Page 2 of Risk

My cell rings and it’s my bestie, Mak. “Good morning, gorgeous.”

“Hey, you off to work yet?”

“Just about to leave.” Grabbing my keys, I head out and lock my front door.

“How many houses you got today?”

“Four.” Which is why being punctual or early is important.

“Want to have dinner with me and Carson later?”

“Hells yes!” I love hanging with them. Carson’s a blast, and I’ll never say no to Mak. “When and where, baby?”

“There’s a place I’m dying to try called Maestros.”

“Ohhh that fancy place on the east side?”

“Yup!” Mak chirps. “Seven okay?”

“Can we make it like seven thirty or eight? I’ll need to come home and shower the scuzz off me and will probably hit traffic.”

“Eight it is. See you then.”

“Hey wait.” I scramble towards my car. “How was the sex club last night?”

“Ahhh-maaaa-zzzzing.”

“Nice!” I wish my sex life was as fantastic as my bestie’s, but for the past couple of years it’s just been me, myself, and my online audience. “Tell Carson I said hi. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

After hanging up, I fly down the road and end up having to park half a block away from the café I love, which means I’m sprinting to the nectar of the Gods. Hey, nothing’s stopping me from getting my daily double espresso, even if I’m crunched on time. I have priorities, people.

With a little speeding, I still make it to Mason’s condo five minutes early.

Pulling out my collapsible cart, I load it with all my preferred cleaning supplies and head inside the swanky building.

“Hey!” I wave at the doorman. This guy knows me. I’m here every month. Why’s he looking at me weird? “Cleaning Condo 207.”

“Uhh. Yeah. Go on up.” Why does he look so amused?

I don’t know what he thinks is so funny about a woman pulling a heavy ass cart around. I’m already sweating, and I haven’t even started. Annoyed, I drag my shit to the elevator, flustered because now I think he’s making fun of me for being a housemaid.

The doors open just as I’m about to hit the button and out pops a gentleman in a suit that likely costs over three months’ rent for me. Our gazes meet and he gawks for a moment, then moves past me as if I have the plague.

Asshole.

Time to dig out my music and put myself in a better mood because clearly the double espresso hasn’t kicked into my system enough for all this bullshit.

Earbuds in. Playlist on. Time to clean house.

The instant I open the door to Mason’s condo, the scents of bergamot, cloves, and leather hit my nose. Damn, did he put a candle or something in here since the last time I cleaned? It smells divine. This place is beautifully built but lacks décor and color. Unless you call that signed baseball jersey framed in the foyer artwork, there’s nothing here to make it homey.

Shutting the door, I wheel my cart into the galley kitchen and get to work. Spray, scrub, swipe, repeat. I make my way through the kitchen quickly and head to the bathroom next. This is one of my favorite houses to clean because the owner rarely uses this place, which means it’s never dirty.

Unlike the house I have after this, that has four kids, two dogs, and six cats.

Singing into my microphone—the mop handle—I bump and grind to my tunes.

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