Page 3 of Married in Michigan
Are donkeys supposed to be this smart? He’s obviously begging me for water.
“Fine, fine.” I summon my courage and tiptoe back to the coffee table, which stands knee-height, a four-foot square of thick, raw wood and twisted metal legs. I grab the bucket without getting too close, and fill it at the kitchen sink.
Bringing it back to the donkey, I set it on the coffee table—or that was the plan. The donkey has other ideas, namely shoving his muzzle into the bucket as soon as I’m within reach, splashing water everywhere. But he’s so thirsty, drinking so greedily, that I don’t dare take it away, or move. This close, the donkey is even bigger than I first thought, and he smells pungently of farm animal.
I’m stuck holding the bucket as he slurps and slurps until finally he lifts his muzzle, dripping water everywhere, and walks away to stand near his hay. Looking right at me, he lifts his tail and drops a massive pile of shit, in the form of smelly brown balls of nastiness.
“Really?” I shout. “Really?”
“HEEE-haw…hee-hee-HAW.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. “Thanks a lot.”
“Heee-haw.”
Better see what other surprises there are waiting for me, I suppose. Leaving the donkey to his hay and his poop, I round his makeshift stall, treading through more Solo cups and beer cans and bottles and empty liquor bottles. The rooftop deck seems to be fairly normal—general party mess, no living animals or strange surprises.
I move into the hallway, and into the first guest bedroom. Aha, yep. Here’s the fun: a king bed, two naked men, and four naked women. Not a stitch of clothing between them, bodies and limbs everywhere. Condoms on the floor, on the nightstands, on the dresser—used, I might add. Yuck. More liquor bottles, mostly Grey Goose in here. All the clothing seems to be in the bathroom, for some reason—bras hanging from the showerhead, thongs from the doorknob, suit coats and slacks in the sink, a baggie of cocaine on the counter, more in lines next to it. I back out of the bathroom, wondering what I’m supposed to do with the lines of coke. The next bedroom is more or less the same—this one has just one man, two women, all three naked, drugs, condoms…and a live boa constrictor coiled in the corner of the bathtub.
Not touching that one—no way; I’ll have to have Rick call animal control.
What the hell kind of party was this? Donkeys? Snakes? I shake my head as I prepare to enter the master suite. I mentally brace myself for the worst.
2
Ipush open the door to the master suite, already cringing at what I’m prepared to find—but, instead of more evidence of total debauchery, the room is clean, empty of trash, and the bed is occupied by a single body. I check the bathroom, but that too is clean and empty—no animals, no hookers or strippers, nothing weird, just an average luxe penthouse bathroom, with miles of marble and acres of shower space and fluffy white towels on towel warming racks…
Back in the bedroom it is evident the person in the bed is clearly a male…the sheet is tangled low around his waist, revealing the fact that the sleeping man is in fact naked—and immaculately, perfectly, deliciously, incredibly gorgeous. Even from halfway across the room, it’s obvious he’s a perfect male specimen—broad shoulders, tanned skin, a smattering of body hair on a hard chest and a thin trail down between rippling abs…the sheet doesn’t quite cover the evidence that he’s experiencing…ahem…what I suppose is the natural physical process of male anatomy common in the morning. By which I mean he’s got morning wood the sheet cannot contain, and holy hell and almighty heaven, the man is hung like a freaking elephant.
I turn away immediately—well,almostimmediately. Sort of. I mean, good grief, how can a girlnottake a second look at that? Or a third? God, get out of the room, Makayla.
Okay, okay. Moving on.
Nothing to clean up in here, clearly, so no reason to be in the master suite.
But damn, the man is perfect—one last look: dark brown, nearly black hair, jaw stubbled with a days’ worth or so of beard growth. I assume the occupant of the master suite is Paxton deBraun himself—so my assumption is that he’s as arrogant and awful as he is beautiful.
None of my business, though. My job is to clean this room.
Which I assume doesn’t include evicting the occupants, as they’re guests of Mr. deBraun, which means check out times do not apply.
Clean the mess, Makayla.
I return to the public living spaces—to where the worst of the mess is. First things first, the animals.
I click my walkie-talkie. “Rick?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to need animal control up here.”
A long, significant pause. “Animal control?”
“Yeah.”
“Should I even ask?”
I sigh. “There’s a donkey in the living room, and giant-ass boa constrictor in one of the bathrooms.”