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It’s not until the doors slide open once more that I look over my shoulder to peer at the guard and patrons entering Club Voyeur’s foyer.
Gavin looks back too, and growls a mumbled curse. But he doesn’t stop fucking me. I’m not sure he can.
Instead he moves so that I’m covered from their view and they are from mine. I turn my face to the wall and forget everyone else.
He fucks me until he comes. Until he once again releases every last bit of himself into me.
Then he drops his forehead onto my ponytail just as I hear the doors slide shut behind us.
11
ANDIE
Gavin has no pictures. It’s strange that I never noticed that. I was in the office when Lola called me for her after school check in. First thing I did before accepting the call was scan for anything personal that would give away that I’m not in Reno. But it wasn’t necessary.
In the past, when I cleaned, my routine was efficient. I wasn’t there to snoop through Gavin’s life. Actually, I tried my best not to. My purpose was singular: get the house spotless.
It didn’t matter what a photograph was of, all that mattered was that the glass and frame were free of smudges. I didn’t pay attention to what knickknacks were on the shelves, just that they were dust free.
But after I hung up with Lola, I walked around with a new purpose. To learn something about the boss.
If someone were to ask me for information on him based solely on what I find, my answer would be short.
“He’s alone,” I whisper, staring at one actual picture that hangs in the hallway that leads to the master guest room. It’s of a three-story bright red brick house, the type you’d see in historic towns. On the bottom is shows the title as The Red House, and it’s signed by Lewis Bell.
I wonder if that was the inspiration for the name of his casino, or if it’s mere coincidence.
Other than that enigma, I find nothing else that seems personal, something that tells me more than what I already know. I even resorted to searching cabinets and drawers.
When I was hired, I did some internet stalking. Of course I did, he’s insanely sexy and I was curious. All I got were facts. His full name is Gavin Thomas Alexander. Born May ninth, in Allentown, Pennsylvania. Parents both deceased, as is his only brother.
That’s still all I have.
Why is that? How does someone who has lived here several five years not have some sort of evidence of a family, a girlfriend, anything?
Because he doesn’t have one. There is no other explanation.
I’m not sure why, but it makes me so sad. Maybe it’s that I know what it’s like. It’s not a loneliness that comes simply from living by yourself. It’s the kind that surrounds you in a complete void of anyone that matters. Anyone you matter to.
Now, I have Lola. I have Miri and her son, Josh. It’s a small family, tiny by comparison to so many others, yet there is evidence in every part of my life.
My house is full of accumulated stuff, Lola’s drawings and crafts I can’t bear to part with. My car has Lola’s books and at least one of her dirty socks. My phone is loaded with photograph after photograph of her and Miri and Josh and me smiling with them because they make me happy.
I have all of that, but once lived without photos or knickknacks. It’s a distant memory, but it’s still there, just like everything else.
Just like Gavin…
I’m still thinking about this a couple of hours later as I fold laundry in the living room with the television on the Food Network. I don’t usually watch shows while at work, but circumstances have changed. Now it’s not only his clothes in the pile, but mine as well.
I stare at his folded white T-shirts and my pajamas side by side. This is probably the first time anyone else’s things have been washed with his.
Is that what it’s like to be a billionaire? Does it come with the territory? A choice, wealth or family?
Or is this something uniquely Gavin?
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot movement. I spin toward it to find Gavin leaning with his shoulder against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, eyes intense as always.
“Shit!” I hold my hand to my chest. “Why do you do that?”
