ex With The Maid: Two Men and A Lady 

CERCI, the maid–1 

Bernard Stark. 

I wasn’t sure what I was doing Googling his name, but once I clicked ‘search‘, I couldn’t stop reading. It wasn’t like I had anything else to do on Friday nights any more. 

“Wow.” You knew someone was famous when Google had a sidebar section for them. I thought it was because he was a news anchor. I was wrong. 

Bernard Alexander Stark III, born April 10th, son of the hotel mogul and former governor, Alistair Crane Stark, and now sitting senator Elspeth Yates, the head of YGM, the medial company that not only controlled Bernard III’s conservative news outlet, The Stark Report, but also the Boston Rover and several other networks which weren’t listed. The family’s net worth was in the billions. That number was so out of the stratosphere for me that I couldn’t even comprehend it, so I ignored it. 

He was an only child, but his family was so cookie–cutter that the more I searched, the more depressed I felt. 

So logically, I Googled the other man, Wesley. Thinking he might be just a chef…wrong again. 

GeorgeClement was the son of famed British novelist and poet, Brenda Clement, who had traveled the world by the time she was thirty–four. She was now married to a woman, a former professor of astronomy at Cambridge. She’d also written a few books on that 

subject. 

I kept reading until I saw that Georgehad lost his little brother. After that, it felt too personal to read on, and I didn’t want to pry any more than I already had. 

Since I was nobody and they couldn’t Google me back, it felt very stalkerish. Closing my laptop, I laid back on my mattress, staring at the tear in my apartment’s ceiling. One by one, water droplets dripped from it into a bucket below. My phone rang. 

“Hello?” I answered while lying down. My whole body ached. 

“Hey Cerci, it’s Sandra.” 

“They fired me didn’t they?” Damn it. What was the point of talking to me if they were 

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CERCI, the maid–1 

just going to change their mini 

“What? Who?” 

Shit. I sat up. I wasn’t supposed to say anything. “Sorry Sandra. What’s going on?” 

“Do you have time to fill in a muid that’s called in sick? The client is throwing a par in three hours, and while have two other maids there, I could use the third set of hant to finish cleaning in time. Can you help? I really don’t want to lose these clients.” 

“More work is I aske grabbing a pen and random notebook to write it down. 

grabbing a pemra. You don’t need to ask. What’s the address 

“517 Beacom Street. It’s albrownstone. If you take a taxi, I’ll reimburse you for it.” 

“Music to my ears. I’m leaving now. I’ll call you when I’m there,” I said, already muling my jeans and stamping into my Vans. 

Grabbing my bag, I rushed out. Three hours to clean a townhouse was barely cutting it. was mid–August, and yet every time I stepped outside, it felt like the North Pole Benut already tell it was going to be a cold winter. 

I had to walk for a good ten minutes before I saw a taxi. They didn’t come down to my neighborhood for the same reason I had a taser on me at all times. 

ப 

Taxi I ran onto the street corner and waved one down like a madwomnamecause w 

307 Beacon Street, please,” I said, buckling my seatbelt and rubbing my hands. 

“You want the heater?” he asked me. 

“Please,” said, sitting on my hands. 

It was one of those nights where it felt like everyone was out on going into the city. My favorite thing to do was people watch. To me, everyone hindlusoy (or somewhere to go couldn’t afford to live in this city–hell, only half of us really omill–hut loved it all th 

same. 

Thanks to the driver’s shortcuts, it only took about twenty–five minutes before he pulle up at the elegant, cream–colored townhouse. Paying wittheverything had in my wallet. 

CERCI, the maid–1 

grabbed my bag and took the stairs two by two. A butler–yes a full–fledged butler with penguin tails and everything–opened the door. 

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