The Surrender: Falling In Part 1

FALLING IN.

by Lydia Michaels.

This book is dedicated to my amazing husband, Michael.

Without you, nothing else matters. You are the other half of my soul, and I thank G.o.d every day that I found you. You are my most coveted treasure and my truest friend. You are as depended on and indescribable as the air I breathe. You are the meaning behind my favorite song, the magic of Christmas morning, the sparkle in our daughter's eyes, and the inspiration behind every unwritten romantic thought hidden between the lines. I can accomplish anything, so long as you never let go of my hand. Thank you, Mike, for always supporting my dreams and for sharing that secret part of your soul with me that no one else gets to see.

I love you.

Part I.

Scout.

Chapter 1.

Caught.

The early morning sky was the color of steel wool, sharp, ominous gray hanging low over the city without a hint of softness, but Scout Keats' trajectory was somewhere brighter. She hustled down Randolph, past the urban district, and into the commercial quarters of Folsom. Only after crossing that invisible divide from the hidden shadows of the impoverished sections of the city to the streets teaming with endless opportunities of prosperity, did she take her full first breath of the day. A sense of possibility invigorated her every time. Scout's lungs filled with hope and her weariness ebbed with each step as the world she coveted awoke and slowly began to flow around her.

Today was a day to be proud. After two weeks of learning her way, mimicking those who had it already figured out, she had done it and would finally see some of the results of all her hard work. Her heart raced each time she imagined clocking out at the end of her s.h.i.+ft and being handed her first big fat paycheck.

This was it. This time it would be different. Being a maid at Patras, although nerve-racking, was going to change Scout's life. Like scenting the snow before it fell, she could sense change approaching, and every cell of her being told her that Patras Hotel was the key to her escape.

She couldn't say how she knew, but she knew. Parker had come to simply roll his eyes each time she fell into fanciful ramblings, warning him that her evenings at the shelter were numbered, that one night she simply wouldn't return and when that night came, he should celebrate, in memory of her, Scout Keats, the dragon baby who outran her destiny and made it in the real world.

She was aware of what Parker thought. She knew how they all saw her. While much of the transient population seemed to accept their hand in life with bitter surrender, Scout never would. Their cynicism ran deeper than any still waters could wash, but she refused to let herself drown in their doubts.

Born in a back alley, ripped from her mother's womb by claws sharp enough to make her scream to a point of delirium, she came into this world running. She was chasing the dragon before she could even crawl. Ironically, her mother had been running from it as far back as her memory held.

The dragon killed her daddy before she ever knew him. No pictures to tell her if her silver blue eyes were his or how he wore his hair. All Scout had was a collage of mumblings, broken bits of her mother's jigsaw mind to tell her the kind of man her daddy was. Didn't matter anyway. He was dead before she was born.

Death favored the poor. People of wealth had an astounding ability to not see them. As insignificant as litter, they were merely unfortunate crumbles of trash lining the curbs they hoped would soon blow away, and each night they did, retreating back to the warmest corners of Folsom to barter their scavenged finds of the day, sleep with one eye open and strategize how to outmaneuver their pretend friends the next morning, because in reality, you had no friends when you were homeless. You only had yourself and your only objective was to stay alive.

Parker had been a concession she made at the age of fourteen. She supposed she could call him a friend. He did kick Slim's a.s.s when he kept leering at her that one year, and she sort of liked him then. Not that she needed a hand defending herself. It was nice of Parker to do that, but that wasn't what made him her friend. Scout decided he could be her friend when she found out he could read and he offered to teach her.

But friends were liabilities. Survival was easiest when emotion stayed out of it. She was getting off the streets and she didn't need to be liable for anyone when she already had her mother to worry about.

Pearl had long ago surrendered to a doomed existence that worried Scout sick, but she brought her into this world and no matter how much Scout hated the life her mother chose, she'd seen it enough to know she really didn't choose it at all. She merely flirted with a dragon that swallowed her whole at first chance and traded her soul for the poor excuse of the life it let her slip away with.

The woman who raised her was gone, replaced by a flesh-covered skeleton who whispered gibberish in her momma's voice, but she loved her all the same. Heroin was Pearl's weakness and she was Scout's, and d.a.m.n Parker for intruding on her meager list of those she cared for, but Scout wouldn't let him hold her back no matter how many words he taught her to read or how many leering creeps he beat the p.i.s.s out of. Parker was a lifer and she was not.

He often made fun of Scout and her obsession with words. He didn't understand why she had such a fixation with expanding her vocabulary. At this point in her life, it was humiliating not to know how to do such a common thing as read. It wasn't something she shared about herself easily. Words, however, she could memorize.

Anytime she heard a word she didn't know, she'd ask Parker what it meant and he'd tell her. She made it a point to think and speak those words as often as possible. It made her feel educated in a way she knew she was not. Some day it would benefit her, once she moved out of the gutter cla.s.s and into a more prestigious one.

The black ribbon of road slowly crowded with yellow cabs. That sleeping scent of the city, a little bit bitter with a trace of dewy air, was slowly replaced with the smell of exhaust and early morning eateries opening their doors.

Two sizes too large, her worn black sneakers clopped over the pavement and were slowly humbled by the gentle roar of pedestrians in their finery. The cadence of leather-soled loafers and stilettos built like a distant wave, was.h.i.+ng out the unsophisticated rhythm of her steps.

The choking clouds were pushed back as the buildings grew in size, each one an enormous trophy of some self-important man's arrogance and a supplement for his inadequate anatomy.

The buildings pierced the canopy of haze, like beams beneath a heavy circus tent. The a.n.a.logy made her smile. She was leaving what would be the gypsy caravans squatting in ramshackle functionality and heading for the better-dressed performers of the main event. Like a child smiling over a tuft of cotton candy, she grew excited at the nearing presence of the fancy-dressed ringleaders of the world with their bedazzled accessories and self-p.r.o.nounced confidence. One day she'd be among the glamorous women who swung high above the rest and were respected for their courage and grace. Scout longed to be a part of the big show and leave her less-appealing brethren behind.

Pus.h.i.+ng her fanciful musings aside, she hefted her c.u.mbersome bag over her shoulder as she moved deeper into the congested commercial district. Men of industry, demiG.o.ds, built these impressive structures, smudging out even the sun until nothing but a slice of sky showed a mile above. On lackl.u.s.ter mornings like this one when the clouds hung low and the rooftops raked through the dull cotton bluffs, she truly understood why they were named skysc.r.a.pers.

Her strides doubled when she turned onto Fenton and the great clock showed there were only ten minutes to six. Three blocks to go and she still needed time to clock in and check her cart. In another hour these hollow roads would be clogged with taxis, and the walkways would suffer as civilized a stampede as human nature could produce.

Scout rounded the corner of Gerard and there, like a dove among pigeons, sat Patras Hotel. Its white granite walls with opalescent l.u.s.ter gleamed even under the overcast wedge of sky. Thirty-foot pillars guarded the structure, sweeping the grand marble staircase in a soft glow of controlled lighting where s.h.i.+ne boys already waited at their benches with boxes for their wealthy clientele. Velvet roping sectioned off the affluent guests from the covetous pa.s.sersby. One didn't set foot on that red carpet leading through those eighteen-foot gilded doors unless they were ent.i.tled to.

Scout quickly walked past the fringed runner and around the corner of the building. Practically taking up a block on its own, Patras Hotel was the beauty among the motley buildings that neighbored it, and in such a sw.a.n.k section of Folsom that proclaimed it to be the best of the best.

At the back of the building was a subtle awning, pristine enough not to detract from the hotel's beauty, but lacking the pretentiousness of the front enough to be overlooked by those who weren't in the know. She slid her badge through the discrete keycard lock beside the door and waited. When the green light signaled and the lock disengaged with a snick, she pulled the heavy door open and let herself in. The scent of freshly arranged flowers greeted her and mingled with the familiar whispered clatter in the distance of the waitstaff preparing the restaurant for the breakfast crowd.

Traveling in the opposite direction of the lobby, Scout again reached for her badge and slid it through the service elevator's lock. The bell dinged softly and she stepped into the unembellished car. She keyed in for the bas.e.m.e.nt and moments later entered a bustling underground world of service.

The air was heated with the clean scent of detergents and presses. She loved the fragrance of the laundering facilities. Such a luxury, to not only sleep on fresh sheets every day, but to have them pressed as well. Her feet hustled through the corridor and turned into the employee locker room.

Approaching the docking station, she breathed a sigh of relief as she slid her badge through the mechanism clocking her in for the day at 5:58. Perfect.

Turning to her locker, Scout quickly stowed her belongings without making eye contact with any of the other employees. Down here, in the bowels of the hotel, they were all janitorial staff. Good thing, too, because the lobby employees with their fancy blazers and ticked, tuxedo-style pants intimidated the c.r.a.p out of her.

The maids all wore the same poly-blend shapeless dove gray dress with white Peter Pan collar and cuffed sleeves. They didn't intimidate her one bit. She simply didn't meet their gazes so as not to inadvertently suggest she was interested in making acquaintances. She wasn't. She was there to do a job.

Once her dainty, completely ornamental white ap.r.o.n was tied at her waist, she pinned the small accordion cap in front of her bun. Hoisting the last of her items into the tight metal locker, she tucked the bulge back and forced the door closed, moving her fingers just in time for the latch to catch before her c.u.mbersome belongings could be regurgitated onto the floor. Looking left, then right, she spun the built-in combination lock several times until convinced her possessions were secure. Everything she owned was in that locker.

By the time Scout made it to Tamara's office, other maids were already on the move with their carts. Behind her, some employees were just arriving. Quickening her pace she turned into the office labeled Housekeeping General Manager and greeted her GM with a smile.

"Good morning, Tamara."

"Good morning, Scout." She smiled, her teeth clean and perfectly straight.

Scout had an odd obsession with hygiene and frequently noticed people's teeth and fingernails as some sort of personal grading system.

"Here's your list for the day. Bridget's out so I put you on the penthouse suites if that's okay," Tamara said.

Like she'd admit if it wasn't. "That's fine. I'm happy to help."

"Good and while I have you here, your paperwork was sent back from Human Resources. You forgot to fill in your social when you did it. They're going to need that in order to process your paycheck this afternoon."

c.r.a.p. Parker had done her paperwork. Tamara's curvy frame twisted in her fancy leather chair as she reached into a paper tray. She slid the familiar paperwork across the desk and Scout forced her hand to remain steady as she picked it up.

There was nothing condescending about Tamara. She was in her midthirties and seemed to be one of those pleasantly chubby women who chronically dieted and would never truly recognize the beauty they held within. Scout appreciated her easy pleasantness and genuine candor.

Her eyes raked over the application. Parker's penmans.h.i.+p was neat and bold. Scout admired the confident way his letters stroked in tidy order across the small blank s.p.a.ces.

"What did you say was missing?"

"Your social security number. See, there, on the top right. Just fill that in and you'll be good to go and I'll have it sent back before payroll cuts the checks this afternoon."

Tamara wore a floral-scented perfume and Scout couldn't help breathing in the bouquet without a touch of envy. It mixed nicely with the fragrance of her hair and skin.

She found the blank spot she was referring to. Nine little blank lines needing to be filled.

"Why do they need this?"

"For tax purposes mostly." Her fingernails were painted red. Scout self-consciously tucked her clipped nails into the shelter of her palm.

She didn't have a social security number or if she did she'd never been told what it was. She could've been honest, but honesty in this situation would only delay and complicate things. The key to fitting in was being as low-maintenance as possible.

"Do you have a pen I could use?"

Tamara handed her a pen and Scout squatted low at the corner of the desk. Her fingers deliberately formed the numbers. Scout was very aware of how unpracticed they appeared next to Parker's well-developed words. Quickly, she made up three groups of numbers she could remember in case she had to recall them for something in the future. One-three-six, because it was the number of her locker. Twenty-two for her age. And nineteen hundred because it was the address printed on the awning out back of Patras. If they checked it and realized she made it up, she'd act like it was an honest mistake and figure out what to do when and if that time came.

"Here you go." She slid the paper back to Tamara.

"Great." She grinned, slipped the paper back in the tray she pulled it from and handed Scout her a.s.signments for the day.

"You'll need to use your badge to access the penthouse floors. Level thirty's all individual entry, so once you get off the elevator your normal house key will work, but from there you'll have to use the private bank of elevators located just outside of the private ballroom on thirty-one. There're four master penthouses on the thirty-second floor. Three of them are vacant this week so you'll only need to attend Suite C. Each has its own elevator that will deposit you directly in the room. I usually have the girls take only what they need with them. The master suites have a supply closet your general house key will open, where you'll find a sweeper and basic supplies to replenish the amenities. Here's the keycard for Suite C. Make sure you deactivate them at the end of the day."

It had taken the first week to lose the knot in her stomach over starting a new job. By the second week Scout found her rhythm and acquired a keen understanding for how long a room took to clean and freshen. She'd never done a penthouse before, let alone a master suite. Scout wasn't even sure what a master suite was. Forcing a calming breath into her tightening lungs, she maintained an expression of capable confidence and took the list and keys from Tamara.

The idea that she had no clue about the pace she'd need to keep that day terrified her. Scout needed this job and she'd have to hustle her a.s.s off in order to get everything done before the end of her s.h.i.+ft. She usually sat on a bench down the street for her lunch break, being that she never packed a lunch, but today she'd work straight through her entire s.h.i.+ft in order to make sure she finished in time.

Not until ten o'clock did she breathe relatively normally again. She completed her first circuit of common-area maintenance. The upper floors were much like the lower ones. There were more seating areas and therefore more furniture to dust, but for the most part they took the same amount of time. Although the suites were larger than the typical rooms, they were pricier too. That meant fewer guests. Tamara must have realized that when she made the schedule for the day.

By Scout's third suite she had herself timed at twenty-two minutes per room, but there were only fifteen rooms she was responsible for on level thirty. That would leave her with two hours to complete the penthouse master suite C.

By one o'clock she was left waiting for one guest to get the h.e.l.l out of his room so she could clean it and then she'd be finished with the thirtieth floor. Scout hovered for a few moments and decided it would be better to come back after she finished the master suites.

She rolled her cart to the service elevator and returned it to the lower level with the rest. Collecting a small basket from the shelf, she quickly packed it with shampoo, conditioner, soaps, and anything else she might need while up there.

Scout's anxiety returned as she found the private elevators on the thirty-first floor. Unlike the other guest elevators, these were quite lovely. There were four of them, simply numbered with the letter dedicated to each individual master suite. Each one was made of gla.s.s and lined with delicate bra.s.s bars. As she stepped into the one labeled C, she felt like that bird in a gilded cage from one of the stories Parker had read to her.

The ride was only a few seconds to the thirty-second floor. The gilded cage opened with practiced ease and Scout stepped across the threshold to a frosted gla.s.s-paned set of French doors.

She knocked lightly.

"Housekeeping."

When no one answered, Scout slid the private keycard through the lock and slowly turned the k.n.o.b. The level of luxury the room announced at first sight was sweltering. She found it difficult to breathe among the thickly papered walls, richly upholstered furniture, and heavily padded carpet.

Silently, she walked down the long, private corridor.

"h.e.l.lo? Housekeeping . . ."

No one was there, but she found comfort in her own familiar voice. Looking down at her shabby shoes, her self-esteem faltered for a moment. Such opulence. Such contrast.

Chandeliers dripped from beveled fixtures on the twelve-foot ceilings. Antique settees and decorative side tables created various sitting rooms. There was an enormous private bar, somehow dwarfed by the mammoth window facing the east.

Approaching the window slowly, the effect was dizzying. It felt as though she were an angel spying on mortals below. It was a powerful and jarring vantage point to hold. She was on top of the world. Well, on top of Folsom, but still . . . this was the highest she had ever been.

There was an identical window facing the north. A unique executive desk was the centerfold of that backdrop. She wasn't quite sure what to do with the personal items she noticed scattered on the floor around the grand desk so she let them be.

Moving to a pair of double doors, Scout discovered a bedroom. It wasn't as extraordinary as she'd expected. The bedding was of a finer quality than the typical guest rooms at the hotel, but a slight wave of disappointment washed over her because it was somewhat ordinary in comparison to the rest of the penthouse.

Then she discovered another set of doors.

Pressing them open, she gasped at the audacious splendor that was obviously the master bedroom. It was a palace. A king-size bed shaped like a sleigh was the central piece of the room. The decadent bed was draped in heavy silk blankets reminding her of something from a story called Arabian Nights that Parker had read to her.

Velvet pillows littered the floor and plush, heavy satin draped from a spherical sconce above the bed. The canopy gathered at the wall in several places, held by thick golden ropes with ta.s.sels the size of horsetails, and cascaded like a waterfall to the black marble floor.

Her hand coasted over the luxurious textures and her body hummed with excitement. Never before had she seen such a display of exquisiteness. Turning, she noticed a set of three French doors leading to an oval granite balcony complete with heavy metal furniture softened by more sensual fabrics.

Her feet glided over the plush carpet and her fingers closed around the heavy pewter k.n.o.b. The color scheme was flawless. Warm earth tones blended with spicy cinnamons and sultry reds.

Scout's fingers moved over the plush cus.h.i.+ons reverently, almost sensually, fondling the sumptuousness. What must it be like to sit on such bursting softness? She couldn't quite understand how such material survived the elements.

The air was much cooler at this alt.i.tude. Cautiously, she walked to the dense, stout columns making up the wide granite railing. The balcony was the size of a regular guest room.

As she stepped to the edge, her heart raced. Wisps of hair came loose from her bun and whipped across her face in the bl.u.s.tery, uncontained wind. From such heights there was neither rhyme nor reason to the breeze, nothing barricading or stifling its power.

Overwhelmed by the magnitude and quite aware of her insignificant part in this grandiose world, Scout quietly panted, her heart somewhere in her feet as she tried to fathom the height, scale, and intentional point of power she occupied in those brief seconds. It was a completely unfamiliar feeling, staring down at the tiny people bustling about their lives on the pavement below.

Scout tried to imagine the person ent.i.tled to stand in such a position of supremacy, but her mind came up short. She had no image of reference for such an omnipotent being. All guests of Patras were wealthy, but whoever stayed in this master suite was a king.

She saw the guest as a master of the world in her mind, yet he or she remained faceless, and without detail. Power was the only characteristic she was sure of.

A sudden stab of unease had her stepping back from the edge. Never had she felt so out of place. Wealth to this degree was beyond her comprehension and she was defenseless against it, outnumbered and small, meaningless. She suddenly wanted to be done with this place.

Scout quickly returned to the warmth of the room and pulled the heavy doors shut behind her. Like a trespa.s.ser on the run, she sought her supply basket and headed toward what she thought to be the supply closet.

Get done and get out.

There were three bathrooms in the master suite, each one more lavish than the last. She began with the largest one and quickly worked in a clockwise motion around the restrooms until the marble fixtures shone like jewels. Next she made the beds, fluffed the pillows, refreshed the soaps and towels, and dusted the furniture.

When Scout went in search of the vacuum, she accidentally found a clothing closet. The sheer volume of clothing baffled her. Suits. All men's suits. A large silk robe the color of onyx hung on the inside of the closet door and as she leaned close she could smell a delicious trace of some sort of masculine fragrance in the material.

There were so many clothes. Over twenty pairs of expensive shoes, s.h.i.+ned to a point that she could see a distorted reflection of herself in each toe. She added large feet to the powerful, faceless guest occupying this s.p.a.ce.