Eight Maids A MIlking

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

ETHAN

You’ll never get clean.

The words pound through my brain as harshly as if spoken next to me. Groaning, I turn my head, gritting my teeth as pain blossoms through my skull.

So much for keeping New Year's resolutions. The moment the ball dropped on New Year’s Eve, I kissed a random woman and vowed that this was the year I’d finally get sober. Fat chance.

Even now, as I lie there in what I’m sure is a puddle of my own fluids, my fingers graze the surface of whatever object I’m calling a bed for the familiar pill. Just one. All I need is one. Once I take that, I’ll drift into oblivion and not even care. But then, that’s what got me into this mess.

A soft groan flits through my lips as an incessant hum buzzes in my ears. It’s almost like talking, but not quite. I can’t figure out the words. Try as I might, they sound alien to me. Foreign. I probably left the tv on. Netflix and chill? More like Netflix and pass the fuck out.

I try shifting my weight, hoping to not crush the girl beneath me, but she makes no sounds of protest. Becky, was it? Jennifer? Jessica? Chloe? The names of all my conquests fly through my brain at rapid speed until the need to hurl rises in my throat like vile acid.

No. None of those sound right.

You’ll never get clean.

I suppose my manager is right. Any time I try, I somehow get sucked back in.

Pain sizzles over my skin as I move a bit more fervently, desperation fueling my movements as I look for the pill I know is around here somewhere.

It would just be easier if Jeffery gave me an actual bottle.

.. but then, we both know what that would look like.

If the desperation I have for just one pill is this bad, then God knows what I would do with a full bottle. It’s honestly for the best if he keeps them for me and rations them out when I need them. Problem is, I need one now and don’t feel like I have the energy to move enough even to call him.

You’ll never get clean.

Again, I wince as the sounds slice through me, as if the words alone cut through my skull and open up my brain. Even now, I feel the heat flowing over my face as I leak out onto the floor. Is this what death feels like? Can’t be. It’s far too warm and languid.

Turning my head, I rest my cheek against the cool sheets. Seems as if my date is no longer there, providing her breast as a cushion. No matter. I can get along without her. I’ve done it countless nights so far.

I lie there, forcing air into my lungs as I try to wake up. It’s as if I’m underwater and can’t quite reach the surface. It’s the first time the pills have ever made me feel like this. Perhaps I had far more to drink than I realized.

But then... Jeffery kept the bottles and shots coming. He knew what I was taking. He would never give me so much that it hurts me. Would he?

Even as that thought surfaces in my brain, I try to shake my head. He’s always been an excellent manager and confidant. If anything, he’d stop me before anything bad truly happened.

I don’t trust those city folk, my dad murmurs into my ear. They only care about one thing, and that’s themselves. Not that he’s wrong, but Jeffery is different.

He’s not different. He’s just like all the rest.

Hot tears scald my eyes as I squeeze everything so tightly it nearly robs my breath. Dad’s one to talk. Between him and Jeffery, my manager is more like a dad to me than my father will ever be.

When I came to Jeffrey with my problems, he listened. He didn’t tell me to suck it up or get out. He didn’t force me to choose between what I loved and who I was.

When the emotional pain of getting cut off from my family hit, Jeffery was there to help pick me up. Hell, when Gorgeous Global Models asked Dad for complete power of attorney over me, he didn’t bat an eye. He signed me over to them and took my brothers out to get that day’s milk.

Jeffery never made me feel unwanted. He never made me feel less than.

If only I could get my heart and mind to agree.

I’m tired of hearing my dad’s voice in my head.

It’s relentless, only stopped by that precious pill.

The one thing that can make the world stop.

Even if it’s just for the briefest of moments.

Never trust those city folk. And yet, he gave them the one thing that should have been precious to him. A soft growl rips from my throat as I force my eyes to open. Time to send Cindy or whoever she is, on her way so I can get ready for today’s shoot.

That is, if she’s not already gone with my money and dignity. A snort wrinkles my nose. Dignity. That’s a new one.

“Okay,” I grumble, flailing my arms around as I try to roll over onto my stomach. “You’ve fucked Glorious Abs of the Year. Time to get you back to your groupie friends.”

The world tips on its access as I manage to turn myself over. Everything clenches as a massive heave wracks my body, twisting my insides as saliva pools in my mouth. An unholy mixture of bile, acid, and undigested alcohol inches its way up my throat, only held back by sheer will.

I will not let her see me this way. I can’t chance this being leaked to the press. As if what they’re already saying about me isn’t so much worse. Somehow, even in this state of being caught between heaven and hell, I find I have at least some form of self-preservation.

It’s no secret I’m touted as the reckless playboy of the fashion world. At least I still have the wherewithal not to give them more ammunition than they already have. Unfortunately, even as I think that, I find I cannot hold on any longer.

My body trembles as I make my way onto my hands and knees and throw everything up from the night before.

Everything locks up on me as I hold on for dear life as my body purges itself and does its best to get rid of the poison souring in my stomach.

Somehow, it doesn’t taste all that different coming up as it did going down.

I have to get clean. I have to stop this. I can’t go on living like a shell of a human being, killing myself with alcohol.

You’ll never get clean.

A roar rips from my throat as I slam my palm against my eye. He’d never say that. Jeffery supports me and all my endeavors, including being clean.

You’ll never get clean.

Rough hands grip my arms, dragging me up from the floor. The blessed floor. The coolness that made everything feel just a touch better. But then, that means, I’m not in bed. I’m not passed out on top of Brittany. The bathroom. But how did I get there? When did I get there?

Cracking my eyes open, I stare down at the slick black tile underneath me, now stained with my puke.

I don’t have black tile in my bathroom. Actually, I don’t have black flooring anywhere in my house.

It gleams at me, as if it’s meticulously shined and polished every minute of every day to keep it looking so pristine.

As I stare down, doing my best to remember where I am, my vomit disappears. It seeps through the floor as if it never existed. But I know it existed. I still feel the raw burn where it surged up my throat. My stomach still clenches as if trying to make sure every last bit is gone.

How can it be missing? How can a floor clean itself?

Something snaps in my brain, shaking me loose from my stupor. As best as I can, I jerk about, thrashing my arms as I flail them about. More of that strange language meets my ears as whoever these people are drop me to the floor. I do my best to place the accent, but come up short.

It’s not Russian, not exactly. It has some of the harsh tonality and guttural undertones, but it lacks the core of the accent. Besides, I’m not stupid enough to owe the Russians money. I’d drink their vodka until I’m passed out on the floor, but would never borrow their money.

That’s just modeling 101.

Turning onto my back, I stop short as I stare at the blue faces above me. Blue. They’re fucking blue. Why the fuck are they blue?

A scream catches in the back of my throat, mixing with the remaining bile until I’m sure I’m going to barf again. Did I go to a Blue Man Group concert and pass out? Is that what’s happening? It’s the only explanation. That is, it’s the only sane explanation.

At least it is until I look around the room. Women of all shapes and sizes lie still as death on stone platforms that look eerily like mine. I don’t recognize any of them. None of them has that classic model physique GGM craves for their ambassadors.

In some ways, that makes me feel a bit better, but in other ways, it merely amps up the terror flowing through my veins. It would make better sense for them to kidnap all models or all common people. Seeing as I’m the odd one out, maybe I’m the mistake.

My knees knock together as I stumble backward, doing my best to keep my feet underneath me. It doesn’t help that my vision swims with every blink, making everything blur around me. I shake my head, desperate to fling off this hungover film threatening to keep me unsteady.

“I- I don’t know what you want,” I bark out, rolling my shoulders back to look intimidating. “If you’re looking to make a lamp, you won’t get much out of me.” With a wry grin, I pinch my side. “Eight percent body fat. Every bit of me is tough. Not a good look.”

Words fall flat from my lips as I look down at the body closest to me. Veronica? Chelsea? Damn it. Why can’t I think of her name? She’s probably going to die soon, and I can’t even think of which name to call her. Stupid, stupid alcohol. If I survive this, then I’m definitely getting clean.

You’ll never get clean.

Again, they approach, their mouths moving as they circle in, but I can’t understand anything. I shake my head and box my ears, but it does nothing to fix it. They press forward, backing me into a wall until there’s no way out. This isn’t how I want to die.

As much as I was on a self-destructive path, I was still in control. I never lost it. Not once. Now, I’m set to have everything cut short by some blue ass fuckers in shiny metallic suits. Fuck that.

Once more, I strike out, curling my hand into a fist as I drive it into the stomach of the guy closest to me.

Never let it be said I let some percussive musicians kill me without some bit of retaliation.

But as my hand makes contact, pain slithers up my knuckles and into my wrists, sliding into my forearm and up into my shoulder.

Vomit hovers at the back of my throat as the pain makes its way into my brain and rattles everything around. Spots dance before my eyes as I cradle my fist and slump forward. Are they made of marble?

The man strides forward as if I haven’t even touched him. He yanks me up and tosses me over his shoulder like a bag of feed. Nothing. It’s as if I don’t even exist anymore.

The last bit of my vomit hurls through my system as I heave over him, spilling the last of my stomach’s contents down his back. Their odd voices permeate the haze in my brain as he slides me off and places me on the floor. The two go back and forth as they gesture wildly between his back and me.

Still, I have no hope of understanding what they’re saying. Closing my eyes, I grit my teeth as nausea continues to assault me, undulating through my system like waves. “Please,” I groan out in Russian. “Help.”

They shake their heads and go back to speaking their gibberish.

I wrack my brain, peeling through the haze of agony as I do my best to remember the few languages I can speak. French, Japanese, and Brazilian all roll through my lips with barely a stutter, but still they don’t stop their cleaning, not even so much as to look at me.

“Please.” The word hangs on my lips in English as I slump forward as blessed unconsciousness overtakes me.