Page 38 of Shade
I’m in the hallway, my cart in front of me going over my room inspection sheets as Mila passes by me, looking something similar to the time she snuck out of a married man’s apartment and I rescued her with a sprained ankle.
I smile, trying not to laugh. “Are you wearing the same thing you wore yesterday?”
“Yes. . . no.” She appears dejected. “Maybe.”
Fuck, I’m impressed by this girl. Most people think Mila’s uptight, but that’s just a show she puts on. She may not have her clit pierced like me, but she’s a fucking freak. Case in point, take a look at her. Day-old mascara under her eyes and the half attempt at combing her hair, which instead looks like she rode on the back of a motorcycle through Florida in August. Been there, done that, don’t ever want to do it again. Side note, if you do, keep your mouth closed. One word. Bugs.
Smiling with gratification, I tie my hair up in a top knot. Well, attempt to. I can never get all my hair up in a knot. It’s like trying to fold Top Ramen noodles once they’re cooked. “I think I’m proud,” I tell my friend, winking at her.
Her phone beeps, drawing her attention to her hand. After reading the text, her eyes dart to mine, dragging me with her toward the elevators. “We need to go check out the penthouse suite before my dad sees it.”
“Your dad isn’t here today,” I point out. And then it dawns on me she said penthouse suite. Guess who’s in that suite? Yes. Fuckingyes, I will go up there with her. Maybe even junk-punch the security guard for not letting me in while I’m at it. I push my cart inside her office and out of the hallway. “Is Shade up there?”
“No. He checked out this morning.”
Of all the luck!
Inside the elevator, I stomp my foot. “Goddamn you, Mila. You said you’d hook a girl up.”
It’s not even about me wanting to be naked in his bed anymore. Well, that’s a fraction of a lie. But it’s more about me wanting to be there for him. Forget the fact that he has no clue who I am other than the maid who gives him condoms and stalks him in elevators, I just want to hold him and let him put his head on my nonexistent boobies while I rub his back. And then we can have sex.
Mila presses the button on the wall to the penthouse suite. “He wasn’t in any condition to meet you. Next time. He’ll be back in two months.”
“Well—” I pause, hmm. . . that does give me more time to come up with a better plan, doesn’t it? “At least I’ll have time to tan my ass. I bet those bitches he sleeps with are all perfectly tan ass cheeks and bleached assholes.”
Do you see me there? The one trying to make jokes? I’m only covering up the fact that I wasn’t able to help Shade. It’s called deflective humor.
On the top floor of Wellington Suites, Mila and I tentatively open the door to the penthouse suite, and I glance at her in fear she’s going to drop dead. I hope she doesn’t have a heart attack. Shade fucked this place up. Have you seen the movieThe Hangover? Those guys have nothing on Shade Sawyer when he’s mad. There’s even blood on the wall next to a dent where I can only assume his fist landed a few times.
My first thought is no way he did this. Not Shade. Not the sexy motherfucker who can melt your panties off the moment he slides his sunglasses to the brim of his nose and smirks at you. Certainly not him.
But, with any man like him, the moment you see Shade Sawyer’s face, you know he’s one, beautiful, and two, capable of being out of control. Physically, emotionally, sexually. . . the list goes on, believe me. I’ve known a few like him before.
Do you see the room? Do you see the wooden chair stuck in the drywall and the hundreds of beer cans scattered over the marble floors? I’ve seen some messed up rooms before, but this is by far the worst. Even worse than the time the monkey was left in here.
“Holy shit.” I step over a mountain of broken glass and into the living room where I saw him sitting the other day. Beside the chair are two bottles of vodka. “He had to have been high on something.”
Though I say that, I know exactly what he was high on. Grief. It can make you do some pretty stupid shit. Do you know why?
Here’s my theory. Grieving, it’s our last act of love for the one who’s gone. Does it make sense? Have you ever lost someone you love? If you have, you know what I’m talking about. Grieving is the natural and last reaction to losing love.
And this, the destruction, it’s his natural reaction to her leaving him.
When Asher killed himself, I destroyed my bedroom. I don’t mean I dumped out my drawers and screamed like any teenage girl would over a breakup. I broke windows and doors, ripped clothing to shreds and hit walls until I was bloody. It wasn’t a breakup in my mind. It was devastation. Despite breaking up with Asher that night, it didn’t stop the love. It never would.
BACK IN THE elevator, Mila is on her phone, typing away messages, probably to Shade’s assistant when Tom enters the elevator.
Tom’s a child. He’ll do anything to embarrass you for his own entertainment, especially with Mila. He likes to make her squirm. And yes, he’d love to make her squirm in that way, too, but it hasn’t happened for them that I know of.
Have you taken a good look at Tom yet? If you have any ideas of what he looks like based on what I’ve told you about him so far, I’m guessing you might be spot on. That is if you’re picturing a rocker with black hair, blue eyes and is tattooed from head to toe. Throw in some black gauge stretched lobe earrings and you’ve got Tom Chase, the rocker slash bell boy at Wellington suites. He’s a nice guy, until he’s not. Don’t piss him off. I’ve seen that side before and he’s not friendly and holds a grudge.
Today he’s not grudge holding though and relaxes, leaning casually into the side of the elevator next to Mila. He winks at me, then grins. “Hey, Mila, I found a condom wrapper on the floor in the janitor’s closet. Wonder where it came from.”
Glaring at him, she places her hand over her phone. “Shut up, Tom. You’re living with a homeless man.”
When Mila’s stressed out, she says whatever comes to her mind, even if it doesn’t make sense. One of the many reasons I love her. She’s honest.
“How’s he homeless if he’s living with me?” Tom asks while my attention moves to the red numbers flashing on the wall beside me. “And you’re sleeping on her couch. And it has nothing to do with the condom wrapper or the dirty fucking that took place in there.”
