The large window to the left of the desk has a gorgeous view of the gardens out back. It’s a wonder anyone gets work done here with a view like that because I’d be distracted all day. In fact, I’ve kept my back to the window to keep myself from daydreaming. It’s just a little trick I have to keep myself on task so that I can get out of here sooner rather than later.
But the weirdest thing about the office is the armor. The guy must collect it because I’ve seen suits of this stuff all over the house. There are four suits of armor stationed in the corners of the office, and all of them are in attack positions. One holds a sword, another a scimitar, the one in the far corner has a mace, and the last one has a morning star gripped in its fist, if I’m not mistaken. They’re all hugely scary, and they look expensive.
Most rich people have their quirks. I’d much rather be staring at armor than creepy porcelain dolls, and believe me, I’ve seen a lot of creepy porcelain dolls in my life. It seems to be a hobby of the wealthy. Rich people love their creepy dolls, apparently.
Lowering myself back to my hands and knees, I start scrubbing again. Despite the slow-going in the office, I’m way ahead of schedule. The bathroom didn’t take me nearly as long as I expected it would, and I think it’s because of the industrial-strength bleach we have on hand.
Then again, I’m an expert at cleaning bathrooms. That’s why Rebecca always assigns them to me. When you grow up with a mom like mine, who is likely to come home drunk and throw up all over the bathroom, you learn early on how to clean the tile properly. It’s a skill I’m proud of.
I press a little harder with my sponge. Finally, the difficult spot comes out. I think it was newspaper that had gotten wet and adhered itself to the floor. Rich people are terrible about taking care of hardwood, and it’s a damn shame. I’d give anything for a floor like this. The trailer I live in has peel-and-stick tiles, and most are barely holding on.
I sit back up and sigh, pushing my hair out of my face. The hair is sticking to my skin, and of course, I feel clammy. But with so many girls working today, I might get to go home early after I finish the office. There are a lot of rooms in the house, but we weren’t hired to clean all of them. At least, not today. I think the owner is testing us. He’s probably going to do an inspection after we leave, and then decide whether to invite Sparkle Maids back.
It would be nice to go home early, even if my entire life revolves around this job. I admit, I’m not the best student, but much of the reason I don’t always do my homework is that I don’t have time. Olly doesn’t work as many hours as I do at Sparkle Maids. She would if she didn’t have to babysit her brother after school every day because her family needs the money too. But they need her as a babysitter more. Unfortunately, I don’t have a cute little brother as an excuse.
I stand up and stretch. My back cracks as I reach for the ceiling. Some dirty water spills from the sponge in my hand and lands on my head. Eeew, gross. Typical.
I survey the area I’ve just cleaned. It now matches the rest of the floor, which I’ve already scrubbed. There’s only one area left, and grabbing my bucket, I scurry over to the last remaining part of the floor. I have to crawl behind a suit of armor to reach this section, and the heavy metal looming over me makes me uneasy. It’s a precarious place to be. It looks like it could come crashing down on my head, and I don’t even want to think about how much it would cost to replace.
I shudder, careful not to even jostle it. I’ve cleaned around expensive items before, and it’ll be fine. Sighing again, I dip my sponge in the bucket of water and start to wring it out when suddenly, the door slams open.
I go as still as a mouse. Who’s there? But the intruders can’t see me from where they stand by the entryway, and I hear a woman’s purring voice.
“Come on, Elliot. I don’t see what the big deal is.”
A woman bats her eyelashes at a man in the room. She’s skinny and blonde, and her makeup is caked on in far too many layers. It’s the kind of makeup my mother wears when she’s going out, and that’s saying something. One more layer, and these women will be drag queens.