to it. I suddenly remembered what Diego had said about the vampire girls down at the pool. Had their wild night started here?
Imagining the very worst, I knocked twice and twisted the handle. The moment the door opened, I caught a whiff of something terrible.
Oh, God. Don't let him be dead.
Gulping anxiously, I pushed the door all the way open and stepped into the room. The music in here, something electronic and moody, thumped even more loudly. I quickly spotted the biggest man I had ever seen in my entire life face-down near the bed. He was bare-ass naked and had tattoos covering every inch of skin I could see.
A bottle of tequila had fallen on its side next to his head. All of that expensive top-shelf liquor had spilled out onto the floor and mixed with a pool of vomit. Bloody streaks floated in the tequila. Whether he had cut himself on the glass or in the fall, I couldn't tell.
"Oh my God! Mr. Vasiliev!" I ran across the room and dropped down next to him. "Sir?"
I put a shaking hand on his neck and felt for a pulse. His skin was warm but sweaty. I detected the strong beat of his pulse and breathed a little easier. "Sir? Mr. Vasiliev? Are you okay?"
A low, growling noise rumbled out of his throat. He started to move but groaned with pain and held still. A massive hand with tattooed knuckles and callused fingers slapped at my hip. He grumbled something in a language I didn't understand. It sounded like Russian. The hotel encouraged us to learn as many greetings as possible in different languages, but I didn't think telling him good morning was going to help much.
"Mr. Vasiliev? Sir? I think we need to call an ambulance."
He grumbled again and yanked on my hip, almost as if he was trying to get me to snuggle in close to him. Eyes wide, I fell to the side and ended up on my bottom. A moment later, he shocked me by lifting his head and dropping it right on my lap. He wrapped both arms around my waist and nuzzled into my belly. He murmured something else in a low, dark voice, his tongue rolling over the Russian syllables, and then began to pet my lower back.
One of his hands moved to my thigh and snaked under my skirt. Shocked by the feel of his hot fingers gliding along my bare skin, I didn't react immediately. It wasn't until he started to move closer to my panties that I flipped out and tried to get free.
But he was so strong! The arm curved around my waist dragged me in tighter and those big fingers of his gripped my inner thigh. A spark of something inappropriate snapped in my lower belly. Ashamed of my response to his manhandling, I grabbed his shoulders and gave him a little shake. "Sir! You need to wake up!"
And stop trying to molest me in your sleep!
That seemed to finally get his attention. His head popped up, and he blinked up at me with confusion. One eye closed and the other narrowed as he tried to focus on my face. He had the greenest eyes I had ever seen. All that smeared stage makeup and blood hid a face that I was certain would be handsome in a rugged sort of way.
As if startled by what he had discovered, he reared back and shook his head. His steadier gaze settled on my face, and he gruffly demanded, "Who the fuck are you?"
I was wrong. There was nothing handsome under that stage makeup. This guy was a Grade-A asshole.
Chapter Three
Step
Blyad.
Fuck.
Head pounding and body aching, I glanced around the destroyed bedroom of the penthouse suite and cringed.
What the fuck have I done now?
Snatches of memories flashed before me. The concert. A hug from Hadley. Soaking myself in vodka. The birthday cake. The tequila. All that hot Goth pussy. My pathetic, stupid dick. The pills. The tequila. The floor.
Shit.
Shit
.
Too late, I realized what I was doing to this poor girl. I had an arm wrapped around her waist and my filthy head in her lap. And my hand?
Fuck.
My hand was on her soft thigh, just inches away from her panties. When I shifted my weight and tried to push up on the hand that had fallen away from her back, I slipped forward and my fingertips brushed her underwear.
Fuck
. Cotton, of course. Simple. Sweet. Just like her. One look at those warm brown eyes and full pink lips and dark hair, and I pegged her as the innocent type. This girl hadn't spent much time bruising up her knees to suck rock star cock. She probably hadn't ever slapped at the walls of a bathroom stall as she came hard and loud backstage at a show.
Nyet
. Judging by the bright red flush creeping along her neck and into her cheeks, this girl was horrified to have me pawing all over her. Not that I blamed her, of course. Jesus, I must have seemed like a total pig to her.
But that bastard inside me whispered hotly about how much he'd love to corrupt a sweet, young thing like her. I suspected there was a sex kitten just scratching to be set free beneath that innocent exterior.
Not that I would ever find out.
"Sorry, sweetheart," I grumbled and shoved into a kneeling position next to her. My head throbbed violently, and I tried not to lose the last of the tequila swirling around in the pit of my stomach. A soft, cool hand touched my cheek. Startled by her touch, I flinched but didn't move away. Her gentle fingertips prodded a sore spot on my temple. I hissed, and she made an apologetic face.
"Sorry, but you have a nasty cut right here." She bit that pouty lower lip of hers, and I found myself wanting to replace her teeth with mine. "I don't think it needs stitches, but I really think you should see a doctor."
"No doctor," I gruffly replied and pushed her hand away from my face. "I'll be fine."
"I don't know, Mr. Vasiliev. You must have hit the floor pretty hard to knock yourself out."
"Step," I corrected her. "Everybody calls me Step."
"Wait. Are you—?" She tilted her head and studied my face. Her mouth dropped. "You cut your hair! That's why I didn't recognize you. You're Step from S&M."
I didn't know whether to be annoyed or impressed that she had figured out my identity. "You listen to a lot of doom metal, baby girl?"
She snorted. "Not by choice, I assure you."
The remark made something primal in me clench with jealousy. "Your boyfriend a fan?"
"No, my little brother." She slowly stood up, shut off the music and walked into the bathroom. She returned with a towel over one shoulder and then extended her small hands. I realized she wanted to help me stand and almost laughed. She was a tiny little thing with thick curves and a plump ass, but there was no way she had the strength to haul me to my feet.
Even so, I found myself slapping my hand against hers. I shoved off the ground and managed to get into an upright position. I swayed precariously, and she instantly put a hand on my stomach and braced my chest with her shoulder. My head dipped as the world spun around me, and I inhaled the fresh, clean scent of her hair. Was that coconut?
Unable to help myself, I leaned down and breathed in her smell as she quickly tied the towel around my waist.
Fuck.
If her hair smelled that good, what about the rest of her? A vision of this shy girl on the bed, her maid uniform shoved up around her waist and my face buried between her thighs tormented me. I bet she tasted as sweet as she smelled.
An unexpected throb started in my groin. My dick pulsed to life beneath the towel. For a moment, I couldn't believe what was happening. All those months of fighting with my cock and now this? I swallowed hard and cursed my bad luck. Like this woman wanted anything to do with me! I was a broken, pathetic, passed out drunk.
"Come on," she urged gently. "Let's get you into the shower."
Her kindness unsettled me so I reacted with humor. "You planning on joining me?"
She laughed. "Not a chance."
"You sure? Don't you guys promise a five-star experience?"
"You have ten fingers and two hands." She pushed open the bathroom door. "I'm sure you can create your own five-star experience."
That brought a chuckle out of me. "Funny, sweetheart."