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Chapter One

  Summer was prime time for Country Clubs. The rich people take their unnecessary vacations and spend more time wasting their money on useless things like mansions, cars, golf, and designer outfits and accessories to impress other rich people.
  Sebastien isn't rich, he's not white, he's never gone on vacation, and he sure as hell has never spent money on stupid shit. He can barely pay his rent. He's lucky if the rich white bastards pay him enough to buy a sandwich for lunch.
  Although it sucked most of the time, he preferred the calm environment of an upper class, gated community to his other hectic jobs. It wasn't high school summer vacation, but it gave him some sense of relaxation in the middle of the year. Only now he has to work at the Country Club alongside his other job, that he hates.
  Working two jobs during the summer sounded like hell to him when he got the email about his rent going up, but he's warmed up to it. Kind of.
  He's worked here the past two summers, so he knows where the cameras are, when the rich people are golfing, eating, swimming, or doing whatever else they pay 2k+ a month for.
  It's a fairly cushy job. Mopping floors, serving snobby white people, skimming the pool, driving golf carts. It almost feels illegal for his $10 an hour job to contain that much variety, but it sure as hell beats witnessing the horrors of fast food--which he still has to endure now, thanks to his money-hungry landlord.
  Sebastien almost felt guilty. Like he fell into the trap of racism by accepting a job to serve and clean up after white people. He'd like to think that his Latino parents would be proud of him for working through the racism to survive, but they would probably complain about his poor wage and yell at him for almost getting evicted--lovingly, of course.
  His parents were very supportive of his decision to move away at such a young age, but if they knew all the details about his years living alone and trying to stay afloat, they'd usher him back home and never let him leave again.
  Fingers snapped in Sebastien's direction, making his eyes focus on the blurry plant he'd been staring at for God knows how long. He placed his left hand behind his back and walked over to the table, holding a tray of full glasses steadily on his right hand.
  "Are you enjoying your meal?" Sebastien asked, his voice polite and gentle.
  The elder white man grabbed his respective glass. "The food is rather tasteless, actually." He gave Sebastien a once-over. "I thought with your kind in the kitchen, it would taste better."
  "My apologies, sir. I can request a new meal for you if you'd like." Sebastien bit back anything he had an impulse to say and passed out the rest of the drinks to the other people at the table.
  "If you can't get it right the first time, how can I expect you to get it right the second time?" He took a sip from his glass. "I thought your parents taught you to do better at jobs? Lord knows they've had lots of practice."
  Sebastien opened his mouth, ready to give this old white dickhead a piece of his mind. But before he could utter a single syllable, a hand was on his arm.
  "We apologize for the underperformance of our chef today. He will be notified immediately. I will send over a dessert and our finest bottle of wine." Ben's timing was always perfect, as was his authoritative tone.
  Sebastien hated how much the couples' faces eased up at the presence of another white person. It could also be because Ben is the manager, but he doesn't wear the title like he wears his skin. Sebastien knows these people well enough to know the reason behind their relaxed shoulders and facial expressions.
  Honestly, Ben is the reason Sebastien stays sane. He's also the reason Sebastien hasn't blown up at every member of the club when they inevitably say rude and racist things.
  Ben knows Sebastien like the back of his hand. They've been friends since birth, so he knows when Sebastien is about to lose his mind and he knows exactly what to do or say to stop it from happening.
  Ben lead Sebastien away from the table and into the kitchen. "Bash, you've got to know when to walk away."
  "I can't! It's my job to comfort and reassure those assholes." Sebastien rolled his eyes.
  "So do it and then walk away. Don't stay and give them more chances to insult you." Ben grabbed a bottle of wine from the wall and walked over to the chef. "Mr. Dickhead says that your food isn't seasoned."
  The chef, aka Robbie--a beautiful dark-skinned boy with a ponytail of dreadlocks, laughed loudly and tossed a hand towel over his shoulder. "That's because he ordered the blandest thing on the fucking menu!"
  "Just wait until the Rochesters get here. You'll be in deep shit if a single thing on their plates isn't perfect." Ben exhaled.
  "Who the fuck are the Rochesters?" Sebastien asked, never having heard the last name in all of his time working here.
  Ben threw an arm over Sebastien's shoulders. "My dearest Latino friend, the Rochesters are your worst nightmare. They are the most rich, white, racist, entitled family you'll ever meet."
  "Sounds like everyone else here." Sebastien laughed. "What's the big deal?"
"You really don't know who the Rochesters are?" Robbie asked. "They're quite famous."
"Are they? Why are they coming here?" Sebastien asked.
"They bought the country club earlier this year." Robbie said, "They're so much worse than the last family who owned this place."