“Housekeeping!” I knock on the door to make sure there isn’t a guest inside. When I don’t hear anyone, I use my key to open up the room. We keep a cart of towels, a vacuum, and a few other things that are a pain in the ass to drag up and down flights of stairs, so my caddy serves just to replace soaps, moisturizers, and other toiletries.
“Shew,” I say out loud when I step inside, propping the door open with my cart. The room isn’t in shambles. With that in mind, I reach down in my cut-off jean short pockets, grab my AirPods, slide them into my ears, find my playlist of eighties rock, and get to work.
I start with the bed, stripping the comforter, sheets, and pillows, placing them in the cart to take to the laundry chute. Thankfully, we have someone who does our laundry part time. I’m not sure I could handle one more thing on my plate. That would probably be the one that would make me collapse and run away. After I get that taken care of, I open the curtains, allowing the light in, then it’s time to dust, vacuum, remake the bed, straighten up anything that’s out of place, and then on to the bathrooms. Even though our guests are on the clean side, I still absolutely freaking hate cleaning them. If I could get away with wearing a hazmat suit, I would, though that might freak out a few guests. When they pay the bills and give me a check, I can’t necessarily freak them out.
I work my way through the rooms, two needing a complete cleaning, one needing just towels, the other wanting new bedsheets and toiletries. I saved Decker’s room for last. He’s been our longest-term guest we’ve had in a long time, always paying in cash, even though we charge him ten percent over than if he used a credit card of some sort.
“Housekeeping!” I say again, much later in the day. Aunt Evil Queen isn’t wrong. I do take as long as I can on cleaning. There’s a reason behind that. If I’m done too early, she becomes more of a nag and makes me polish the silver. I can’t even tell you the last time we used the silver cutlery. No one answers. I go through the same routine, propping the door open with my cart. The smell of pure masculinity greets me—leather, woodsy, and a dash of smoke permeates the air.
“Dear God, if my ovaries could explode, I’m pretty sure they would.” Unlike the other rooms, Decker’s is much more disorganized. I try not to move too much of his stuff, knowing already he likes things kept a certain way, a warning he gave me the minute he checked in. The only difference with him as a guest is that he requests we do his laundry. He also pays extra for it and helps Shila out in the overtime department. I gather all his clothes, hang up his leathers in the closet, throw away the trash he’s accumulated, and then I work my way around until I’m in the bathroom. Last week, he only asked that we do laundry, so I know I’m in for scrubbing the bathroom today, for sure. It sucks, but it’s also nice to be alone—music, cleaning, and complete solitude. One of my favorite songs happens to come on when I’m on my hands and knees, cleaning and getting the tiny crevices in the corners that seem to pop up out of nowhere. When my favorite part of the song comes on, I belt out the chorus “I can feel it coming in the air tonight.” I forget my earphones are in and that I’m not in the quiet of my own room when I suddenly feel a presence. I’m so completely fucked.
Three
Rage
I turn the corner, heading to my room after going through the ledger of what guns and where they’re being allocated next when I hear some god-awful singing. My room door is propped open, cleaning shit everywhere. I don’t hesitate to see just what Jolie is up to.
“Fuckin’ fuck.” There are certain things a man like me should not see. A woman on her hands and knees, ass sticking out in the air, swaying back and forth as she’s working on the floor is not one of them. I enjoy the view, not letting her know I’m here. Fuck, if she’s willing to give a show, I’m here to watch it for free. But it doesn’t take Jolie long to realize I’m standing in the doorway to the bathroom, shoulder to the doorframe, arms crossed on my chest, feet crossed at the ankles, and a smirk on my face. A first in as many months as I can count, too.