Chapter 6
Mila
Dominic Wolfe’s house is the focal point on Chamberlain Street, and it’s already a winding road of sprawling beachfront mansions outside of Beverly Hills.
When he first gave me access, the security guy looked at me like I was a criminal who had just swum to shore from Alcatraz.
I knew it was a ritzy neighborhood, but it wasn’t until I was driving to Dominic’s house one morning that I swore I saw Lady Gaga. She was getting her mail, and then I realized just how elite the neighborhood was.
Nothing is more awkward than driving down that street in a beat-up 1990 Jeep Grand Wagoneer, complete with wood paneling and yellow interior.
I looked like the living dead too because I’d only had about two hours of sleep. Nothing except walking into Dominic Wolfe’s house, praying he doesn’t recognize you as the girl he fucked last night.
Honestly, I had to pinch myself this morning just to be sure that it really happened. Not that I needed to, because I have a giant purple hickey on the base of my neck to prove last night really happened.
That’s part of the reason I am late this morning. I spent the better part of an hour at CVS trying to find a foundation that will actually cover up this monster hickey. Forty-two dollars later, I just look like I fell asleep on my side in a tanning bed and forgot to roll over.
The moment I walk into the kitchen, my shoulders slump in dread.
It smells like coffee. It shouldn’t smell like coffee until I get here because I am the one who is supposed to make the coffee.
I am supposed to walk into his house at 7:00 am on the dot, and he is supposed to walk down the hall at 7:05 am to grab his coffee.
After he has his coffee, he gives me a rundown of any extra tasks needing to be completed that day.
He is concise, direct, and never makes eye contact.
Then, he disappears into his office for the better part of the day.
This morning he had to make his own coffee… because I was late.
Dominic Wolfe, CEO of Bad Wolfe Security Solutions, is probably mad about it too.
“You’re late,” I hear him say from the doorway of his office as I set my things down on a chair.
I rest my case.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wolfe. I was out late last night,” I say as I force eye contact.
He rarely looks at me, much less speaks to me. That was part of the agreement when he hired me.
He wanted a housekeeper, a maid, someone to take care of his home while he worked.
My job includes cleaning, meal preparation, running errands, and doing laundry. Picking up his suits at the dry-cleaners on time is very important to him.
He runs a massive security company for the elitists of the world, which is a round-the-clock job. The last thing he wants to worry about is whether he’s reaching his protein intake for the day or if his suits are properly pressed.
“You are late to work because you were out late last night partying,” he repeats the details of the situation, but some of those details aren’t quite right.
“I wasn’t partying, sir, I was…” I trail off.
One discriminatory eyebrow raises. “You were what?” he presses.
I swallow.
You. I was doing you.
He is vibrantly alert. It must be the coffee; maybe he makes it stronger than I do.
“I started another job,” I say, looking at the floor. The pattern in the marble is suddenly very interesting.
“A third job?” he asks. “Aren’t you already bussing tables at night?”
I stare at him. Lady Gaga’s neighbor or not, Dom has no business talking to me like this.
“I’m a bartender,” I correct him.
“Right,” he nods. “Well, as someone who gets paid to make drinks in a timely manner, I’d appreciate it if my coffee was hot and ready at 7:05.”
I am fuming.
Dominic turns to walk away, and I stop him.
“What happened to your face?” I ask, and he stops, his posture bristling a little.
He clicks his tongue before turning back to face me again. “I got in a fight,” he says without apprehension.
Dominic never has apprehension about anything. He’s decisive and impossible to fluster. Catching him off guard would be a miracle. I do think my retaliation surprised him a little because his jaw is taut, and I swear his lips are twitching.
“How’s the other guy look?” I ask.
There’s a beat where he studies me, trying to decide where I get off asking him such a thing.
Meanwhile, excitement trickles into my veins.
“Much worse,” he finally says.
And before he can turn around again, I say, “Looks like it needs stitches.”
His mouth slackens, and his eyes narrow slightly.
My heart picks up speed as he studies me.
But when his face returns to its normal look of emotionless indifference, I think I’m in the clear.
I can’t believe I let that slip out.
Thank God, he doesn’t recognize me.
He walks into his office and closes his door half way like he always does.
It’s then that I realize I’m torn in how I feel.
How does he not recognize that I am the girl from last night?
But I also think, thank goodness he doesn’t realize the girl from last night is me.
What the hell?
As I buzz around the house doing my usual tasks, he doesn’t seem to notice me at all. That’s not out of the ordinary, and yet this time, it feels personal.
Maybe because not even twelve hours ago he was knuckle-deep inside of me, getting to know me on the most intimate level. Now he doesn’t seem to care to know me even at a surface level.
“I bet he doesn’t know my coffee order,” I mumble as I help myself to a cup. Usually, I bring my own, but I was already late. I didn’t have time to stop for my usual iced white chocolate raspberry mocha. That’s my order, by the way. Unbeknownst to Mr. Hotshot, in there.
“Miss Rojas?” Dominic calls from his office, and I take another sip of my coffee. It is so strong it could peel paint off the walls.
“You need me, Mr. Wolfe?” I ask, pushing the door the rest of the way open but staying in the doorway.
His office, like the rest of his house, is pristine. Everything is simple, but not understated. The place even smells like money. I prefer Bath and Body Works wallflowers myself.
Dominic looks up at me and narrows his eyes again, this time almost like it’s an inconvenience. “Do you always wear your hair like that?” he asks.
I reach up and touch my messy bun. Usually, it’s in a high ponytail or a loose braid. This morning I threw it up into a scrunchie and called it good. It was as good as it was going to get, anyway. “I wear it up at work, yes.”
“Has it always been that color?” he asks.
“Dark brown?” I ask as my heart thumps in my chest. “It’s my natural color, sir.”
“I suppose that tracks,” he says.
“Is that why you called me in here?” I dare to raise my tone. “To ask me if I color my hair?”
“Of course not. There’s actually something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”
This is it. He knows who I am.
He knows it was me he pulled away from an irate man last night.
He knows it was me that tended to his cut.
He knows it was me that he lost control with in his car.
“Yes?” I ask, my voice shakier than I mean for it to be.
“I am in need of some athletic tape,” he says, and I blink.
“Athletic tape?” I ask. “You mean, like, gauze?”
“It’s called KT tape, actually,” he corrects me, and something in me snaps.
“I know what it’s…” I bite my lips to stop myself from losing my temper. “I can get that for you, sir,” I say, despite my urge to grab the bulldog-shaped paperweight off his desk and chuck it at his other eye.
“Good,” he says, looking back at his computer, and that is my cue to kick rocks. I click my tongue before turning to leave.
“Oh, one more thing,” he says, and I stop, not bothering to turn back around. It’s not like he’s looking at me, anyway. The man doesn’t even know what color my hair is, for Christ’s sake.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Make sure it’s black,” he says.
I grit my jaw and with a hard smirk, I say, “Of course.”
Once I am out of sight, I shake my head. This man may be more skilled with his hands than anyone I’ve ever known, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t a jerk.
“What time did you get to bed last night? You look like hell,” Lainey isn’t one to tiptoe around feelings. Usually, I don’t mind, but by the time I get to the Cockpit after leaving Dominic’s, I am so beat I could do with some empathy.
“Let’s just say it was late enough to be early,” I say as I pull a fresh load of hot glasses out of the sanitizer behind the bar.
“Did you go out after you left?” she asks, fussing with her wig as usual.
“Yeah, Mila. Did you go out?” Rachel asks, making no effort to hide the fact that she’s been texting Brynn non-stop.
“I did,” I say.
“With whom?” Lainey asks.
“Yeah. With whom?” Rachel parrots.
I smile up at her, though it’s not a friendly smile, and then look over at Lainey.
“Lain, will you help me grab some more wine from the back?” I ask, making it very obvious that Rachel isn’t welcome.
I half expect her to follow until a couple of guys walk in, heading straight for her section, and she has no choice but to stay. I can’t help but smirk at that.
They’re all the same. Rachel, Brynn, and Amanda.
Girls who peaked in high school and have been riding the wave ever since.
In a place like this, where shiny looks and fluttering laughs are everything, they can just about pretend that’s the way life works.
I would know; I used to be like them. One of them.
But my life had a way of humbling that part of me.
My dreams were a tier higher than waitress with the highest cut skirt and the most dollar bills stuffed in her bra.
Yet here I am, all the same. Life is funny like that, though I’d say it’s sense of humor is a little dark.
“Okay, start at the beginning,” Lainey says as soon as the cellar door is closed. “What happened after I left? I was going to give you a ride home when I realized you were walking, but I didn’t see you and you didn’t answer your phone. Honestly, I was a little worried.”
“So Niko asked me to stay after,” I tell her, keeping my voice low even though the room is sealed.
“God, what for? He didn’t have you shining silverware, did he? Because it’s Rachel’s turn to do that, but she always finds a way out of it.”
“No, uh, he needed me on inventory….” I say and wait to see what her reaction is.
“Niko asked you to do inventory?” she asks. By the way she says it, I know she knows what inventory is. “That’s wild. Brynn and Rachel are the only ones from the Cockpit that Niko cross-trains for inventory. How did you get so lucky?”
“So you know about it?” I lower my voice even more. “About the…fight ring?” I whisper.
She nods with a smile. “Oh, sure, everyone knows about it.” Lainey grabs a couple of bottles off the rack.
“So why didn’t I know about it?” I ask.
“Because we don’t talk about it. It’s illegal, you know? The way they do it anyway. But you’re serious? He asked you?”
“How could I be lying about something I didn’t know about?” I ask.
“So what was it like?” she pressed, scratching under her wig.
I think about it for a moment; the noise and lights and energy all pouring back into my mind. It’s fresh because I haven’t slept. “Loud. Fast. Kind of scary,” I admit.
“I heard those girls make bank,” she says, checking the list and grabbing another bottle. “Three times what we do.”
“I heard that too,” I mumble as I count how much prosecco we have. This place may be marketed for men, but the women those men bring in like their mimosas.
“What do you mean, heard it? You didn’t do well?” she asks.
“I wasn’t there long enough to do well. I spilled a drink on one of the fighter’s laps and he lost his shit.”
“Shut up!” she says, both mortified and enthralled. “What did he do?”
“He grabbed me,” I say.
“Oh my god. Then what?”
“And then one of the guys in the ring hopped out and pulled me away from him. They almost got into a fight right there in the middle of the high tops.”
“God, you really do have all the fun,” Lainey says, shaking her head. “What was he like? The guy that saved you, I mean? I heard they’re rough.”
I think about what I want to say. I am bursting at the seams to tell someone what happened last night. Especially since the star of the story was such a wet mop earlier today.
“He was…unexpected,” I tell her, checking my watch. We still have thirty minutes before we open.
“Oh?” she asks.
“It was Dom,” I whisper.
“Who?”
“Dominic. My boss.”
“Your boss? Oh my god. That boss?”
I nod.
“Silver fox boss?”
I keep nodding.
“What did he say? What did he do?” She asks, settling onto the floor next to me, as we forget all about the wine for a minute.
“Well, for starters, he didn’t recognize me,” I sigh.
“Really? All because of the wig?” she asks.
“All because he never truly looks at me. He’s made it very clear that I am just his housekeeper. His maid, as he refers to me,” I mutter as I pull at a loose string on my apron, wrapping it around my finger to yank it free. Niko expects perfection. It seems to be a pattern in my life.
“But he still saved you,” she smiles. “What happened after that?”
“Well…after changing back into his gym clothes, I may have put ice on his cut,” I say with a smirk.
“He was bleeding?” she gasps. “That is so hot.”
I laugh. “Then he offered to give me a ride home.”
“Did you let him?” she asks.
“I had no other choice. He was insistent,” I answer.
“That’s so romantic,” Lainey sighs.
“I feel like it was a little on the demanding side,” I say, finding another stray string.
“That’s also kind of hot, and he still didn’t recognize you?” she asks.
“He thought he did, but he never put it together,” I say.
“Do you think he’ll come looking for you?” she asks eagerly, but I just laugh.
“He wouldn’t have to look far,” I snort.
But Lainey is too busy gazing through rose-colored glasses to see the reality of the situation. “God it’s like Cinderella. Except you literally work in the castle!”
“Something like that,” I say, and the door to the cellar opens.
“There you two are,” Niko says. “I’m not paying you to admire wine labels. Doors are opening.”
“Already? We still have twenty minutes,” Lainey says as we get up off the floor.
“Yeah, well, a line started outside and they’re thirsty, which means you are on the clock. Let’s go,” he snaps.
Lainey sighs as she makes her way to the floor, and I take my place behind the bar.
I smile at the way Lainey seems to think my life is some kind of fairy tale.
When my first customer, a guy with a handlebar mustache and a faded trucker hat, orders a beer and calls me pussycat, I’m wondering where my fairy godmother is at.