Page 36 of Shade
I’m a manipulator.
Don’t look at me that way. It’s not necessarily in a bad way. I get what I want based on my fine persuasive skills.
Need an example?
Got one for you. I convince Dania, another maid at the hotel, to switch me assignments for the day so I can get up to the penthouse suite. Ordinarily she wouldn’t do this because the penthouse suite always tips well.
She does, for me, because I promise her I’ll give her whatever tips I get today. Oh, and I promised her an opportunity with Tom. I hate to break it to her, but Tom’s a slut and I doubt she’d have to try with him, but whatever.
I’m in the elevator, the same one I rode with Shade the other night, and I keep thinking about the way he looked at me over his sunglasses. I think about Rhya, and though I don’t know her, or knew her, I hate that she didn’t stop to think about what it’d do to him. It makes my anger for Asher surface, bubble up and spill over the edges. For so long I thought I’d gotten over him in the last eight years, but I haven’t. You never get over it. You just learn to deal with it and hide the pain.
Setting my phone on my cart, I check Twitter and Instagram again to see if he’s posted anything. Nothing. Could be a good thing, or very bad.
The elevator doors open and I tuck my phone between towels and I’m met with his security standing tall outside the door.
With a deep breath, I push the cart out of the elevator only to have him hold up his large hand, his gray eyes flat and unreadable. “What do you want?”
Rude much?
“I’m from housekeeping,” I point out, trying to keep the irritation from my voice. “I’m here for turndown service.”
The tall burly man eyes my uniform, much like Shade’s brother did. Do you see the way he’s looking at me? It’s crazy, right? “You’re seriously a maid?”
What’s with these guys? Don’t they have maids that look like this at other hotels? Sure, I fill out a uniform nicely, and I’ve made some alterations to my uniform this morning. A few extra buttons might be undone and my water bra is helping my usual B cup breasts. In no way do I resemble a fucking stripper.
“Yes, I’m amaid,” I stutter indignantly.
His shoulders stiffen. “Shade doesn’t want to be disturbed. We called down earlier and told guest services we didn’t need anything.”
Fuck. I didn’t think about that. “Well, I’m already here. Why don’t I just check to make sure? That way I don’t have to go all the way back down if he’s out of towels or something.”
Nice one, Scar. Way to recover.
Do you see the way I smile at him? I have a pretty smile. Not sure why it works so well, or maybe it’s the water bra, but for whatever reason, this man standing guard cracks the door open.
I think about barreling through the door, but I’m about as big as a toddler compared to this guy, and I’d probably end up knocking myself out on one of his biceps. “Mr. Sawyer, housekeeping is here. Do you need anything?”
It’s then I see Shade sitting by the window in a chair, hunched forward, his head in his hands. He doesn’t look up, but he shakes his head, declining.
Do you see that guy over there? The one by the window, dejected, dark circles under his eyes and wearing no shirt?
That man has lost something important to him. That man is struggling. That man fucking needs me to comfort him. I know this pain. I know that dejection, and I’m the only one who can help him through this. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
Before I can launch myself at Shade, the door slams shut. The security guard crosses his arms over his chest, again. “You heard it for yourself. He doesn’tneedanything.”
Wrong. He does. Heneedsme, damn it. He needs me to sit with him. He needs me to tell him as much as this sucks and hurts, it eventually gets better. He needs me to tell him the one piece of advice I got from Asher’s mom that eventually led me to “accepting” his death.
“People who take their own lives are gone before we can make a difference.”
Do you understand it? I didn’t at first, but then it slowly made sense to me.
Maybe he’s not ready to hear those words. Actually, I’m almost certain by the look of him inside that hotel room, he’s not ready. It doesn’t stop me from wanting to comfort him.
My words are gentle, meant to deliver my concern for Shade when I ask, “Is he okay?”
The first look of sincerity crosses this stone-cold man’s face. “No, he’s not.”
“If he changes his mind, just give me a call.” And yes, I write my cell phone number on a soap package and hand it to him knowing damn well it’s not getting to Shade.
