Bad Boy Blues(2)

Finally, finally, after all the traveling and walking and climbing, I reach it. The exact guest room I was looking for.

“Okay.” I puff out a breath and glance from side to side. “You’re so dead, you fucker.”

I fish the keys that will get me into the room out from my pocket.

The tiny silver-colored key.

Okay, so yeah, this might be a little against the law. Like, maybe ten percent against it.

The keys in my pocket don’t belong to me. I swiped them from Mrs. Stewart, the head housekeeper’s, office right after my shift ended.

But hey, I plan to give them back tomorrow so this is more like borrowing. I’ll have to, actually; she’s weird about keys. But that’s beside the point.

The point is that I’m not a thief; I’m a borrower.

Biting my lip, I insert the key in the lock and it turns easily. The click that comes as I open the door is loud. Or maybe it sounds that way to me and I swallow, freezing in my spot.

God, please. I’m so close.

I need to do this. This needs to happen. This is my only chance.

Glancing up and down the darkened hallway once again, I count the seconds but nothing stirs. The mansion is still asleep and quiet, much like the night outside. There isn’t any indication of movements from the inside either. Meaning he’s asleep too. Totally oblivious of what’s going to happen to him.

Opening the door only far enough so I can fit through, I creep inside. The room is cool, courtesy of the AC. The night lamp is on and it throws the sleeping body on the bed into light.

Mr. Grayson.

A fifty-year-old guest who flew out to see the famous apple orchards of The Pleiades and take the grand tour of towers six and seven. They are more like a museum and are open for public display.

Yeah, The Pleiades is kind of a big deal for our town.

Half of it is preserved, and privileged people from all over the world come to see the beautiful architecture of it. Throw in a world-famous golf course or two and they’re happy as a peach. I hear that the tour alone costs more than what I make in a year working on the cleaning staff.

The other half of this mansion is where the Princes live, the oldest family of this town. In fact, they are the founders of this town with a line.

They built The Pleiades a long time ago and have lived here for centuries.

A guy once lived here too.

A guy with jet black hair and jet black eyes. A guy I haven’t seen in three years, ever since he abruptly went away.

A guy I don’t like to think about.

Anyway, enough history lesson. It’s showtime.

I’ve been in this guest room a hundred times before so I know where everything is. Namely, the closet that holds my prize.

Softly, I tiptoe toward it, keeping my eyes on the sleeping man. He hasn’t stirred yet. Probably drunk off his ass.

I open the closet door and there it is: his freshly-pressed suit for tomorrow.

I wish I could fist-pump right now but that might be too risky. So I fish out my weapon, the itch powder, and open the lapels of his suit jacket. Glancing at Mr. Grayson one last time, I sprinkle the powder all over the fabric, especially on his pants.

He’s so not going to know what hit him.

Biting my lip once again, I try to keep my gleeful laughter under wraps. I’m not out of the woods yet. I need to get back to my cottage undetected or Mrs. Stewart will wake up to the best news ever: Cleopatra Paige was finally caught breaking a rule and it’s time to fire her.

She’s not a huge fan of me or my blue hair or my blue lipstick or my leather boots. Basically, she hates my guts and she won’t hesitate to fire me if I step even one toe out of line. And right now, I’m so far past the line that I can’t even see it.

With my mission completed, I creep back out of Mr. Grayson’s room and shut the door quietly. Then, I’m retracing my steps, climbing down, walking, traveling all the way back to the servant’s wing.

With any luck, I’ll be back in my cottage before the clock strikes midnight and when I come to work tomorrow, Mr. Grayson will be reduced to a monkey who scratches his own balls.

You’re awesome, Cleo. You’re fucking awesome.

I grin.

Just as I’m about to step on the stairs that will take me up to the service entrance, I hear a rustle behind me and my name is whisper-shouted.

“Cleo!”

I gasp and my fingers fumble on the wooden bannister.

“Cleo.”

I scrunch my eyes closed and bow my head. Sighing, I face the caller. It’s Maggie, the head cook.

She has her arms akimbo and her lips pursed as she watches me with accusing eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

She looks me up and down, probably noticing my stealth mode and somehow, her gaze falls on the pockets of my hoodie. “What do you have in there?"

I pat them and realize there’s a bulge where I stuck the itch powder and the key in. “Nothing,” I repeat.

Even I don’t believe myself, and I’m an excellent liar.

“Give it here.”

Time to up my game.

“Maggie, there’s nothing in my pockets, okay? I came in because I thought I left my phone in the staff room. But I didn’t. So yeah. Nothing in my pockets. Not up to any mischief or anything.”

I spread my palms in mock surrender as I finish my nonchalant speech.