Submersed

SUBMERSED

Copyright © 2012 by Rachelle Vaughn

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission in writing from the author.

rachellevaughn.com

Chapter One

             
I set my paintbrush down and stretched my aching back muscles. My shoulders and arm screamed from holding the brush at the same angle for too long. My stomach growled noisily to remind me I’d forgotten to eat breakfast. The painting was finally finished and I stood back to admire, or in my case, critique my work.

             
The dreary scene depicted a rainy day in Paris, the Eiffel Tower tall and pointed in the background. Instead of illustrating how fresh and cleansing rain could be
,
the painting was gray, gloomy and downright depressing.

             
I sighed, shook my head and looked away.

             
I hadn’t used bold colors since… Well in a long time.

             
It wasn’t like there was any shortage of colors around me. I lived at the top of a hotel in downtown Las Vegas. Colors were the blood pumping in and out of the city. Neon lights pulsed, billboards splashed with color twenty-four-seven. But the colors didn’t inspire me. I was too preoccupied by the demons that had plagued me for the last six years.

             
I went to the wall of windows and looked out at the city. I had to admit, the view was incredible. A replica of the world was literally at my feet. There were representations of dozens of cities and countries from New York and Italy to Monaco, Egypt and Paris.

             
To the left I saw the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building and the Statue of Liberty at New York-New York. There was the Great Sphinx of Giza in front of Luxor and I knew that the spotlight at the tip of the pyramid would light up blue at night.

             
To the right, the MGM Grand,
which would glow green after dark and the ornate Paris Las Vegas Montgolfier balloon marquee sign.

             
In fact, I could see the Eiffel Tower jutting up into the desert sky from my studio window, which was ironic because Paris, France was where my mother ran off to six years ago. My father assured me it was a coincidence, but I knew the real reason she left.

             
Although I lived smack dab in the middle of The Strip, I’d never been to the top of the half-scale reproduction of Europe’s most famous landmark. I’d never been on a gondola ride at The Venetian, or seen the shark reef at Mandalay Bay or even ridden the roller coaster at New York-New York Hotel and Casino.

             
Occasionally, I went to my father’s “estate” in
Summerlin
for dinner or to use the Olympic-sized pool. But thanks to the internet and my trusty credit card, I didn’t even need to leave the hotel for art supplies.

             
And that was just how I liked it.

             
I walked out of my studio, closed the door behind me and went through the bedroom out to the living area. When I pulled the foam earplugs out of my ears, I could hear my father’s voice booming out of my answering machine.

             
“Olivia,” he was saying, with that air of authority that had made him millions, “the charity dinner is next Saturday night. Please don’t forget. I know how you hate these things, but it’s important and you know I’d appreciate you coming.” He paused before adding, “I’m sure I could find someone to go with you as your date.” My stomach clenched. “Gwendolyn’s friend’s nephew is single and I know he’d love to meet you.”

             
Ah, my father, perpetual matchmaker. How could he even suggest fixing me up with a friend of a friend of a friend with a straight face. I groaned and cast my eyes to the ceiling at the thought.

             
“I’d have you come as
my
date,” my father continued, “but I’ve already invited Gwendolyn.”

             
Gwendolyn and my father had been seeing each other for a few months. I liked her. She was a breath of fresh air from the stale succubus that was my mother.

             
“You don’t even need a date,” he went on. “Just come with us.” Desperation laced his words and I felt so bad for him. He deserved to have a normal daughter, but I couldn’t be that for him no matter how much I wanted to.

             
“I can’t stand the thought of you shut up in your room while a party goes on right downstairs. So, think about it and I
’
ll talk to you later, honey.”

             
I sighed and promptly deleted the message.

             
My father’s message left me wanting to discuss my circumstances with someone. Vent out my frustration and cry on a friendly shoulder.

             
But that wasn’t likely to happen.

             
I didn’t have any friends. Not in a boo-
hoo
-feel-sorry-for-me kind of way.
More of an I-don’t-want-the-hassle sort of way.
Sure, I’m friendly with plenty of people. Frank the concierge, my driver, the housekeeping and room service staff, but that’s about as much as I can handle, socially speaking.

             
Speaking of housekeeping, like clockwork, there was a knock on my door at two o
’
clock. When I swung the door open, Michelle my favorite guest room attendant was standing on the other side with her cart.

             
“Is this a bad time, Olivia?” she asked.

             
“No, not at all.
Please come in,” I said, waving her inside.

             
She wheeled her cart in and I shut the door behind her.

             
Michelle had been working on the housekeeping staff for about a year. She wore her dark frizzy hair pulled back in a messy bun. She looked a few years younger than I did, but I had never asked her age. Her face was plain, although she would probably be pretty with a little mascara, and the only thing that
really stood out about her w
ere
her massive breasts. I could tell she was self-conscious about them by the way she hunched her shoulders forward so they wouldn’t stick out so far. She didn’t look particularly overweight, but then again I’d only ever seen her in her baggy unflattering uniform.

             
I wasn’t nervous around Michelle like I was most everyone else. Maybe because she seemed just as uncomfortable in her own skin as I was. 

             
I liked her because she never asked too many questions and she didn’t seem to judge me. Not in a way that was obvious anyway. I’m sure Michelle was curious about me as well as everyone else who knew of my obscurity. I knew everyone on staff at the hotel talked about me. I wondered if she fed them bits of insight about my life.
Like how many towels I used.
Or what I did
alone
up in my room day in and day out.

             
I imagined them all huddled together dissecting me in hushed tones
,
trading gossip. The thought made my skin crawl and I tried to focus on Michelle’s smiling face until the feeling passed.

             
When she started stripping the sheets from the bed, I jumped in to help her.

             
“You don’t have to do that,” she
tsked
.

             
“It’s okay. I don’t mind.” In fact, I always helped her when she came in, but she always protested the same way. It was probably because of who my father was.

             
I knew none of the other guests in the hotel helped their housekeeper, but I wasn’t like other guests and I wasn’t even technically a guest.

             
“Any big plans for the weekend?” she asked, shoving my pillow into a fresh pillowcase.

             
I knew she was just making small talk because everyone in the hotel knew I rarely left my room. But I hated small talk. I never knew what to say. Everything always ended up sounding so inconsequential. Then again, I supposed that was what making small talk was all about.

             
I shrugged. “No,” I answered, sliding my spare pillow from its pillowcase.

             
I silently debated whether or not to tell her about my dilemma. After a minute, I decided I had to confide in someone or I would end up talking to the walls. “My father wants me to attend a charity dinner next week.”

             
“That sounds fun,” Michelle replied cheerily.

             
“Not really,” I winced. “To be honest, I can’t stand my father’s pretentious events. Every time I go, I’m expected to schmooze with the bigwigs of Nevada while he loosens their grips on their wallets in the name of charity. It’s all such a sham.”

             
“It’s for a good cause, though, isn’t it?”

             
“Yeah, I guess so,” I mumbled with another shrug.

             
“So do you get to get all
dressed
up?” Michelle asked with almost annoying excitement.

             
“Well, it’s a formal event so I would
have
to get dressed up.”

             
“Well, that should be fun.”

             
I could tell Michelle wanted me to be a lot more excited than I was. She kept using the word “fun”. Then again, maybe the idea of attending a who’s who of who has the most
simoleons
appealed to her. Either way, she was trying so hard and I wasn’t helping.

             
I shook my head. “I’m not going anyway. I just can’t bear to.
Especially without a date.
My father doesn’t understand that when a man looks at me it’s with dollar signs in his eyes instead of genuine interest.” Not that I was interested in a man anyway. I would never let another man do to me what Derrick had done.
Never.

             
“I’m sure there’s a way for you to have a date,” she said a bit furtively.

             
My brows knit together and I searched her face. “Don’t give me that look. I didn’t tell you so you’d feel obligated to set me up with someone.”

             
“No, that wasn’t quite what I had in mind,” she said carefully. “I hope it’s not inappropriate for me to make a suggestion.”

             
Okay, now she had me intrigued.
“Of course not.
I need all the help I can get.
Whatta
ya
got?” I asked wearily.

             
Michelle looked around the room and spotted my laptop on the coffee table. “May I?”

             
I waved my hand at the computer. “Be my guest.”

             
She knelt down at the table, quickly typed in a few words and pulled up a website. She angled the screen towards me and I squatted down to take a look.

             
The website, to my dismay, offered male escort services. My eyes skittered over the screen and I felt two emotions. First, utter horror. And second, a
tinge
, a very
slight
tinge
, of curiosity.