CHAPTER TWELVE
1604 Words
Wes dropped onto his bed like a man defeated. His arms stretched out, his face buried in his pillow as he let out a deep sigh. If he had a single ounce of energy left, he would’ve screamed into it. But he was too exhausted to even complain anymore.
Not only had he lost a stupid amount of money, but he had also lost money that wasn’t even his. And now, on top of that, his probation officer was breathing down his neck about some community service gig at a hospice.
Great. Just great.
Sleep hit him fast, dragging him into unconsciousness like an old friend.
His phone ringing violently on the nightstand yanked him right back out of it the next morning though.
Wes groaned, blindly slapping at the surface of the table until he found his phone. Without opening his eyes, he answered. “Hey.”
“Hey to you, too.”
His eyes shot open. That voice was sharp, smooth, and way too attractive to belong to a government worker.
His PO.
He groaned again, this time louder. “What now?”
“Report to the office before you head to the hospice. I need to make sure you don’t look… well, yourself.”
Wes blinked at the ceiling, trying to process that. “Hey. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you look like a gangster.” She was so matter-of-fact about it. “And I don’t need you looking like one when you show up at a hospice.”
Wes grinned, sitting up. “Ooh, so you do care about how I look. Are you dressing me up yourself? Because, you know, that means I’d have to take my shirt off—”
“Don’t press your luck, Mr. Pierce. I can still send you to jail for insubordination.”
“I was just kidding.”
Silence.
He pulled his phone away from his ear and saw that the call had already ended.
Wes smirked, tossing his phone onto the bed. “Feisty. I like it.”
He pulled himself together, showered, and threw on a clean shirt and jeans before heading to the probation office. It was in a painfully dull government building—the kind that made you want to commit crimes just for some excitement.
As he strolled in, hands in his pockets, the receptionist didn’t even look up. “She’s waiting in her office.”
“Damn. Can’t even say ‘good morning’ first?”
Silence.
Tough crowd.
Wes pushed open the office door without knocking. “Yo, boss lady—”
He stopped.
Because standing behind her desk, arms crossed and looking like a whole damn movie star, was his probation officer.
Wes wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t her. Drop-dead gorgeous. Sharp suit. Cold stare. She looked like she could step on his neck and he wouldn’t even be mad about it.
Well. This was interesting.
She didn’t give him a second to recover. “You’re late.”
Wes quickly pulled himself together and smirked. “Yeah, yeah. I had to make myself presentable.” He gestured to himself. “Looking good, right?”
She gave him a slow, unimpressed once-over. “You look exactly how I expected. Terrible.”
“Wow. Brutal. And here I was, about to say you look stunning.”
She didn’t react. “Change into these.”
Wes looked at the neatly folded clothes on her desk and frowned. He picked up the button-up and slacks like they were contaminated. “What the hell is this?”
“Your new look.”
Wes raised a brow. “You’ve gotta be joking.”
She just stared at him.
He pointed at the clothes. “I don’t wear this crap.”
“Then you don’t do community service.”
He crossed his arms. “Great. Send me back to jail.”
She smirked. “I will. And I’ll make sure they put you in the worst cell. You’ll be sharing a bunk with a guy named ‘Crusher.’”
Wes stared at her. She stared back. A silent battle of wills.
Then, with a dramatic sigh, he snatched the clothes off the desk. “You really are enjoying this, huh?”
“Immensely.”
Wes grumbled all the way to the bathroom to change.
Fifteen minutes later, he stood in front of her desk again, now looking like a guy who worked in finance. And he hated it.
She circled him, nodding in approval. “Much better. You almost look respectable.”
Wes scowled. “I hate this.”
“Good. Now get to work.”
As they walked out, Wes shoved his hands into his pockets and grinned at her. “You know, for a PO, you sure are bossy.”
She didn’t even glance at him. “That’s literally my job.”
Wes smirked. “So what you’re saying is… you like having power over me?”
She stopped, turned to him, and leaned in slightly.
For a split second, Wes thought, Oh damn. She’s actually flirting back.
Then she said, “Mr. Pierce, if you don’t shut up and get to work, I will personally make sure you spend the rest of your probation scrubbing toilets in a maximum-security prison.”
Wes blinked.
Then grinned.
“Feisty. I really like it.”
Wes left the office, grumbling to himself as he stepped outside. The stupid dress shirt was stiff, the slacks felt too tight, and he really hated the way the shoes made him feel like an actual, productive member of society.
Still, he hailed a cab and slumped into the back seat, staring out the window as the city blurred past. The last thing he wanted to do today was spend hours pretending to be a good person. But if it was between that and rotting in jail? He’d take his chances with the old rich folks.
When he arrived at the hospice, he was immediately greeted by an older woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper tone.
“You must be Mr. Pierce.”
Wes blinked at her. “Uh… yeah.”
“I run this facility. You’ll be assisting me for the day.”
He nodded, suddenly feeling like a kid about to get scolded by a teacher. “Right. Lead the way, boss lady.”
She did not look amused.
The tour was long, and the place was way fancier than he expected. He had assumed it would be depressing—white walls, sad music, the occasional dying cough.
But nope.
This place looked like a damn luxury resort.
Private chefs, gold-trimmed furniture, a damn spa. The people living here weren’t just rich—they were filthy rich. He met a guy who used to own a string of casinos, a woman who apparently was once an international spy (allegedly), and another guy who wouldn’t stop talking about how he invested in some tech company before it blew up.
Each resident seemed to have a life story that involved private jets, offshore accounts, and at least one scandal that would’ve ruined a normal person’s life.
Wes was starting to think he should’ve scammed them instead of his boss.
Then they got to the VIP-A lounge.
And that’s when he saw him.
Wheelchair guy.
Nathaniel.
The same smug bastard from last night, now casually lounging in the most expensive-looking chair in the room, sipping tea like a villain in a period drama.
As soon as he saw Wes, he smirked and waved mockingly.
Wes froze.
“Are you stalking me?”
Nathaniel arched a brow. “Need I remind you that I live here and you’re the one visiting?”
Wes clenched his jaw. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Nathaniel gestured at the room around him. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
Wes turned to the woman leading the tour. “Hey, can I get assigned somewhere else? Maybe with the old ladies who knit?”
Nathaniel pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “You wound me.”
“Yeah? Well, I wish I could.”
Nathaniel just laughed. “Looks like we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, Mr. Pierce.”
Wes sighed, running a hand down his face.
He really should’ve picked jail.
Nathaniel left, and Wes turned to the woman who managed the place.
“So, what do I need to do?” he asked, already dreading the answer.
“You’ll be cleaning the entire VIP row and catering to Mr. Hawthorne’s needs.”
Wes raised a brow. “The entire row? You guys got a lot of VIPs here?”
She shook her head. “Not really. The wing is mostly empty.”
“Mostly?” Wes repeated slowly, already sensing something was off.
“Yes. Only Mr. Hawthorne occupies this wing.”
Wes blinked. Then blinked again.
“Wait, wait, wait. Hold on. So what you’re telling me is… I’m basically his butler?” He gestured vaguely in the direction Nathaniel had left.
“You’re his personal assistant for the day,” she corrected.
“That’s just a fancy way of saying butler,” Wes groaned, rubbing his face. “Unbelievable. Out of all the places I could’ve done community service, I end up working for him?”
The woman just smiled politely, clearly not caring about his existential crisis. “You should get started. Mr. Hawthorne doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Wes sighed dramatically and dragged his feet toward Nathaniel’s room, muttering under his breath.
This was going to be a long day.
- Writer
