Maid for the Mafia by Jaylee

Au Naturale

**ALEX**

"... of course I will be maintaining my apartment in South Brook to keep up my appearances, although I don't really see any reason to commute back and forth during the week. I can oversee the upkeep of my place from here. As long as I visit my mother once a month on our regularly scheduled day, no one should be the wiser. However, I was thinking... maybe you should assign me a work phone. *You* know... because I'd prefer not to use my personal cell that much while I'm here. Santos doesn't call me all that often, but on the off chance that *he does*... it's probably best if he *can't* get ahold of me when I'm here. Just in case he has one of his techie's track my phone. Oh! And I was wondering..." Dana goes on. And on. And on. As she has been for the past forty-five wasted minutes of my life.

Doesn't this bitch need to breathe?

Is she on *speed*? Or did she maybe stop on the eastside for some Columbian white? Please tell me there is a chemical substance behind all of her chatter. Half of the shit she has said, not only will I not remember, I do not think *she* will. The more she talks, the harder it is becoming for me to keep my face neutral.

Reaching toward the corner of my desk, I grab my bottle of whiskey and my empty fourteen ounce tumbler. Pouring the glass so full it spills over the sides, I finally allow myself to send her an annoyed look before downing the entire goddamned thing. She's still talking when I'm done and I slam my glass down on the table so hard I hear the bottom splinter.

"...and then I could..." Her words finally slow and she tilts her head at me. "Mister DeMarco... drinking like that is terribly unhealthy. It causes weight gain and liver disease. Not to mention kidney failure. I hope you don't drink that way too often." She frowns and my eyes are immediately drawn to the innocent dip of her expressive little mouth.

"I don't," I answer. "Usually I prefer to down the bottle. I only used the glass this time to keep my hands busy."

"Oh," she squawks in surprise, her eyes immediately shifting back and forth in calculation. "I believe there's a name for that! It's a disorder of some kind! How often do you feel it? The need to keep your hands busy?"

chuckle, unbuttoning the three top buttons of my shirt

why did you feel the need to just now?" she inquires, crossing her legs and leaning forward like she's just slipped

arms aren't quite long

what?" she pesters, scooting her chair closer to

exposed muscles

to laugh, sees my fists clench, stops... "Y-you're serious?" She flinches, her eyes bulging. "Wh-why would you want to

that," I supply, just as the alcohol I've consumed finally trickles into my bloodstream. "But had you been three feet closer, I would have.

get a bit excited from time to time." She shrugs helplessly. "I've been known to elaborate a little too extensively. People say I

she pushes herself back in her chair angrily, her arms crossing over her

is she

her. Attempting to see *how* - if at all - she resembles that giant bull cousin of

that crowns the top of his six foot five inch head. As much as I hate to admit it, he's not

hair is a bit lifeless and falls to just about the middle of her back. She's wearing too much eye-shadow and sporting *feather* eye lashes that seem more pigeon than peacock when she bats my