Page 42 of A Little Broken

Closing the bedroom door, I move to the next one and give the knob a twist.

“Well, damn,” I mutter. “Someone likes staying in shape.”

“They have a gym?” Rory asks.

“Yup.”

There are free weights, a squat rack, a punching bag, a treadmill, a yoga mat. You name it, it’s there. Along the walls are tall, wide windows, giving a perfect view of the ocean like the one by the stairs. I close the door, continuing my perusal. Giving Rory a play-by-play, I find another bathroom, a laundry room,and two more bedrooms. Yup, it’s the whole shebang. When I reach the last door, I realize it’s cracked. Curious, I push it open. “Holy shit, there’s a music room.”

“A music room?” she asks.

“Yup, a full-blown music room.” I flick the lights on, and my jaw drops. Half a dozen guitars in a rainbow of colors sit mounted along the wall. On the opposite side is a set of drums and framed posters of different bands from the eighties, nineties, and two thousands, along with a bookshelf of records. I squint and move toward them, realizing they’re signed. The posters.

“Rore, you should see this,” I murmur.

“What is it?”

“There are records, posters, guitars, a drumset.” I move to the custom bookshelf and start flipping through the albums. Half of the options I don’t recognize, which is saying something because I’m a sucker for underground bands. The other half vary from Broken Vows to The Who to Rage Against the Machine to…my mouth lifts when my attention catches on Doomsday’s logo. “This is insane.”

“Aw, I’m so jealous,” Rory gushes. “It sounds amazing.”

“It really is, but I gotta go. I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”

“Sure thing. See ya!”

“See ya, Rore.”

Taking the Doomsday vinyl from its case, I start the record player and wait for the familiar notes I had on repeat for years. I still haven’t seen them play live. I almost bought tickets last year but decided against it. I still don’t know why. Or maybe I do. Maybe it’s because, whether or not I’d ever admit it out loud, Doomsday reminds me of Pax, and Pax reminds me of…a lot of things I’d rather not think about. Seconds later, the song starts, and I roll up my sleeves. Time for work.

By the time the house is clean, I’m convinced the owner is my soulmate. Man or woman, twenty or eighty, I don’t discriminate. This person gets me. There’s a sauna, and a gym, and a library, and a gaming room, and a hot tub overlooking the ocean.

Siiiigh. If only I was rich.

Sweat drips down my back, and my body aches. But it’s a good ache. A productive ache. Like after a good workout. When you know you’ve pushed yourself but also accomplished something. And with how freaking awesome every inch of this mansion looks? Well, I can’t help but beam up at it when the garage door opens and the familiar click-click of heels echoes from the hall.

My body freezes, my fight or flight response going haywire in an instant. My boss said no one would be here. Hell, it was one of the biggest perks when I applied. So, what am I supposed to do now?

An older woman with blonde hair pulled into a slicked-back bun stops short when she sees me.

“Hello.”

“Hi?” I offer.

“I assume you’re the maid?”

“Yes, hi,” I repeat. “My name’s Tatum.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Mindy.” Her attention barely drifts over me before she pulls her cell phone out. “Are you finished?”

“Uh, yup.” I grab the bucket from the floor and toss the last rag into it. “I assume you’re the owner?”

“This is one of my client’s residences.”

“Oh.” I hesitate. “Okay. Well, uh, if they would like me to make any changes or…do anything different during my next cleaning, tell them to reach out to my boss and she can pass the info along. Or, if they'd prefer, I can give them my direct number and?—”

“That won’t be necessary, but thank you.”

“Got it.” I grab my purse and rifle through it, finding Rory’s keys. “I guess that’s…that.” I nod. “Have a great day.”

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