His Young Maid: A Forbidden Boss Age Gap Romance Daisy Jane (love letters to the dead TXT) 📖

just some fun.” Hot tears stream down my cheeks as I say the words, letting Brooks go.

“What’s gotten into you, Britta?” he keeps saying my name and it’s making me itch, my neck, my arms, my face.

“Stop, just stop with the Britta stuff, stop with all of it,” I cry out, rolling the back of my hand under my nose. “Is using me cheaper for you? More exciting to be fucking the poor maid? Is that what it is?” I shout through snorts and sobs and I thank goodness this conversation is taking place over the phone and not in real life.

“Brit—”

I don’t let him speak.

“You know, I need this stupid, degrading, awful job so I can move on in a few years. It’s my fault for thinking a person like you would really be interested in me. That’s my fault. I take responsibility for that,” the tendons and veins in my neck are straining and my head throbs as I unload on him. “But what you’re doing? Acting like you give a shit—that’s just wrong, Brooks. Mr. Bennett. It’s wrong. Especially when you know how I feel ab—you know what, never mind.”

“What makes you think I don’t give a shit?” his voice isn’t holding steady anymore; its raw and low. He sounds hurt.

“I know about your last girlfriend. I know you paid her to sleep with you for months. Where is she now? How did that work out for her? You know what? Don’t tell me! I don’t care! I may be a maid and have no money and nothing to show for myself but I won’t be some young excitement for an old, bored, lost man. Goodfuckingbye!” I hang up and take my anger out on my phone, slamming it down against the side table.

The anger of everything hits me.

My mom gets to ruin her life and most of mine by drinking herself into an early grave and I’m stuck paying for it, picking up the pieces. I can’t even declare bankruptcy or else I’ll never get the loans I need for school. Then I land this job making a ton of money and I can’t even enjoy a single freaking cent of it, living in this complete shit hole, because I need it all just to get back to square one.

And square one will take me years to get to. Angrily, I slam my body down into the sofa and press the afghan to my face, screaming with frustration. And while I try not to think about it, I am aware that he doesn’t call me back.

Because Melody was right. He doesn’t really care.

I just wish I hadn’t fallen in love with him.

17

Britta

“Listen, we already made an accommodation for you,” the woman snaps back into the phone.

“I am so grateful for that,” I reply, through clenched teeth. Ted Nolan sexually harasses me and to be taken off his house is “an accommodation” for me. I want to tell her how wrong it all is, but I need the job because I need the money. Unless I want to be a stripper or sell a kidney, I need this diamond-in-the-rough job. Desperately.

“Show your gratitude by doing your job,” she snarls, “because there are plenty of other girls who’d scrub toilets for the rich.” And with that, she hangs up.

I guess I won’t be taken off of Brooks’ house… not unless he asks. Then it occurs to me that he may ask, and while I was trying to do that very thing, it will destroy me if he asks for them to replace me. It will mean Melody was right. And though I’d accused him of it, inside I didn’t want to believe it.

“Listen, he was never around anyway,” Melody says to me as she throws her arm over my seat, backing out of the parking spot behind the Chinese food restaurant.

“I know,” I say.

It’s been a week since that phone call with Brooks, and today is the day we clean the house on the hill. I don’t know if I want him to be there or not, but the fact is, I have to go. I have to clean his house like I’ve not made love in it, make his bed as if I hadn’t experienced some of the most passionate moments of my existence in it and wipe down the counter I’ve orgasmed on, like it never even happened.

The only plus to the current situation is that I made up with Melody. After that phone call with Brooks, I made my way upstairs, came clean and apologized.

“What did he say when you told him you knew about his hooker?” she’d asked, taking a drag from Donny’s cigarette as he played video games, his headset keeping him blissfully unaware of our problems. Or any problems.

“I hung up before he could talk,” I said, tucking my legs underneath me, taking a pull off the tequila bottle we’d been sharing. It wasn’t our first choice, but then again, is tequila anyone’s first choice? And maybe I should’ve let him talk. But the tequila was taking my maybe’s and carrying them far, far away from me.

“Your mom never drank tequila, did she?” she asked, grimacing as the amber liquid resurfaced in a burp.

“Nope,” I sneered just watching her take her drink, knowing how gross it was. “At the end she would’ve drank anything.” But it wasn’t as cheap as vodka, or mouth wash, so fortunately, as nasty as the tequila was, it had no dark memories tied to it. Yet.

“Oh, it’s so bad,” she squeaked, covering her mouth with her hand.

“It hurts so good,” I said, taking another swig.

I got so drunk that night that I slept on the bathroom floor and woke up with the laminate flooring imprinted into my skin for the entire day. But it was necessary. I needed to make my brain forget it all, even if just for a few hours.

We are both completely silent as Melody’s car drags