Chapter 25 New Deal
“Why?”
The woman blinked. “What?”
“Why are you trying to hire me again? There’s no way the Resort is hurting for applicants.” Lydia narrowed her eyes. “There’s a catch here, and I want to know what it is.”
What was it they wanted from her?
She smiled and answered, “You were requested.”
Dorian had requested her? She grimaced. Hell no. He was probably pissed off about the athlete comment last night, and his friend whacking him over the head. He seemed to be the type to lord his position over people and make sure he could bully her up close and personal.
No thanks.
The director laughed. “Your expression says you’ve met the owner of the villa you were assigned.”
“I have.”
And she had no interest in ever cleaning his place again, really, but she pushed down the knee-jerk reaction and thought it over. Dorian might be a hotshot, wealthy villa owner, but there were limits to how far any place would go to keep him happy. More importantly, she wasn’t wrong. Anyone could clean his house, as she’d been told many times. It didn’t take a genius, or even a well-trained dummy, to sweep, vacuum, mop, and wash clothes.
There had to be something else going on.
The director’s words were carefully chosen, and her tone was suspiciously light, but there was an air of necessity in them. They needed her for some reason. Not her as a cleaner, but her specifically.
A thrill of power cut through her. There was potential to never go back to the Blue Kudu if she had real leverage against the Resort, but she needed to know the shape of it first.
“Requested seems like a very vague term. I washed his clothes and cleaned up after his parties. Anyone can do that.”
“Perhaps, but he’s requested you.”
“Requested me?”
“He’s a… particular man, as are many of our residents, and we like to keep them happy. So my job, right now, is to figure out if my offer is good enough to make you available to clean his villa this afternoon.”
“Short notice.”
“I imagine you were ignoring our calls for good reason.” Her eyes twinkled.
She worked her jaw and picked up the paper to read. She’d be assigned exclusively to Dorian’s villa again, privately. The hourly rate was about double what she’d made before, and provided that Dorian only threw the normal number of parties, she’d be making almost as much in the next five weeks as she would make in half a year.
It would be enough for that next appeal and motion, that better lawyer…
Quillan’s freedom.
She set the page down. “It’s not enough.”
“By all means, name your price.”
If Lydia left the director’s office feeling like she’d negotiated more than she probably deserved, she didn’t let it show.
If she was going to have to deal with him, she deserved to get paid more now to make up for when the season started and he traveled more.
Besides, a minimum four-hour slot every time he requested service was pretty spot on, given the kinds of parties he threw and the level of detail she adhered to. It was just past noon now, so by the time she got back to her apartment, changed, and returned, she’d be right on time to go clean his villa.
She swung by the dispatch area to get her new locker assignment, the keys to the cart she’d be using while on shift, and to do some basic preparations. It took her five minutes to figure out why there had been such a problem: whoever had been assigned to take her spot hadn’t read the notes about Dorian’s allergies, preferences, and his natural stone floors. Or they’d be particularly spiteful.
The Resort kept his laundry detergent in a separate area along with all the supplies that would keep his fancy glasses sparkling and the glass panes of his showers from turning milky. She found her old cart filled with the wrong things for the updates to his villa and started loading it up, reading Dorian’s notes.
There were a lot of them, as if he’d gone room by room and complained about each one. As she was drafting a list of questions about the state of his dishes, floors, showers, the plaster walls, and furniture, a woman nearby gasped. Lydia looked up as Whittaker stalked past, head hung low, shoulder bowed, lugging a box in her arms, and it took everything in her not to smile.
Karma was a beautiful thing.
Dorian took the fastest path through the crowd to where Animkii and Mason were chatting with someone he didn’t recognize, when Animkii raised his head and whirled around, throwing his arms open.
“My future replacement!”
“Big brother!”
Animkii pulled Jax into his arms, and Dorian slowed his pace.
Jax, as he liked to be called, was barely an inch or two shorter than Animkii’s six-five frame, just as broad, and only slightly tamer than Animkii. He was lighter in tone with piercing gray eyes and a long curtain of dark hair, just like Animkii. Where Animkii’s was tied up in a knot with charms hanging from it, Jax’s hair was down. Dorian’s neck itched at the thought of its bulk on the nape of his neck.
Or maybe that was the distinct awareness that someone was coming towards him. He turned slowly. Vincent marched over with Heather on his arm, in pastel pink this time, and a shade of it that did nothing for her on her lips. Hadn’t she hired a stylist yet?
The Society liked to keep their broodmares looking a certain way, didn’t they?
Their stallions, too. Why hadn’t anyone dressed Vincent in years? He was in fucking pinstripes, trying to appear taller again. Dorian took great pleasure in looking down into his face. Vincent drew his shoulders back as they came to a stop just out of reach.
Smart.
“You’re fucking late.”
He took that back and glanced back at his lineman. They were headed out to the balcony, probably to help with this year’s escape plan.
“I’m aware.” Dorian sipped his drink. “So?”
“Do you think I like to waste my time?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
Vincent’s eye twitched. “If you put half as much energy into your playing as you do being contrary, you’d be fucking center, and your match prospects wouldn’t be a peasant and a whore.”
Dorian looked down into his glass.
“Interesting. The new administrator sucking your dick, too?”
He flushed. “You—“
“Dorian, you—“
“Stay out of this, Heather,” Dorian glanced at her. “I would think people in glass houses would know to stay in their lanes.”
She worked her jaw.
“Don’t talk to my wife like that.”
“Then, tell her not to stick her nose where it doesn’t belong.” Dorian dragged his gaze back to Vincent. “And don’t march over here like you have a right to scold me. You couldn’t even make the high school team.”
Dorian turned away, finishing the drink in his hand and trading it for a flute of champagne on his way to the buffet table.