Page 5 of Secured By the Buyer
At room three, I use my all-access keycard to unlock the door and push it inward.
Fucking animals. How do people do so much damage in an hour?
Motions methodical, I clean up the debris left behind by the room’s previous occupants, tossingfluid-filled condoms and crusty tissues into a plastic bag while trying not to think about what I’m touching.
At least the mask blocks out the foul odor.
The sound of crinkling paper fills the air as I collect empty drug baggies and discarded wrappers. My gloved fingers sweep over surfaces, wiping away the remnants of someone else’s reckless night.
The mindless labor leaves my thoughts free to circle back to the fight with my father. I shove the memory away, desperate to focus on anything else, but my mind won’t cooperate.
It drags me back, replaying the argument, taunting me with all the things I should have said. Words that might have made a difference.
Deep down, though, I know nothing can change him.
The more I work, the more I think about how unfair it all is. How I’m stuck here cleaning up after people who squander all their money on stupid shit, while I struggle just to survive. My father is no different from these assholes, ruining both of our lives with his vices.
I curse, fighting back frustrated tears. My fingers slip as I scrub, and I lose my hold on the sponge, sending it flying across the room. It lands with a wetslap against the wall, and a bitter laugh escapes at the absurdity of it all.
Get a grip, Milo.I scold myself, retrieving the sponge.
I take a deep breath, the sharp sting of bleach reaching me through my mask. My exhale puffs hot on my face, but I refuse to take the mask off. It protects me from the drugs in the air and from inhaling foreign fluids.
The horror stories around the breakroom give me nightmares.
In a moment of luck, I discover change under the mattress when I strip the bed to put on fresh linens. I pocket the coins and cross my fingers that I find more, so I can use the old vending machine in the lobby.
The thought of a cold soda or a bag of chips puts a small, hopeful smile on my face. My stomach growls, reminding me of how hungry I am.
Out in the hall, laughter echoes, and my curiosity gets the better of me. I peek out the door, catching sight of a group of people dressed in fancy attire, their faces flushed with excitement as they head for the elevator.
Bitter envy fills me as they disappear. What would it be like to be on the other side of the door? One ofthe elite instead of the person restocking their condoms and lube?
The warning timer on my cart goes off, and I scurry to return to work, still needing to vacuum. No time to dream of a better life.
White knights don’t exist, and no one is swooping in to save me from this nightmare.
Four hours later, I collapse into one of the worn-out chairs in the breakroom, my body aching from busting ass nonstop.
Luck didn’t gift me with any more spare change, which means no vending machine. It’s not surprising, just disappointing. Coins are a dying currency, and guests police their cash.
“Hey, Milo,” my coworker, Steve, speaks through a mouthful of sandwich. “Did you see the luxury parade?”
I frown in confusion before I remember the people in fancy clothing earlier. “Spotted a small group. What’s going on? Some big event tonight?”
He nods, stuffing the last scrap of crust into his mouth and talking around it. “Some kind of fundraiser in one of the ballrooms upstairs. Mannysaid they’re posting bodyguards at the doors to check invitations. It’s all very exclusive and mysterious. Can you imagine?”
I shake my head. “Nope. I didn’t even go to my senior prom.”
I’d already been working by then and didn’t have the time for after-school activities.
“You didn’t miss anything.” He chugs his juice and stands. “Back to the grindstone, huh?”
He collects his trash and gives me a weary smile before gathering his cart and heading out. The staff room door opens, letting in a brief rush of screaming slot machines and the constant drone of voices. Then the latch clicks shut, and blessed silence returns.
I take a long sip of water from the filtered dispenser the company made mandatory in the breakroom. The cool liquid eases the thickness in my throat caused by wearing a mask for too many hours.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I take in the stained wallpaper and scuffed floor. It’s not much as far as views go, but I can close my eyes and pretend I’m anywhere else for thirty minutes.