A Bad Boy in my life

Three | Stay away from me

I finished dusting the furniture in the living room, just as my mom had asked me to.

In the end, this is the kind of household chore I usually do, nothing special.

I would say the most tiring part is having to walk back and forth between rooms. This house is bigger than I thought it would be.

Unnecessarily large for just three people. Well, almost two, because I've never seen Mr. Stirling around here. My mom says he travels a lot for work, so his absence is common in the house. But there's that girl I bumped into in the bathroom the other day, she's always around, so that counts as three.

I've seen Mrs. Karen's son - Maxon, I remember his name - several times with her this week. It seems he has a motorcycle and often rides with that girl as his passenger.

But most of the time, Mrs. Karen is home alone, so there isn't much left to do or anyone to do it for.

"I need you to distribute these hand towels in the first-floor bathrooms," my mom hands me a stack of white towels.

"In the cabinets under the sinks," she adds.

"All the bathrooms on the first floor?" I ask.

"Yes, why?"

I make a mental note to avoid the first floor, especially the bathrooms. I'm afraid of opening a door and finding another half-naked woman or something worse.

"Nothing," I say.

I leave the towels in each bathroom, making sure it's empty before entering. I save the bathroom where I encountered the girl the other day for last.

I knock on the door three times, and there's no response. I knock once more. Still nothing. So I'm sure I can enter.

I place the last towels in the cabinet, and as I'm about to leave, I step on something. I look down and realize what I just stepped on: a red lingerie.

I pick up the thong with my fingertips and examine it.

It's not Mrs. Karen's; it wouldn't fit her. She wouldn't wear something so indecent. And she's the only woman in the house, so it's obvious that it belongs to her son's girlfriend.

Okay, what do I do with this? Leave it here? No, that would be unpleasant for whoever comes in here later and sees this indecent display.

I'd better give it to Maxon; he'll know what to do.

Holding the thong at arm's length, I make my way to Maxon's room and knock on the door, which is slightly ajar. But there's no response, so I slowly push the door and find an empty room.

"Hello..." I enter and I'm left speechless.

The room is huge, three times the size of my room in my old house. The bed is enormous; I think the entire population of Toronto could fit on it. And each piece of furniture here must cost a fortune.

There's a bathtub next to the bed and a window with a wonderful view of the CN Tower.

There are some clothes scattered on the floor and a plate of food on the nightstand - now I understand why I never see this guy at lunch. But other than that, everything is perfectly organized; it looks like the maid was here not long ago.

There are thousands of objects on shelves on the wall, and I can't help but stop and examine each item, being the curious person that I am.

One item, in particular, catches my attention: a silver camera. All the objects here seem to hold some sentimental value, and it's tempting to analyze them for hours.

"What are you doing?" I startle at the sound of a deep voice behind me.

I quickly turn around. Maxon

is standing right behind me, looking unnervingly serious.

Holy shit! That scared me!

"Nothing," I stammer.

"Who are you?" He looks me up and down, and a shiver runs down my spine.

"My name is Margo," I manage to say. "I'm technically... working here."

Even as I say those words, I realize how ridiculous they sound.

"I've never seen you here," he comments indifferently, taking off his leather jacket and tossing it onto the dresser.

"Of course you haven't," I mutter aloud, rolling my eyes.

"And what are you doing in my room... Margo?"

Then I remember why I came here and look at the thong in my hand.

"Um... well... I found this in the bathroom. I think it belongs to your girlfriend."

He takes the piece of fabric from my hand and puts it in his pocket. Then he stands there, looking at me.

"How old are you?" he asks.

"Seventeen."

"Aren't you a bit young to be working here?"

"Yeah, I think so too," I mutter to myself.

"Do you have... anything else to do in my room?" he asks in a seductive voice, approaching me slowly and ominously.

"That was all," I quickly reply, dodging him. But he traps me by placing his hand on the wall behind me.

I want to scream.

"Oh! Too bad. Because I had many things in mind that we could do," he whispers, looking at my mouth.

Many thoughts race through my head, but the main one is:

What the hell is happening?

He's getting closer, and it's scaring me. He scares me. What is he doing? Oh no, too close...

Without any conscious thought, I raise my hand and slap his cheek.

My hand produces a satisfying smack as it connects with his face, causing his head to turn from the impact.

"What the fuck is this?! Have you lost your mind, girl?" he shouts, gripping my offending arm.

"Don't touch me!" I pull my arm back and step away.

"Listen here, you slut. Who do you think you are to slap me in the face?" he snarls.

"Who do you think I am to think that I would want to kiss you?" I retort.

He stares at me, astonished and angry. Smoke might as well be coming out of his eyes.

"Get out of my sight," he says through gritted teeth, and I obediently comply.

But before I have a chance to leave the room, he suddenly calls me:

"Wait," he says, and I turn around promptly.

He's coming towards me with a dirty plate and an open soda can that were on the nightstand.

"Here, take this first," he says.

It's not a question. He hands me the plate, but before I can take the can of Coke, he extends his arm and pours the liquid over my head, drenching my entire body and the floor.

I know this damn thing won't come out of my clothes.

Suddenly, I'm soaked in soda, holding a plate in my hand like an idiot in front of him.

You fucking son of a...

Stay calm. It's not Mrs. Karen's fault.

I wipe my eyes to see clearly, and he's wearing a damn satisfied smile on his lips.

"And I expect you to come clean the floor afterward," he says in an authoritative tone.

Oh, I'll clean it, alright! And I'll take the opportunity to shove the mop handle up this jerk's ass.

I want to spit in his face and throw him out the window, but I have enough self-control to simply leave the room, biting my lip to stop myself from saying something I might regret.

I won't let him see me defeated. After all, I am a professional maid.

And professionals do not lose their temper.