Page 19 of Maid in America

Mrs. Thompson covered her mouth to stifle a scream, her lifted face flashing angrily scarlet. “What did youdo? You… fuckingmoron?!”

“Moron?!” Barrett froze. “Your frickin’…bath matself-destructed like a bomb!”

She stormed over and snatched the remains of the rug. She flicked the little white tag dangling from the shred that remained. “Did you read the instructions?!”

“I shouldn’t have to! It’s a rug!”

“You. Don’t. Wash. A. Rug. With. Delicate. Expensive. Fabrics!” She snapped, slapping her palms with each word. She tossed the destroyed rug on the floor and yanked the items in his hands out in a burst of anger.

“Hey, lady, those were clean!”

“Those arecoveredin rug fibers!”

“So is yourfloor, now!” Barrett growled in frustration.

Staring down at the mound of fabric, she cocked her head sideways and lifted a towel from the pile. She held it up, staring at Barrett through a fist-sized hole melted through the middle of it.

“What… the…?”

“Oh shit.” Barrett swallowed, Adam’s apple bouncing hard in his throat. “I might have used too much bleach.”

Mrs. Thompson glowered at him, lowering the towels and rolling her shoulders back. She looked like a bulldog, forcing an under-bite.

“They were white towels! You told me to remove the gunk, so I stain-treated them!”

“You poured bleach straight onto a seven-hundred dollar towel?! Jesus, I thought it was your first day on thejob. I didn’t realize it was your first day ever cleaning in yourlife!”

“Now, Mrs. Thompson, there’s no need to be cruel… I’ll just…replacethem.”

“Replace them?” She laughed cruelly. “You’re going to go toItalyand get me replacement towels?”

“Well, no. But Target has some nice—”

“Target?!Target?!” She looked like she might pass out. She shot a finger toward the door. “Get the hell out of my house, LieutenantImbecile!”

7

Barrett glanced around theMan Maidoffice in an uncomfortable leather armchair. With a few coats of paint and Will’s life savings, the downtown building had been transformed from the stale remains of a raided massage parlor to a new, sleek, modern storefront. Silver metal lined the windows, previously-broken ones Ava had replaced immediately. Once-beige walls were now a breathtaking teal damask wallpaper accented with crown molding and all-new baseboards. The room smelled of lavender essential oils. Soothing classical music played quietly through hidden speakers, furthering the small establishment’s posh feel.

A large glass desk, one Will and Barrett dragged over from Ava’s prior home office, sat in the middle. A minibar stocked with bottles of Fiji and seltzer water was next to it, labels all facing out.

Behind the desk hung a horizontal canvas print covering most of the back wall. It was an image of a shirtless Will Jessup holding a spray bottle in bright yellow rubber gloves. It was a smaller copy of the same billboards that now peppered Highway 191 near the affluent neighborhoods.

The glass front door opened, and a waft of men’s cologne -- sweat and cedar with a hint of citrus -- flooded Barrett’s nostrils.

He chuckled, knowing who it was before he even turned. “’Sup, you dink?”

But Will wasn’t laughing. His face was contorted in a grim expression of anger, something Barrett had rarely seen in decades of knowing him.

He’d fucked up. That was clear.

Will slapped Barrett on the back of the head.Hard.

“Ow! You dick!”

Ava entered with an armful of binders and a stony stare. She slapped Barrett in the back of the head, too.

“Alright!” Barrett rubbed the sore spot where her engagement ring cracked against his scalp. “Use your freakin’words, people!”

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