The thing is, I enjoy them both, and I want to begreatat both, so by the time another week passes by, I’m completely fucking exhausted.
That’s despite the fact that the week has gone more smoothly than I expected. Elliot has not said a single word about my non-availability at times, and I’ve cut down a lot on commute hours because I get chauffeured to work daily in Nik’s private car—part of his thank you for coming back—so I don’t even have to worry about the route. The first day I showed up in a town car, one of the doormen at the Bellamy just about fell over when he opened the door andIgot out.
“Holyshit,” he said.
“Yeah, I hope that’s not how you greet all our guests.”
He gave a slightly embarrassed grin. “No, Mr. West, definitely not. I just, uh—”
“When you make concierge, youtoomight be chauffeured to work,” I told him, patting his shoulder.
Brandon, predictably, was agape when I walk in. “No way,” he said, rushing over to me.
“Get back to the desk,” I snapped, because there was a bunch of guests coming in behind me to check in, and poor Sarita was there alone, looking harried.
“But—”
“I’ll spill later. Go do your damn job, Brandon!”
He rolled his eyes, but he went, and even if he seems to make the check-in process longer and more complicated than it had to be, Sarita seemed grateful. But Magda’s right. Brandon is no good at this job, and sooner or later, he’s going to get the boot.
I’m starting to wonder if I won’t be far behind him, though. I spent all week working on the upcoming meeting, making sure the catering was in place and the right staff were scheduled on.NotBrandon, for example. But there were a million little things to double-check, not to mention my regular duties as well, so by the time I got off shift tonight, I was exhausted and…
Honestly, not really looking forward to going on to my second job. To taking care of Elliot’s laundry and polishing his shoes and clearing away any dishes left in his room from those endless cups of tea…ugh. Not even the chauffeured ride back could cheer me up, especially since this is where I put my mask back on before we get to the house.
It’s almost second nature to me now, an instinctive action: putting that mask on and taking it off. But I’m getting more and more tired of wearing it.
* * *
When I arrive back at the house tonight, Chef Henriette has a late supper waiting for me and Daniel gives me his daily report on Elliot. “He’s been a darling today,” he tells me. “Behaved himself very well. Came down to dinner, and even praised me for my lunch service. Apparently it wasalmostas good as yours.”
I grin at that, despite my exhaustion. “Hey, that’s quite the compliment.”
“Oh, believe me,” Daniel says with feeling, “I’m aware. Anyway, he asked for you to go in when you got home. He’s waiting up.”
I just nod. It’s not that I don’t want to see Elliot. Iloveseeing him, actually. Each night I’ve gotten home this week, he’s barely been able to keep his hands off me, even when I’m sitting at his feet while he bangs silently on the piano keys. He keeps interrupting his work to thread his fingers through my hair, or pull me up to kiss, or to run his fingers over the healing notes he scratched into my skin.
“What’s wrong?” is the first thing he asks tonight when I enter his room with a polite,Good evening, my lord, my fingers already pulling at my clothes automatically.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say, taken aback, as I take off my shirt. He still likes me naked when I’m with him, and I like it, too.
He stares at me, frowning. “No, something’s wrong. You’re usually much more…perky.”
“I’m just tired, my lord. That’s all. I might have underestimated how much work it would be, living here, going to my day job…”
“You’re not going to leave again, are you?” he asks sharply.
“No, my lord. I gave you my word that I’d stay until the masquerade.”
He studies me even more closely, if that’s possible. “I’m sorry you’re tired,” he says at last. “Perhaps…”
I try to sound encouraging when I ask, “How can I be of service tonight, my lord?” But the reality is, I’d like nothing more than to go to bed and sleep for a hundred years.
But it strikes me that this is thepointof service submission. To serve even when it’s not something youfeellike doing. Still…I can’t fully stomp down the selfish protest in my heart when Elliot says, “I’d like you to run a bath, Oliver.”
I un-grit my teeth to say, “Yes, my lord,” and then I do what he says.
I run the water and add the oils that I know are his favorite and then I check the temperature, adjust it to perfection. My head is spinning, even though I want to push through and make it a flawless experience for Elliot. I want him to enjoy his time with me, because I knowIwill enjoy it in retrospect, even if I don’t feel great right now.
