Page 8 of The Butler

I snorted into my drink. That was fucking rich. “Remind Mr. Mann and his new boy that I am anoutman. Perhaps Brock forgets which one of us is the famous actor in the closet,” I said. “Remove Mr. Mann from all things associated with the company, Bob. Immediately.” I hung up.

The gin and tonic winked at me as sunlight danced off the crystal glass and the ice inside. That was all the approval I needed. I still loved Troy, but even if he begged, I was done. Loyalty was the number one quality that I required in all aspects of my life. He’d shown he had none. Let’s see how much Brock Mann meant to him when I ruined his career.

CHAPTER SEVEN: Deklyn

The suite was almost pitch black with the light behind me streaming in from the door I was standing in. My hand swept the interior wall to my right, trying to find a light switch to no avail. I’d had a fifty-fifty shot and was wrong. It was on the left.

Holy smokes!I stood motionless as my eyes traveled from one amazing feature to the next. A king bed was on a raised platform in the middle of the room and was laden with Hermès bedding. Oversized square pillows that matched the bedding had giant letterCs stitched on them. In one corner of the suite there was a stack of Louis Vuitton trunks substituting as end tables for the heavily distressed leather furniture. The massive room was as wide as the entire yacht. There was a sitting area, a separate office space with all the latest technology efficiently set up on the desk, and a walk-in closet half the size of my studio apartment. Two frosted glass doors were closed at one end of the room, so I walked across the plush carpeting and opened them. A brightly lit bathroom was located there.

There was a massive stained-glass ceiling that drew in light from outdoors.Was it outdoors?I couldn’t tell what deck I was on from the size of the room and the high ceilings. The bathroom was equal to the size of the entire suite. It had a massage table in the middle of the room with large baskets of towels stacked perfectly underneath. A glassed-in shower took up nearly an entire wall. It had benches inside as well as a large oval-shaped tub toward the end. The tub appeared to be floating on black stones. I counted four overhead shower heads and at least a dozen wall-mounted nozzles. The opposite wall was entirely mirrored and had built-in bench seats along the bottom. Next to that were two sinks that appeared to have been carved from a single block of marble, with waterfall faucets in each one. I stood in the middle of the room and spun around, taking it all in. This was how billionaires lived.

Returning to the bedroom area, I noticed a small framed picture next to the bed on one of the built-in nightstands. Picking it up, I saw Lincoln and his young lover, Troy Atkins. Starr had told me they were over, but the image spoke volumes to what they must have been to each other. Lincoln was handsome and manly, while fresh-faced Troy looked like a young God as he leaned into him. Both of their chests were bare, and the image looked like it had been taken on board Action and one of her many outdoor living spaces. I pulled the picture closer and gazed into the sparkling pale blue eyes of Mr. C. He was stunning. Tiny lines were on the sides of his eyes, but he still looked at least ten years younger than I’d read he was. Troy was cute for sure, but the star of this 5-by-7 frame was Lincoln Carrington. The picture was dusty, so I wiped it with my tank top. The crew was allowed to wear casual clothes until the primary boarded the boat. I put the picture back, wondering why, if they’d split, it was still here. It was dusty though, so maybe Mr. C. hadn’t been onboard in a while.

I met Starr in the main salon for a meeting about Mr. C.’s impending arrival. Today’s task was to make sure the suite was ready for his arrival the next day. I ordered several fresh flower arrangements for the suite along with Starr as she made sure the boat had plenty of floral throughout. Apparently flowers were a big deal for the yacht’s owner.

“No roses, Dek. Let’s assume he doesn’t want to see the symbol of love,” Starr said while we were looking online at a local florist. We would make sure to have them included in one of the shipments of provisions that Starr had coming to restock the pantries as well as the liquor. Several shipments of supplies had been arriving via boats all day and kept the deck crew busy helping the interior crew handle all the freight.

“Seven thousand on flowers?” I asked, pointing at the total on her laptop’s screen.

“You should see the costs during holidays.” Starr slid her screen cursor to another tab and opened the tab from the food supplier. “Check that out.”

My mouth dropped open in an exaggerated way. “Fifty grand? Does that include booze?” She shook her head. “Is it always like that?” I asked.

“This trip is only Mr. C. and a small entourage of his friends. Maybe twelve to fifteen others. Normal cruises can have up to seventy-five guests at times for parties. Those tabs are in the hundreds of thousands.”

“Jesus! How much is he worth, Starr?” I asked, my eyes expanding. I’d read papers in LA and seen enough TMZ broadcasts about him to know that he was a billionaire, but this all seemed beyond my comprehension.

I’d been born and raised in Las Vegas to lower-middle-class parents. We lived in a double-wide out by the airport and my family barely scraped by. My college tuition was part scholarship, part student loans, and I was ninety thousand in debt after my undergraduate degree, and it didn’t look like I’d be making those payments any time soon. I could barely afford rent, let alone student loan debt. And seven grand on flowers? Not likely in this lifetime.

“His production company is held entirely by him. He also has the successful vineyards in Italy that bottle Carrington Classic, and supposedly Mommy and Daddy left him more than ten billion of their money,” she said.

“Fucking A!”I declared. A billion dollars was a shitload of cash for anyone, but she’d said he’d inherited ten. “Why is there a massage table in his suite?” I asked, shifting gears.

“When he gets here, you’ll notice that he works out religiously in the gym. Also, if he asks you to join him, make sure you do,” she said. “It’s not a yes or no request, by the way,” she added quickly. “Anyway, he will on occasion fly a masseuse in for full body massages after any grueling workouts. The guy is ripped, Dek. You’ll see,” she said with a wink.

“What does that mean?”

“Let’s just say that you’ll be attending to his requirements as his personal butler. That will include plenty of opportunities to see him in all his glory.”

“Naked?” I whispered, looking around the salon in case other interior crew members overheard her.

“Consider it part of your compensation,” she stated, giggling at the idea of me seeing him inall his glory,as she put it.

The thought of catering to a spoiled billionaire while he flaunted his wealth was becoming less appealing by the hour. However, I had a desperate need for money and billionaires had that in abundance. If it meant seeing a hot forty-something naked, then bring it on. “He’s hot, isn’t he?” I asked. Starr nodded in agreement. I knew the policy about screwing the help and I assumed that included the lord of the manor? “What else?” I asked switching to a different topic than his hot body.

“There was a discreet delivery for the main suite in the mail room. Grab that on your way back. The box was stampedpersonaland has Mr. C.’s name on it. All other mail is addressed to the yacht’s name, so it’ll be easy to spot.”

“Gotcha. What’s in it?”

“Usually lube, maybe poppers or toys,” she answered.

You’d think I’d have been shocked by her response, but this was Hollywood wealth. Anything and everything was consumed by them. “Anything else I need to do?”

“Take inventory of the fridge in the suite and restock it from the pantry. There is an inventory list taped inside the door of his preferences.”

“Where the fuck was the fridge?” I asked. I didn’t remember seeing a kitchen in the room or a fridge.

Starr laughed out loud. “Did you go into the bar?” she asked.

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