Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
For me? That means working two full-time jobs.
Tech office during the day. Cleaning houses and office buildings at night.
No way am I going to graduate med school owing over two hundred thousand dollars to the government. I’d rather wait until I’m forty-five to start practicing than let them suck interest out of me for two decades. I’ve seen it happen firsthand. How easy it seems in the beginning to accept a loan. Free money that doesn’t have to be paid back for years. It’s so exciting. And then it comes due. It crashes down on the borrower’s head like a falling piano. Paying back a loan is like tossing money into a black hole. The number never goes down. And it’s not just a number on a page. For some people, it means fear and stress and forgoing food.
My family learned that lesson, among others, the hard way.
So for the last month since graduating with my bachelor’s, I’ve been working two jobs and saving my money, keeping the faith that one day I’ll have the satisfaction of graduating medical school with zero debt attached to my name.
Every once in a while, though, I can’t help wondering what if…
What if I’d accepted the gift from Doctor Dean Fletcher?
The memory of him towering over me sends a little thrill shooting down to my toes, my pulse ticking fast in the smalls of my wrists. I have to close my eyes whenever the sensation of him washes over me, because his image demands my attention. There he is. Backstage at my graduation. Tall and fit and brooding. Rich brown eyes. A hard set mouth. Gorgeous in an old-world way. Almost like he should be walking the moors of Scotland in a wind-whipped overcoat, a wooden cane in his hand. Instead, he wears scrubs. A white coat. Perpetual exhaustion. Lord, though, he smells like the forest after it rains.
For years, I thought of him as superhuman.
Not a typical male who falls victim to human weaknesses. Such as sexual desire.
But if I’ve learned one thing from my mother, it’s this. A man doesn’t do anything nice for a woman unless he’s going to get power out of the deal. Power to expect sex. Power to make decisions for the woman. To overwhelm and control.
I plan to spend my life avoiding any such entanglements. Just as I did when I received the email from one Doctor Dean Fletcher offering to pay my medical school tuition. A succinct no thank you was sent back in his presumptuous direction and I went about my life. A life that includes working pretty much twenty hours a day.
Speaking of which…
I check the screen of my phone, seeing that I’m a minute late to report to the cleaning agency. With a blown-out breath, I turn and push through the glass door, joining the line of other cleaners awaiting their assignments. Maybe I’ll get lucky this week and they’ll staff me at a hotel. It has happened once before and I loved it. Getting my work done quickly, then pretending as if I’m a guest. Sitting down in one of the plush chairs and looking out over the skyline, as if the world is my oyster and I just need to crack it open.
“Miss Beck!” One of the staffing agents waves me to the front of the line to the understandable dismay of everyone in front of me. “Come here, please. We’ve got a special request for your services.”
Someone snorts. “Guess she’s providing more than a clean house.”
“Listen, if it paid well…” says another woman, “I’d spread ’em, too.”
“The customer would have to want your bony ass first,” mutters the first lady.
Shoving ensues, followed by laughter. “Go to hell, Pamela.”
I stop beside the two women having the conversation. “I don’t…spread anything. Seriously. It’s not like that.”
“Nobody’s judging you, honey.” Pamela eyes my body pointedly. “Work with what you’ve got—and you’ve definitely got it.”
It’s pretty clear that I’m not going to convince them I’m not sleeping with customers to make extra money, so I continue up to the desk, accepting a piece of paper from the staffing agent. “Congratulations, you’ve won the golden ticket. A full-time night gig cleaning a townhouse over in Gold Coast.” She leans in close. “If I find out you’re cleaning the customer’s pipes instead of their windows, I’ll fire you so fast your head will spin.”
“I’m not,” I sputter, face heating like a furnace. “I wouldn’t.”
She sighs. “Look, you’re young and very attractive. A lot of men have fantasies about this kind of thing. Porn featuring maids has its own damn category.”
With a shiver, I fold up the piece of paper and tuck it into my purse. “I’m constantly disappointed by the human race.”
“You and me both, girl.” She waves me off. “Next!”
Forty minutes later, I’ve lugged my cleaning supplies onto the red line and gotten off at the Division Street stop. Now I’m walking to the townhouse listed on the piece of paper. There is no name on the work order, apart from a set of initials—D.D. Something about this job puts me on guard, but there’s no way I’m going to pass up the chance, in case it does turn out to be a dream gig. Coming to the same place consistently is the fervent wish of every cleaner, because it means a guaranteed income. It means you’re in one safe place, not being moved around constantly, increasing the chance of being placed somewhere that isn’t secure. On top of the obvious benefits, I’ve always loved Gold Coast with its stately homes, greenery and proximity to Lake Michigan.