Grayson

GRAYSON

Lisa Eugene

Dedication

This book is dedicated to those who struggle each day with mental illness, those whose cries are often silent. You should be heard.

Special thanks to Kristina Taylor, Sheree Beans, Sarah Mendez, The Smexettes for their support, and Daisy from
blimeyifancyreading.com
for wanting more Grayson and inspiring me to write chapter twelve just when I thought I was all done!

CHAPTER ONE

Looking around the busy street on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, I double checked the address and walked into the sumptuous lobby of the posh high-rise. I pulled the flyer out of my bag and unfolded it. Reading the bold scrawl racing across the page, I twisted my lips thoughtfully.

Looking for someone to clean out old house.

A few hours a week.

Must be organized and methodical.

Will pay cash.

Admittedly, it was the last sentence that had roped me in. My portion of the rent was due in a week and a half and I was seriously short. Buying my last round of text books had left me practically broke.

The building was off campus and I wondered again who’d pinned the notice to the student bulletin board. The board was mainly utilized by students for posting odd jobs around the university campus, offering tutoring services, or selling used books. I glanced down at my worn jeans and thin T-shirt as people walked by me dressed in designer suits that probably cost more than I made last year. 

The doorman announced me and I nervously walked toward the elevator bank. The mirrored doors mocked my non-compliant hair, causing my lips to purse in a frown. Pawing my fingers through my long dark waves, I tried to create order out of chaos. My brown eyes stared back at me, hopeful but anxious. In no time, I was whisked to the top floor and approached a sleek silver door. Straightening my T-shirt and the messenger bag slashing across my chest, I took a deep breath to bolster my courage.

Had I known that I was coming to this luxury building, I wouldn’t have come looking like something the cat reluctantly dragged in. I would have dressed considerably better. But from the phone interview it seemed as though this was going to be a casual meeting. I whispered a quick prayer and took another deep breath.
God, I needed this job!

My gaze landed on my well-worn sneakers and ripped jeans, and then I scanned the richly appointed hall with its damask textured wall paper and carpet that felt like quicksand.
I was fucked!

The door pulled open and a boy stood in front of me. Well, not a boy really, more like a young man with a very boyish face. With his sun-streaked blonde hair and deep blue eyes, he looked like a fresh preppy face you’d see in a Polo ad. He was shirtless, revealing a slightly muscled torso. My younger sister would be falling all over herself if she saw him. He was just the type she liked. Handsome. Blonde. Rich.

A slow smile pulled his lips as his gaze traveled over my face, then stroked boldly down my body, and back to my face again. After a minute or so, when it appeared that he’d forgotten his manners, I stretched out a hand and introduced myself, looking behind him to find the person who’d be interviewing me.

“Ah… ah, sorry. I’m Charles,” the young man said, pumping my hand and pulling the door open further to allow me to pass.

I smiled politely and stepped in, still feeling a little skeeved from his brazen perusal. The apartment was magnificent. From what I could see, it had high vaulted ceilings and my eyes hurt from the glare of the marble that was ubiquitous. This was an impressive home—if you could ignore the clothes and debris strewn everywhere. It looked as if a hurricane had swirled through the room and spewed shit everywhere. It was a Park Avenue pig sty.

 “I hope you found it okay?” Charles said, swooping down to grab a shirt off the floor.

“Yes, no prob.” I watched him pull it over his head and rake a hand through his blonde waves.

I wondered if the doorman had awoken him. From the appearance of the apartment, I’d bet there’d been a wild party recently.

“I’m here for the interview,” I nudged when his gaze dropped and lingered on my breasts.

“Yes. Ah, yes.” He smiled brightly, but stayed rooted in his spot.

“The interview for the cleaning position…” I prodded, getting annoyed now. “I’m meeting with Mr. Whitmore.”

His smile broadened and he squared his shoulders. “I’m Mr. Whitmore.”

I couldn’t stop my brows from jerking up.
Seriously?

He laughed, noticing my expression.

“Please, have a seat.” He indicated a couch at the far end of the room where large windows overlooked Central Park.

I had to remove several beer bottles and items of wrinkled clothing in order to clear a spot on the couch for me to sit. He chuckled apologetically, but I had trouble sharing his humor. There was a lace thong hanging off the other end of the sofa that I wasn’t going anywhere near. I just hoped that nothing jumping off of it could reach me.

“Sorry. We had midterms yesterday,” he said by way of explanation, his gaze following mine.

I nodded, noting his pale skin starting to redden. My own midterms were coming up, so I understood the need to celebrate when that monkey finally jumped off your back. Somehow though, my celebrations never involved mysterious couch stains, broken beer bottles, or dirty underwear.

“Jack, my family’s attorney, was who you spoke with over the phone,” he explained, pulling me from my thoughts. “This is just a formality to get my final approval, but you’ve basically got the job. You just have to prove to me that you’re the right person.”

“
Prove
to you?” I said slowly, my spine tensing at the way he’d intoned the words.

His eyes rounded with sudden embarrassment. His gaze dropped to my breasts, then darted quickly down to his hands. “Uh…I mean, I didn’t mean…”

I watched more red splash across his cheeks.
Was he blushing again?
I’d thought he was in his early twenties, but now looking at him, I didn’t think he could be more than eighteen or nineteen. He was probably in his second year of undergrad. He seemed a bit too self-assured to be a first year. I was an old hag compared to him. I was twenty-four and busting my ass through my first year of grad school.

Deciding to put him out of his misery, I started relaying my qualifications. Despite his apparent fascination with my breasts, he seemed like a sweet kid.

“I’ve been a Registered Nurse for over two years. As a nurse I have to be very organized with the duties I perform during my shift. I multitask well and am great at prioritizing. I also worked part time at the student library last year when it reopened. I spent a semester helping to organize and archive old books.”

He listened with seemingly rapt interest, smiling broadly. I wondered if he’d heard a word I said. He appeared preoccupied with studying my face. His gaze trekked over my countenance, making a deliberate pit stop at my lips. I took a deep breath and tried to ignore him. I toyed with telling him I’d worked as a CIA operative just to see if he’d been paying attention, and then ditched the idea. I really needed this job. Instead, I tried some light humor.

“I’m somewhat of a neat freak. I clean constantly. It drives my roommate nuts! I have to admit that I’m a lint picker, a crumb brusher, a fur ball finder, a…a…” 

“Dirt destroyer?” He supplied with a grin.

“Yes!” I snapped my fingers, grinning back at him. “I’ll have to remember that one. Just give me a cape and a broom, and I’m ready to conquer messes everywhere.”

“Well, say no more. You’ve got the job.”

Although I’d already guessed that I had it, I couldn’t help the spark of happiness that ignited inside me. I looked around at the carnage, trying not to wince. I wondered where I’d even begin. I spotted a partially eaten pizza pie sticking out from under a couch topped with pepperoni and discarded condoms.
Eew!
I hoped to God he had gloves.
Maybe a hazmat suit.

“This place could use a bit of tidying up,” I joked.

“A bit,” he mumbled, looking sheepish. “The cleaning crew will be coming later. Don’t worry. This is not where you’ll be working. It’ll be at the house where I grew up. Not far from here.”

Thank the holy mother of mercies!
That’s right. The ad had said ‘someone to clean out
old house
’. I wondered about that. It must be one of the townhouses in the area. The prestigious neighborhoods around Central Park were lined with them. He’d obviously come from a wealthy family. 

“How old are you?” Charles asked abruptly.

The question came out of nowhere, and I turned to see him regarding me curiously.

“Don’t you know that it’s illegal to ask that on a job interview?” I shot back, half teasing. I couldn’t help it. I’d normally not be so glib on an interview, but this was no normal interview. Plus, I was becoming annoyed by his blatant scrutiny.

He tilted his head and his gaze traveled over my face. “I can easily find out from the application you filled out and sent in to Jack.”

“Yes, you could,” I said, standing. I really didn’t wish to discuss anything personal. Hopefully, he’d get the point. “When would you expect me to start?”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully, but something like a smile flashed in his eyes. “Tomorrow. We can meet there and go over a few things.”

I hadn’t expected to start right away, but figured the sooner I started, the sooner I’d be making money. I nodded and he shuffled through piles of refuse on a nearby table and found a broken pencil. He ripped a piece of cardboard off of a pizza box, scribbled an address and time on it, and then handed it to me. There was still mozzarella cheese stuck to it.

“Very nice meeting you, Mr. Whitmore.” I said, walking toward the door and pulling it open.

“Call me Charles.” He smiled, a touch of shyness shielding his face. He lifted his blonde lashes. “Twenty-two? Twenty-three?”

Out in the hall now, I turned back to face him, irritated that he wasn’t dropping it. “Let’s just say that I was probably already in school while you were still in diapers.” 

Challenge swirled in his smiling blue eyes. “They say there’s a lot to be learned from an older woman.”

“I wasn’t aware that this was a teaching position,” I returned seriously. “I don’t teach, or anything else. I clean. Is that clear?”

Another blush, reminding me of why I never dated younger men. His face sobered. “Yes. Clear.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Whitmore.”

It was a beautiful early spring day in the city. A crisp breeze tickled my cheek and rooted under my thin jacket. I stood in front of the tall wrought iron fence that barricaded the stately brownstone and secluded it from pedestrians milling on the sidewalk. I could see the facade from where I stood and it was an impressive structure. Set back from the street, it was beautifully ornate and surrounded by a small patch of green. A refreshing visage in this city of concrete and stone.

My cell phone buzzed and I dug it out of my bag, wondering if it was Mr. Whitmore calling to apologize for being late. It was already forty-five minutes past our designated meeting time. Had I known that I’d have all this idle time on my hands, I would’ve brought my sketch book. I loved to sketch. It relaxed me. Or better yet, I would’ve brought my text books so I could squeeze in some study time.

I saw a text from my sister, Anna, and sighed.

Remember to get a pic for me!!!

I scolded myself again for having told her about Mr. Whitmore. She’d been relentless with questions about him since I told her about my new job.

No way!!!!
I added the extra exclamation marks for emphasis. Anna was prolific with this form of punctuation. As in real life, she was outrageously dramatic. She played center stage and the world was her supporting cast. Hopefully she’d get my point.

Pleeeease!!!

No!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Just pretend yr takn a selfie n get him in the backgrnd! I can photoshop you out!

Thanks

Why not? U said he was hot!

I never said ‘HOT’ He’s like 12

I googled him. He’s 19

In man years 19 is 12. If you googled him, you know what he looks like.

He’s hot, but I want a real pic! Just get it!!!!

No.

He’s filthy rich! Single! Family in banking!

So?

Parents died in a car accident!

So?

All alone. Poor thing. Needs comforting!!

I rolled my eyes. From the items I’d seen in his apartment yesterday, it looked as though he already got plenty of comforting.

No.

Pleeeease!!!

Thankfully, my phone started ringing.

Gotta go.
I texted, then answered the call.

“Hey, babe,” a deep, lazy voice came through the phone.

I swore softly, guilt immediately washing over me. It was Mark, a guy I’d gone on a few dates with. He’d left me several messages after our third date two nights ago and I hadn’t had a chance to return his calls. I’d been so busy with work and studying that I’d completely forgot them. He’d taken me to a movie and we’d enjoyed each other’s company. Mark was a nice guy, a thirty-year old trader I’d met at a party a few weeks back. I didn’t date much. With work and school, I found I just didn’t have the time, and the men I met on campus barely stirred my interest.

“Well, did you get it?”