The Anatomy of Jane (2 page)

My mouth must have fallen to the ground because I couldn’t feel my face. In fact, I think my soul was leaving my body. “Please repeat that.”

“Two hundred and ten thousand —”

“How is that possible?”

“He also had products here.”

I nodded casually now and reached for my bag. “Well Allen, thank you for the explanation. It’s been interesting working for you, but I’m going to just quit before getting sucked into your shit storm—”

“You’re kind of already in it,” he said when I moved to walk away.

“What?”

“Your name, I put you as co-owner.”

“Come again?”

He nodded his head. “When I first opened up, I put you as co-owner just in case anything ever happened to me. You’re my only family—”

The moment he said that, I marched around the counter, pulled my arm back, and punched him as hard as I could across the face, sending his ass to the ground.

“Ah fucking hell, Jane!” he yelled, gripping his nose. Pulling my leg back, I kicked him in the side. “Jane! Stop! Jane!”

I was about to kill him, but Tommy, the bouncer, pulled me back, though that didn’t stop me from struggling. “Let me go! Let me go! I’m going to kill that little bastard! Are you kidding me! Not only am I getting screwed as an employee, just barely making minimum wage, but I’m now a co-fucking owner with a massive debt! Are you kidding me?”

“Jane, calm down.” Tommy pulled me back away from him. “Breathe! In through the nose and out through the mouth.”

Doing what he said, I breathed—angrily, like a raging bull, but I breathed. I hated to admit it, but it did make me feel better…though only a little.

“Tommy, I’m good.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yea, thanks.” I nodded when he set me back on my feet, releasing his grip.

“Jane—”

“I don’t want to hear from you.” I pointed to Allen when he came over to me, blood now staining the ridiculous zebra striped shirt he was wearing. “Talk to whoever the fuck you need to talk to, and get me out of this shit, Allen, or I swear to god if they don’t kill you, I will. Got me?”

“Okay.”

Nodding, I grabbed my things and headed toward the door, but I paused and turned back to him. “Oh, and I quit!”

Mary Poppins was flying far, far away.

Monday

“I’ll take anything. Mary, please!” I begged her. At this point I was ready to rub her shoulders and be her footstool. Okay, may be not quite that extreme, but I really needed a job.

“Jane, I love you; you know I do. And I will be forever grateful to you for helping me get away from Ryan—”

“But…” There is usually a ‘but’ after these types of statements.

“But you’ve never done well with authority.”

“That’s not true!”

She made a face at me before reaching for her phone. “Hello, Mary’s Magnificent Maids, how can we help you? Yes…of course…yes. No,
thank you
.”

Two years ago, Mary was known as ‘Spice’ and was the only stripper I had ever met that could do a split in the air, while turning, in six-inch heels. You couldn’t tell now with her buttoned up ruffled shirt and cardigan—she looked more like a principal with her red hair tied into a bun and her glasses resting on her nose—but I was proud of her.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” she asked when she hung up the phone.

“I was saying I don’t have a problem with authority.”

“Jane, you pulled a gun on my ex-husband.”

“First of all, it was a fake gun. Second, he was abusing you and little Andy.” How could she hold that against me?

“Okay then, what about the time you threw a drink at one of the guys at the bar?”

“I—”

“Or the time you threatened to drag one of the girls by her hair if she didn’t stop stealing.”

“You are making me sound like some violent, crazy person. Each thing I did—”

“Some things should be done to protect others. I know, Jane. You are a good person—heck you’re probably one of the most decent people I know. But this is my business. I can’t take the risk of you attacking someone or being rude to them if one of my clients, for example, asks you to re-clean her windows. I’ve worked really hard to get to this point in my life. This job is all about good references.”

“Mary I swear you won’t hear a peep out of me okay? I’ll work twice as hard as anyone else. I really need this job.”

She sighed and tucked her red hair behind her ear. “Fine.”

“YES!”
Thank you, Jesus.

“Ground rules: No cursing. No personal shit. And most importantly, you do whatever the client wants, as far as it is legal.” The way she added that last bit didn’t go unnoticed.

“I got it. You won’t regret it. I promise.”

“God, I hope so,” she muttered, ripping a piece of paper before handing it to me. “I just got this client from another service.”

“I thought a maid’s client list was as personal as an escort’s. Why would someone else give you their client?”

“Apparently the maid is retiring, and the other service is closing. The other owner just so happened to be a former guest of mine at the club and is giving me his clients. This is a good starting point to see whether or not you can hack it. The maid is leaving tomorrow, so you can get the keys from her. You clean twice a week: Tuesday and Saturday.”

“Thank you so much and any other clients, please send them my way,” I said to her as I moved toward the doors.

“And Jane…”

“Yeah?”

“You should try smiling more. You’re beautiful when you aren’t scowling at the world.”

“Smile, got it.” I even flashed my teeth before leaving. When I stepped out of her office, I came face to face with my own reflection in the elevator doors.

I smiled at that moment, but I couldn’t take myself seriously. The great thing about being pretty was that it made for great tips, but it also encouraged assholes to get handy. The bastards were even worse if they recognized me outside the club, so I always kept my light auburn hair in a ponytail, wore my Patriots baseball cap, and used no other makeup than cat eye eyeliner. Some people love their boobs, skin, or legs, but I always loved my eyes. They weren’t sexy or eye-catching, just plain old hazel brown, but supposedly brown-eyed people had at least one parent with brown eyes. I didn’t know my parents, but one of them had brown eyes; at least I knew something.

When the elevator came, I glanced back down at the address in my hands.

2829 W Rowling Street

Boston, Massachusetts

It was time to see how the other half actually lived.

Tuesday

“You need to sign this,” the older maid said in a thick German accent before handing me a pen and clipboard. She made me feel like I had entered a clinic instead of a penthouse. She stood outside the doors like a guard dog, but I couldn’t look away from the mole above her lip, which sprouted hair.

“Sign.” She shoved it into my chest.

“Okay. Okay.” Putting my bag down to read the non-disclosure agreement, I wondered why it was necessary.

“No sign. No work,” she said again.

“I get that, but why? Should I get a lawyer or something?”

She just crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at me. I read it quickly; it was simple and straightforward enough.

“Fine, here,” I said, handing her back the clipboard. She nodded and tucked it under her arm before turning around to open the door.

“Code 3140902. No remember, the police come after three times.”

“3140902,” I repeated as the door opened to expose an awe-inspiring view. Wall to wall windows revealed a private pool and the whole of Boston. I couldn’t look away.

“Pain in the ass,” said the German lady while shaking her head at the wall of glass. I realized I still didn’t know her name. “You clean the windows. Wiper is in the closet.”

The moment she said it, the view I was admiring vanished. All I saw now was all the effort it would take to keep the windows clean.

“Come on.” She waved me farther across dark wood flooring, giving me a quick tour. “Living room, you clean. Laundry, the clothes to be washed in the blue basket, dry in the red basket. Kitchen, you clean. Pots and knives you clean with this, nothing else.” She showed me the unmarked cleaning products under the sink. “Understand?”

“Understood.” I nodded, staring at the state of the art stainless steel kitchen. I noticed everything was colored in gray, blue, and off-white, and was perfectly placed like in one of those model homes.

Great,
I thought
. These people must be neat freaks.

Don’t complain, Jane. Remember you need the job.

“Upstairs.” The unnamed German lady moved around me and up the spiral staircase.

“Three rooms,” she said when she reached the upper level. “Master room, you clean. The spare room, you clean. Private room, you not clean.”

“This one, not clean?” I asked, pointing to the cream door.

“No.” She waved her finger at me.

Raising my hands up in defense, I said, “Okay I got it, but believe me, there is nothing behind those doors that would actually shock me. It could be Christian Grey’s room and I wouldn’t even blink an eye.”

“Who?”

I laughed. “Never mind.”

“You understand?” she asked me.

“Yes.”

“Yes. Okay. Goodbye.” She replied by taking off her apron, handing it to me, and marching down the stairs.

I followed her. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes. You clean. I leave. Goodbye.” She started to happily pack her bags and whistle. Yes, the woman was whistling and heading toward the door. When it closed, I stood in the middle of the penthouse and took a deep breath. I then did what any good maid would do. I got gloves. Cleaning toilets may be boring enough, but it was still better than rubbing glitter on a woman’s breast…to me anyway.

This was my new life.

Jane Chapman, the penthouse housemaid.

Chapter One

One month.

Twelve days.

And far too many hours to count.

That’s how long I had been cleaning the penthouse at 2829 W Rowling Street without having any idea who lived there. If it weren’t for the damn laundry left for me every week, I’d think I was working for ghosts. The penthouse was never that dirty. True there may be a tie or sock left somewhere, or a cup left on the table or in the sink plus the normal dust, but other than that, I had never actually met the owner. There weren’t any pictures, and I couldn’t stop my imagination from running. There was something about the forbidden room hidden behind the cream-colored door that kept me guessing, so I had come to irrational conclusions: I was working for a serial killer, or one of those men who secretly collected blowup dolls.
It could be anything,
I thought—anything creepy enough to keep me from going inside.

“Maybe he’s a rich doctor who harvests human body parts?” I muttered to myself. I had only realized it was a
he
because of the boxer briefs in his laundry. I bobbed my head to the Bon Jovi blaring through my headphones before perfectly folding the newly ironed white shirts. I wasn’t expecting anything or anyone and was so focused on my little world that when I did turn around and saw him—them, I nearly screamed.

“
Take my hand and we’ll make it…”
The music rang in my ears as I stood frozen in the hall. I was unable to tear my eyes away from them as they ripped each other’s clothes off.

It was two men—no, better make those two models I must have dreamt up. Well over six foot, one with dirty light brown hair, the other’s jet black, shirts off, ivory arms locked around each other, their sculpted chests and abs rubbing together. They kissed like they needed to breathe through each other’s mouths while their tongues circled. The dark haired one reached into the pants of the other and grabbed the other man’s cock, which was now standing proud and thick…and tall. He kissed the side of the other man’s cheek and down his neck.

The more I watched, the hotter my body became. This was so fucking hot, and I couldn’t look away. I wasn’t sure if it was even real. The lighter haired man didn’t just stop at the nape of his lover’s neck. He kisses fell in a quick line down the center of his lover’s abs, and all the while he never stopped stroking his partner’s cock. Even from where I was standing, I could see it was throbbing.

Oh, my god.
My mouth dropped open as he started to lick the cock’s tip and sides like it was an ice cream cone melting in his hand, and he wasn’t going to waste a drop.

“Ah…” Shit! Fuck! I moaned. I didn’t mean to. I wanted to take it back, but I was caught. The dark haired man’s blue eyes focused on me as he got up from the floor. He was pissed ,but his lover only looked me over. Before either of them could say anything, I ran down the stairs screaming, “Sorry!”

I didn’t even think. I just kept moving and quickly closed the door behind me.

“Jesus.” I leaned back in the elevator trying to calm down, but erotic images kept flashing in my mind.

I’d never be able to get that scene out of my mind or listen to Bon Jovi again. “Living on a Prayer” was still playing in my ears.