Chapter 4

Brynley

The bright morning sun does its best to seep through the thick, heavy gray curtains blocking the windows of my guestroom forcing me roll the opposite direction in order to protect myself friend its death beams.

I hate mornings.

I’ve always hated mornings.

Growing up, they were when my dad darted out to catch an early flight to fly this celebrity or that CEO or that rich aristobrat wherever they needed for however long they needed, keeping him not only away from us but taint deep in the vices he repeatedly swore to my mom he’d given up.

And after he died?

Mornings were when my mom would drag her exhausted frame into the apartment, practically dead on her feet from working extra hours, scrubbing an executive suite for some pricks that partied too hard with barely legal pussy, stripper salt, and enough booze to restock a fucking liquor store.

College didn’t exactly help my hatred either.

Attending Clover Rose University – where late night frat parties were life and early morning classes were death – simply expanded and re-instilled my ongoing love affair with life before sunrise.

Even most of my gigs have been night shift shit.

I claim it’s because that’s when I prefer to work – and I do – but it’s also prime time for most of the things I manage to get myself employed to do.

Just as I nuzzle deeper underneath the white, high thread count sheets, clearly on my way back to the dream I was having about Cooper Copeland – J.T.’s fault – an obnoxiously loud phone rings preventing my return.

Knowing it’s not my cell – not even sure exactly where I left it charging or even if it’s charging – I send my glare to the slick black device on the bedside table that’s flashing a green light to indicate the call is coming from inside the house.

Correction.

Mansion.

Or…manor?

Mega castle?

Whatever.

The ringing eventually stops, yet when I begin to let my lids close a second time, another round starts prompting me to grunt.

Grab the receiver.

Wedge it unhappily against my ear and grumble, “ What. The. Fuck. Do. You. Want. Puppet Boy? ” Shutting my eyes is successfully completed. “It’s not even noon yet.”

“So, you’re not a morning person,” J.T. cockily chortles. “Noted.”

“Yes, please put that in the file next to no calls that aren’t about my mom before eight a.m.”

“It’s nine.”

“And is this call about my mom?”

“Hamilton hasn’t made his morning round yet.”

“Then this call is premature.”

“This call is a courtesy I’m extending on behalf of Lucky, the chef whose cooking you refused to eat last night.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

Lie.

I was fucking starving.

But I’ve gone for longer on stale Sour Patch Kids and cough drops.

I didn’t wanna eat.

I didn’t wanna drink.

I didn’t wanna do anything except talk to the doctor to get an actual diagnosis regarding my mom, something that didn’t even occur until sometime after ten when he had finished running whatever tests he was running.

Clark – the only member of the staff who doesn’t seem to be afraid to speak to me let alone make eye contact – drove me over to have the meeting outside the building.

It was lackluster.

And it didn’t ease the ache of knowing how close yet how far I was to my possibly dying mother.

Post the conversation, Clark gave me a few moments alone to sit on the bench and cry in my frustration before offering to make me something to eat himself.

I still wasn’t hungry.

I was sad and angry and numb and oddly lost, so I came back to this room.

Got practically naked.

Curled in a ball and watched Star Trek with blurry eyes until I passed out.

Is it how I originally envisioned my night off?

No.

But like most other shit in my life, I learned to fucking deal.

“He would like to know would you like a cup of coffee or tea or maybe some toast?” Some sort of clanking sound occurs in the background. “You’ve missed breakfast, but if you’re hungry now he can-”

“Why didn’t he call to ask?”

“I volunteered.”

“You volunteered or you were voluntold by your puppet master?”

“I work for Wes,” J.T. swiftly defends. “And right now, part of working for him means tending to his gorgeous, grouchy houseguest.”

It’s impossible not to smugly smirk. “You think I’m gorgeous?”

“I – Well see – But-”

“I know I’m gorgeous, it’s fine.”

A small, grunted laugh precedes a much louder sigh. “You want a cup of coffee or not? I’ve gotta get to a conference call meeting in like twenty with Wes.”

Hearing his dickhead boss – my mom’s dickhead boss – mentioned twice gets my spiteful fins moving. “Yeah.” I slowly rise to a sitting position. “That’d be great. Big cup. Lots of sugar.”

“How much sugar?”

“Pour so much sugar in there that you convince yourself it’s too much and then pour a little more.”

He chuckles as if I’m kidding yet wisely doesn’t ask if I am. “Need anything else?”

“Just for you to bring it to me.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want you , Puppet Boy-”

“Please stop calling me that.”

“-to bring me, the smoking hot prisoner’s daughter-”

“Lauren’s not a prisoner.”

“-my coffee.”

“I can get a member of Lucky’s team to-”

“No,” the man I assume he’s talking about gripes in the background. “They’re busy.”

“Fine. I can have Penny-”

“Yeah, no. That fire crotch is most likely to spit in my coffee given the way she kicked over my shit when bringing me towels last night.” Searching for my lost hair tie occurs next. “I’m pickin’ up what she’s puttin’ down, which is the fact that she doesn’t like me.”

“She doesn’t know you.”

“And I don’t know her.”

“You’d probably really like her once you did…” he goofily gushes. “She’s really smart. And into plants. And science. And sure, she’s a little shy, but-”

“Don’t care,” I casually brush off right around the time I locate the accessory. “ You’re the face and voice and body of the host, so be a good host and accommodate your increasingly unhappy guest before she leaves you a 0-star review on Google .”

An amalgamation of defeat and mirth are heard in his sigh. “I’ll see you in a few.”

After pulling my hair up into a high, messy bun, I slide off the mattress, forgo the idea of putting on bottoms, and make my way to the ensuite to use the fancy new toothbrush J.T.’s schoolboy crush also brought to me last night.

Like the luxury guestroom that’s decorated in plush gray shades and chrome, the bathroom has a similar décor scheme. Brushing my teeth while trying not to sneer at the lavish life I should enjoy living is difficult.

It’s not that I don’t like nice things.

I just…don’t often get the chance to like nice things.

And never for long periods of time.

Is that clawfoot bathtub calling my name?

Yes.

Am I gonna send that shit to voicemail?

Depends on if I can actually see my mom or if I’ll be yet again redirected by her doctor who…honestly is kind of hot for an older guy.

Under other circumstances – lets say running into him at my favorite sandwich shop – I would totally turn on the charm and have him remember my name for a completely different reason.

Post cleaning my teeth, I relocate back to the bedroom and dig around my trash bag of belongings that’s occupying one of the gray sofa chairs for my favorite, most faithful accessory.

Blue eyeliner.

Some chicks can’t leave home without the whole shebang of foundation, powder, highlighter, filler, eyeshadow, blush, and whatever else they’re told will make them look like whatever A Lister they’re into this season.

Others?

They pour all their attention onto their lips, convinced that’s the only part that truly matters in the face package.

Me?

It’s my eyeliner.

The fact that I’ve got bright blue eyes and light brown skin is an already striking combination. I simply just add a little extra pop to it. How much and what shade vary – based on my bank account and exactly where I’m going – but I always have some on.

It was the first makeup tip my mom ever taught me.

And it’d probably be the first time one I ever taught my daughter.

You know if I thought I would have kids.

Right now, I’m not exactly convinced I’m gonna be stable enough on my own in time to even consider having them.

Besides, if I do, I hope it’s a boy.

I can hang with a boy.

I’ve mastered the art of being one of the guys.

Most women are too high maintenance to do more than work with.

Latest example?

The roommate that kicked me out.

“Special delivery,” J.T. playfully calls prior to delivering two taps to the door. “One large cup of sugar with a splash of coffee for Miss Winters.”

Slightly tickled by the statement, I make my way over to the door and sassily swing it open. “ Bryn. ”

“B-” is the only syllable that manages to escape before he’s diverting his gaze to the ceiling. “I uh…I didn’t…” His nose scrunches during his verbal struggle. “If you need more time to…” He momentarily presses his lips together clearly trying to keep his composure. “You’re practically naked.”

“I’m far from naked,” I casually correct at the same time I lean against the frame. “Fuck, my bikini covers less than this.”

Against his own volition, he lets the corner of his lips briefly kick upward.

“Thinkin’ about it?”

“Yeah,” he thoughtlessly retorts only to instantly panic. “No!” His gaze swiftly meets mine to reiterate his lie. “I mean no. No. ” Firmness struggles to take hold in his tone. “ No, I was not thinking of you like that.”

“ Liar. ”

Additional redness creeps into his cheeks; however, rather than continue that conversation, he clears his throat and extends the beverage in his hand. “Your hot chocolate.”

“I ordered coffee.”

“Technically it was until you had me put that much sugar in it.”

“Those who live on puppet stands, really shouldn’t throw stones.”

His laughter is not only expected, it’s the subtle distraction I need to swiftly remove the earpiece from its semipermanent location. “Hey!”

“Hellloooo,” I mockingly reply at the same time I back further into my room, leaving him no choice but to follow.

“Give that back!”

“No.”

“Now!”

“Ooo,” another round of mocking leaves me, “now, you really mean business.”

“I do!”

Tucking it into my tank, right on top of my tit precedes me victoriously smirking. “You really want it back, Puppet Boy? Come and get it.”

One glance at the area is accompanied by a defeated headshake. “Are you crazy?” He fights his instinct to steal another. “Like certifiably? Did Park just leave that out of your file?”

“Probably.”

Bafflement continues to bathe itself in his expression. “ Why? Why did you take my phone?”

“You mean your USS Enterprise communicator?” A taunting finger point to the device is executed.

Once more, he struggles not to grin. “Yeah.”

“Oh, that’s easy! I took it so that Kirk will be forced to leave his captain’s chair and come down to formally introduce himself to me before reprimanding you, Spock.”

“I’m not Spock.”

“Yeah, you’re more like Kirk , but given that this isn’t technically your starship, roles have to be switched in order for my metaphor to work.” My hand makes a wiggling motion. “ Coffee. ”

“ Earpiece. ”

“We’re already at warp speed, bro.” Amusement swims itself around my expression. “We might as well just buckle up and drink our coffee.”

The familiar sigh of defeat hits my ears at the same time he surrenders my cup. “You’re turning into the hottest chick I’ve ever hated.”

“Liar.” My charcoal-colored mug heads for my lips for me to have a sip. “You don’t hate me.”

“No, but I hate that you’re making this whole host thing for me needlessly hard.”

“ Your boss is the one making this shit hard.”

“He’s not used to…people.”

“There are enough employees at this place to rival some frats I partied at!”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t have direct contact with most of them.”

“You do the talking to them too?”

“I do the talking in boardrooms when a physical body is required. I’m also the face when his voice isn’t enough for a video conference. And I embody the Wilcox brand for social events where a corporate member’s presence is required. Around here? Heads of the departments do most of the communicating on his behalf.”

“Like my mom.”

“Exactly.”

“So, she would normally be the one tending to the visitors?”

“We don’t get visitors.”

“I’m here.”

“You’re…” His head bounces back and forth as he lifts his coffee tumbler to his mouth. “A very surprising exception.”

Story of my life.

And rarely my favorite.

“You said we.” Curiosity cocks my head. “You live in Castlevania, too?”

“One of the guesthouses, actually.” Another gulp is had. “Mine is the one closest to the gates we entered through; however, there are two more closer to the golf course and private lake.”

“There’s…a…fucking golf course here?!”

“Yeah, you play?”

“Hate it.”

Confusion crinkles his forehead. “Then why the reaction?”

“I don’t know. Could be because having your own personal golf course in your backyard isn’t just guy I met at the bar normal shit.”

This time he lightly chortles. “ Fair. Sometimes I forget what ‘normal’ even entails. I’ve been working for Wes for so long that what shocks and awes others often just feels like another Tuesday to me.”

“ It’s Wednesday. ”

He laughs a little harder and shakes his head. “Shut up, Uhura.”

“ Which Uhura?” I playfully poke. “And tread wisely, son. I can spend hours outlining the best qualities of both Nichols and Salda?a.”

“See, but that’s my kind of night.” Additional chuckles shake his blue suit and black turtleneck bearing frame. “Which is not something I should probably admit out loud to the opposite sex.”

“ Eh ,” girlish giggles precede a small shrug, “everyone knows the best bitches are Trekkies.”

“That was so not the lesson I learned growing up, watching Star Trek: The Next Generation through the neighbor’s blinds because we had to pawn the T.V. again for groceries.” The beverage soars for his open mouth. “The lesson I learned was the best bitches are the ones willing to share half their PB and J with you if you listen to them talk about their favorite episodes of Hey Arnold! ”

“ Star Trek: The Next Gen was my dad’s favorite shit, so those reruns pretty much ran our TV life. When he was home, that’s what he wanted to watch. And when he wasn’t?” An almost wistful smile touches my lips. “That’s what I wanted to watch to make it feel like he was.”

Before our conversation can continue, there’s a hard banging on the open door that seems to vibrate the entire room. The fury in each pound causes J.T. to wince, yet my victorious smile to grow.

See.

I know people.

They’re rarely as complicated as they would like to pretend to be.

“ J.T.! ” A smooth, unhappy voice bellows from the other side of the threshold. “ Out here. Now! ”

His second in command prepares to do exactly what he’s told when I lift a single digit in the air to stop him. Sauntering over slowly, I’m somewhat surprised to find a large framed male with his back to the door.

From head to toe his figure bears only black clothing. The hood to his outwear is pulled up, refusing to expose so much as a strand of his hair while the workout pants stationed on his hips barely give a clue to the ass, I’d bet money on having a glorious shape.

He’s left nothing to be seen.

Examined.

Judged.

And why not?

What’s he hiding?

What is it he doesn’t want the world to know?

For a second time this morning, I lean against the frame. “ Good morning, Mr. Wilcox. ”

There’s an unmistakable tensing to his entire frame. “ Wes. ”

“You want me to call you Wes? Then you should introduce yourself to me as such.” I lift my coffee mug upward for a drink before adding, “ Directly .”

“And if I do, will you let me call you Bryn?”

His rebuttal manages to catch me completely off guard. “Is that actually what you wanna call me or just what you don’t want Puppet Boy calling me?”

The low grumble for a retort receives a wide grin.

Much wider than I would’ve anticipated.

Slowly, he turns his face slightly over his left shoulder, showcasing his damn near fully covered profile. Between the hood and the mask that stops right underneath his brown glare, it’s impossible to gather anything else about him. “ I’m Wes. ”

Noting his lack of hand extension is followed by observing the fact I can’t see them at all.

Even they’re tucked out of sight.

Is it an out of sight, out of mind thing?

He thinks if no one sees him, no one will think about him?

Because honestly?

That hint of bass and gravel alone is enough to warrant a drink invitation.

You know…if he weren’t holding my mom hostage as she fights for her life.

Using the index finger on my non-coffee holding hand, I flick a fallen strand away from my stare. “I’m Bryn.”

Despite an inability to actually see his muscles move, I swear he’s smiling.

That the action as well as relief reaches his glare.

“Wanna join our pajama jammy jam?” I sassily poke. “I mean you’re a bit overdressed in comparison to me but…” Like I predicted he lets his stare swiftly sweep across my underdressed figure, entire body slightly crumpling in covetousness. “We can change that if you want.”

Animal-like growls momentarily fester in the back of his throat prior to him shouting, “ J.T.! ” Wes struggles to pull his eyes away from the lowest cut point of my top. “We’ve got a conference call!”

“Coming,” he insists during his quick hustle towards his boss, coffee cup left behind. I remove the device from my shirt upon his arrival prompting him to snatch it away at the same time he mutters under his breath, “ Hope poking the bear was fucking worth it. ”

Wes indulges in one additional long look and shamefully snaps his face away, a sequence of actions that has me wickedly whispering back. “ Definitely. ”