A Bona Fide Gold Digger (7 page)

T
he leather-bound collector’s edition of
Great Expectations
by Charles Dickens was heavy. The embossed front cover gave it an elegant and distinctive look, but Milan was certain that the unexciting text inside the impressive covers would have her yawning before she got through the first few pages. Now, if she were reading something hot by erotica author Zane, she’d really be able to stay alert and put her heart into the story. But then again, reading Zane’s spicy prose might not be such a good idea. She didn’t want the old geezer getting any sex tips from Zane; his own naughty notions were quite enough.

Clearing her throat, Milan began reading. Mr. Brockington’s luminous eyes were riveted on her as if the main character, a boy named Pip, was an incredibly fascinating lad. Some of the paragraphs were outrageously long and so dreary, she wanted to hurl the miserable book against the wall. But when she thought of the primary role she played for her employer—a tawdry, live-in masseuse—she forged ahead and poured her heart into the reading of the Dickens classic. Perhaps Mr. Brockington would doze off from all the excitement of the reading and miss his eleven o’clock session.

“My dear,” Noah Brockington said at exactly ten minutes to eleven. Milan cringed. Then, bracing herself for the dreaded words her employer would soon utter, she marked the page with the sewn-in red silk ribbon and closed the book.

Noah Brockington did not speak another word. He casually pointed to the armoire. Trying desperately to repress hysteria, Milan took several deep breaths. Then, in a carefully controlled manner, she placed the heavy leather-bound book on the bedside table.

“Be sure to return that to the collection downstairs,” he reminded her. She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. If she could have gotten away with it, Milan would have used the book as a weapon and clunked Mr. Brockington upside his head with it, but of course, she couldn’t. She nodded an agreement to return the boring book to its designated spot in the maple-paneled library downstairs.

With mounting trepidation, she opened the armoire and randomly selected a container of massage oil. When she turned around, Mr. Brockington had sneakily lowered his sleepwear and lay poised on his stomach.

Having to rub an old man’s ass for pay was an all-time low and an extreme stretch from Milan’s perceived dignified persona. In order to survive this humiliation she instantly retreated to a vacant place in her mind. Now, successfully crossed over into an emotionless zone, Milan kept her eyes unfocused as she mechanically rubbed the sweet-scented oil in the prescribed circular motion.

“I enjoy your technique, my dear. You’re much better suited for this work than Elise.”

Earlier, Mr. Brockington had been silent during this procedure. His unexpected comments snatched Milan from her safety zone.
Thanks a lot for bringing me out of my trance, asshole!
Now, emotionally present and discomfited by the compliment, she responded with a curt “Thank you.” She began rubbing again urgently, as if the speed of her hands would hasten the session.

“Would you be kind enough to slip your finger inside; I enjoy having my anus caressed.”

Milan’s oily hands skidded to a stop. Surely her ears deceived her. “Excuse me?” she asked, shocked, prepared to puke and then take off running.

Mr. Brockington cleared his throat and spoke with his face turned away from Milan, his head rested upon several pillows. “I’m rather ashamed to admit it, but I allowed Elise to introduce me to something that many would deem unnatural and pervasively taboo.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, now that I’ve developed a penchant for anal play, I find it extremely difficult to drift off to sleep without the benefit of my naughty little pleasure.”

His request was more than troubling; it was absolutely revolting! Milan immediately envisioned herself running down the staircase, but when Mr. Brockington followed his expressed desire with “Of course, there’s a one-thousand-dollar cash bonus for you. It’s in the top drawer of the armoire,” Milan’s physical body did not cooperate with her fleeing mental image. Her feet remained in place.

“Please continue rubbing while you consider my offer,” Mr. Brockington said. There was a smug self-assurance in his tone that told Milan he expected her to bite the bait.

She’d been employed by Noah Brockington for a little over a week and her money was accumulating faster than she’d imagined. But her growing nest egg gave her little comfort. Never, ever had she touched anyone’s asshole, it was a despicable thought. But she needed to pay off her debt and get back on her feet. Short of murdering someone, there wasn’t much she wouldn’t do for money.

Expecting an unpleasant whiff when she spread Mr. Brockington’s squishy butt cheeks, she pursed her lips and scrunched up her nose. Fortunately, the man was clean and the only thing she smelled was the scent of the papaya massage oil she’d randomly selected. Her middle finger tensed in objection as she directed it toward the ridged flesh—the outer ring of muscles that surrounded the anal opening. After stroking the area for less than five minutes, she heard the familiar sound that was music to her ears—the hum of Mr. Brockington’s snoring.

After retrieving a hand towel from the bathroom, she wiped the oil from his behind. The gesture was not an act of kindness or even consideration. Milan was removing evidence. She’d die of mortification if Mr. Brockington’s private nurse discovered his oily backside and became enlightened to how Milan really earned her keep.

She pulled up his pajama bottom. The snap of the elastic waistband against his skin caused him to wince in his sleep. Milan smiled, satisfied by the small degree of discomfort she’d caused her perverted employer.

She held her hands under scalding hot water and scrubbed them until she could no longer endure the pain, but her hands still didn’t feel clean enough. They never would. With that realization, Milan used a clean monogrammed towel to pat her defiled hands dry and rushed to the armoire. She pulled open the top drawer and scooped up the crisp, neatly stacked bills—her thousand-dollar bonus. For a fleeting moment, the money delighted her, but a flash of the pages and pages of credit card debt brought her back to reality. She felt like an indentured slave.

Ravenous after showering, Milan returned Dickens to the library and then trekked to the kitchen. She wasn’t much of a cook, but she intended to put together something for lunch.

Irma, the maid-slash-cook, was at the stove, stirring something in a pot. The compact, round woman turned to Milan. “Hungry?” she asked kindly.

“Yes, I was going to make a sandwich. Do you have sliced turkey?” Milan asked, pulling open the fridge and snooping around inside.

“You need to eat more than a sandwich; you’re still a growing girl,” Irma fussed playfully and fixed her face in a thoughtful scowl. “Let me see…” She looked at the pot on the stove. “I’m a good cook, but something tells me you don’t like pea soup.”

Milan wrinkled her nose. Though appreciative for Irma’s interest in her appetite, she couldn’t hide her disdain for pea soup.

Irma wiped her hands on her apron and began opening cabinets. “You’re gonna have to order some take-out. There isn’t much to work with right now, but if you let me know what you like, I’ll pick up the ingredients when I do my grocery shopping tomorrow.”

Milan was thrilled that Irma was amenable to shopping and cooking for her. “That’s really nice of you, Irma. Thanks. I’ll make a list. What’s the food allowance here? How much does Mr. Brockington allow me to spend on food?”

“The sky’s the limit, sugar. Put anything you want on that list,” Irma said excitedly.

“Great. Are you sure you don’t mind cooking for me?” Since Milan had no talent or patience for culinary undertakings, she wanted to be absolutely sure Irma intended to prepare the items she listed.

“I’m a good cook. I used to have my own restaurant, but that’s a long story. Mr. Brockington pays me good money to clean and cook but all he wants me to do is fix him a couple poached eggs in the morning and a variety of soups with pumpernickel bread for the rest of his meals. He eats like a bird and his menu bores me to tears. It’ll be nice to show off my skills in the kitchen while that nurse is away on vacation,” Irma told her.

“Greer’s going on vacation?”

“Uh huh. She’s going back to Alabama to visit family. She’ll be gone for two weeks.”

Milan smiled inside. She was surprised Greer hadn’t mentioned something as important as being away from the household for two whole weeks. It would be nice to be out from under Greer’s scrutiny for a while. So far, she hadn’t enjoyed any of the amenities of the Brockington estate. She hadn’t even worked out in the gym. After all the dirty work she’d been doing, she definitely deserved a taste of the lifestyle of the idle rich.

“Speaking of Greer, where is she?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. She’s probably taking her tennis lesson. She gets paid for eight hours, but all she does is give him his pills, walk him up and down the hallway a couple times a day, and the rest of the time she’s out getting facials, taking all kinds of lessons and whatnot.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not kidding. Greer’s preparing herself for the good life. She has every intention of moving in here when the old man dies. She thinks he’s going to leave all his money to her.”

“That doesn’t make sense. She’s only been with him a few months. How did she get so much power?”

Irma shrugged and said scornfully, “She’s a foxy ol’ girl. By the way,” she added, her tone suddenly cheery, “did you get that money he asked me to put up in that armoire for you?” With a twinkle in her dark brown eyes, Irma gave Milan a wink.

It hadn’t occurred to Milan that someone other than Mr. Brockington was handling her earnings. The thought should have crossed her mind since he had to get around with a rolling walker and the assistance of his nurse.

Suddenly sickened that her dirty little secret was out, Milan narrowed her eyes in feigned indignation. “What money?” she asked, her voice nervous and high-pitched.

“Sugar, you don’t have to worry about me running my mouth. Elise told me all about it. She didn’t tell me any details, mind you,” Irma blurted. “But I have a general idea of what goes on up in that room. The thing of it is,” she said, pausing in thought, “Elise used to give me extra cash after I picked up the groceries I needed to fix her those fancy meals she liked.”

“I thought you said the sky was the limit.”

“It is for the groceries. Mr. Brockington has an account at the market. The grocery bill comes right out of his bank account. Nobody even pays it any attention. I buy food for me and my family on his account. The thing of it is…” Irma paused. “Me and Elise had a nice little arrangement. She paid me five hundred a week.”

Milan gave Irma a long, significant look. It now occurred to her that the seemingly kindly, stout little woman was trying to hustle her. She wanted Milan to pay her to keep quiet about her sessions with Mr. Brockington. But five hundred a week was a bit steep for hush money. And though it wasn’t the type of information she’d want Greer to be privy to, besides turning up her nose and looking at Milan as if she were pure scum, there wasn’t a damn thing Greer could do about Milan’s arrangement with Mr. Brockington. She certainly couldn’t fire Milan. Mr. Brockington wouldn’t hear of it. Irma had to be out of her mind if she thought she was going to extort five hundred a week to keep the secret from Greer.

“With ol’ Brock leaving all his money to Greer, that leaves us in a hell of a pickle,” Irma said with a snort. “A black man leaving all that money to a white woman! Now, that’s a damn shame. Excuse my language,” Irma said, shaking her head. “So, sugar, as you can see, we have to milk that old man for all he’s worth while we still got a chance. Yes, indeed. Black women have got to start sticking together.”

Milan was silent as she tried to figure out how forming an alliance with Irma would benefit her.

“That man got a big ol’ steel trunk full of cash money. It’s his secret stash. Greer doesn’t know anything about it.”

Milan looked at Irma with renewed interest. Now Irma held Milan’s undivided attention.

“That’s how he pays you, with the money from that trunk. Greer withdraws your weekly pay out of the regular bank, but I’m the one who counts out anything extra he decides to give you.” Irma paused, lifted the lid from the big pot on the stove and stirred the soup. After stirring, she placed the green gook-covered wooden spoon on a wide ceramic spoon holder.

“I don’t know exactly what Elise was doing,” Irma continued. “And Lord knows I don’t want to know. But she made out like a fat rat. That woman won’t ever have to hold down a job as long as she lives. Now me myself,” she said, pointing a finger at her chest. “I’m not the lazy type. I’m not looking to retire and sit around on my tail all day watching TV. All I want to do is open up another restaurant, be my own boss. I want to make some real money so I can leave something behind for my children and my grandkids.”

Milan considered Irma’s words but was still confused as to why Irma, who dusted and polished a few items and served the old man poached eggs and a couple bowls of soup, felt entitled to more than she was already being paid. She’d already admitted she received a generous salary.

With her brow furrowed, Milan said, “So, enlighten me, please. Why exactly should I give you five hundred a week?”