5
Molly
Melissa did prove good on the promise she had made to me on that very first day of our Harvard experience. Before she graduated, she had already won herself an internship and the biggest corporate head office in the city; a feat never before established by a woman her age. And then, through her great skillset of refined seduction and intense intelligence, she had somehow managed to finagle some sort of a crazy guaranteed work position for herself as an intern to the CEO of one of the world’s most successful corporations. This employment win for her had somehow dragged me along, too, as the CEO’s paid personal assistant. So here I was, now, just twelve hours into the job, standing at the bottom of a staircase as behind me, a room full of drunken, drugged up people writhed against each other. They squealed as their clothes got soaked to the point of transparency from the ever-flowing champagne that poured from the ceiling. My employer had disappeared up a staircase and my whole job description was just a mirror of my life: lacking any definition, confused, and seemingly pointless.
“You should not have said yes to this,” I told myself again as a man staggered into me, grazing my ass with his hand as he tripped his way down to the dance floor. “You are seriously not cut out for this kind of a position. The pay is apparently going to be good, but what the hell does that matter if your employer can not even remember who you are the day after he hires you? You should seriously get out of this while you still have a chance, before he comes back.”
I glanced side to side; everyone was drunk, dizzy in dance and lust. And if they were not, they certainly were not looking at me, the plain, unattractive girl dressed in gray.
You can totally get out now; just sneak out the back of the stage. The thoughts bubbled to life in the dark corners of my mind, and I found myself instantly glancing up at the staircase. Mr. Cartwright was nowhere to be seen. I glanced at the door, it was so close. All I had to do was free my hand from its death grip on the twirling iron banister and run to the door. I glanced at my fingers and willed them to move. They began to twist themselves free of their intense, grounding hold on the banister. Slowly but surely, inch my inch, digit by digit, until I was about to be free from the writhing and gasping and champagne drizzling. Free and able to focus on what I had been doing before Melissa had “helped” me out with the offer of this position, free to continue pursuing a career in accounting. That was it; I urged my anxious fingers to shiver free from their hold. One more inch, just another second and I could run to the door.
Just as I was about to free myself from my anxious grip, a flash of shadow filled the corner of my eye, and the soft thudding sound of a heavy door closing several stories above me met my ears. Before I even had time to register the meaning of the sound, Mr. Cartwright appeared above me, winding his way down the spindly iron wrought staircase. My shoulders fell, and I took a step back from the stairs, suddenly desperate not to appear as if I had been standing next to the stairs the entire time. It was strange; part of me wanted nothing more than to get out of that job at any cost, no matter what it took. And yet another part of me, a deeper part, one that I had never before realized I had, wanted to do anything and everything that was possible in order to impress this man, and perhaps win his adoration. His professional adoration, of course.
I managed to shuffle to the side of the stairs and busy myself with the picking up of shards of glass someone had left in a puddle of sticky alcohol. I was bent over my work, prying at the tiny golden bits of the broken bottle with my pale fingers, when Mr. Cartwright rounded the final twist of the staircase and hopped over the last three iron steps and onto the floor next to me.
“Fuck,” I could hear him muttering under his breath as he ran his hands through his short-cropped dark hair. “Fuck and balls and ass and fuck.”
I flushed at his words and ducked my head closer to the ground, hoping my hair would hide the redness that had filled my cheeks.
Mr. Cartwright sighed and turned about, as if looking around the room, surveying the population of attendees, hoping to find someone in particular. His deep brown eyes swept through the crowd, running slowly over the round asses and heaving breasts of the scantily clad women that populated the dance floor. He seemed to use his eyes to rifle through the crowd as if shopping for a suit pattern that would suit him best. After a long moment of wistful looks and appraising mumbles, he turned towards me and started.
“Oh,” he said, the light that had suddenly jumped into his eyes revealing all too well that he had already forgotten I existed. “Right.”
I decided not to say anything and continued to pick tiny shards of glass out of the corner, careful not to allow the slivers of bottle to pierce my skin as I dropped them into the palm of my hand.
“Well, hello, again,” Mr. Cartwright continued, taking a tentative step towards me. He stuck his hands into his pockets and leaned forward slightly, peering at me as I picked the glass up and off of the floor. “What are you doing down there?”
I felt the heat in my cheeks grow hotter and stared down at the glass, avoiding his eyes.
“I’m… I’m just cleaning, Mr. Cartwright,” I answered quietly, sliding another tiny piece of glass carefully onto my palm.
“Aha…” Mr. Cartwright observed.
He stood for a moment above me, his shadow draping over my back, my heart racing as he watched me so intently. Why was I suddenly so nervous, when he poured his shadow over me like this? Tiny pinpricks of sweat began to crop up across the back of my neck.
“What did you say your name was again?” Mr. Cartwright asked.
I stopped for a moment and dared a glance up at him. He stood peering down at me, one of his perfectly shaped eyebrows curling up his forehead, painting his face into a pleasant image of curiosity. I flushed so deep I swore my face must be nearly purple. I swallowed and cleared my throat.
“I am Molly, Mr. Cartwright, sir,” I responded, my voice shivering as it slid out tentatively from between my pink lips.
Mr. Cartwright smiled and nodded at me, his eyes friendly, and warm.
“Molly,” he repeated, and as his lips carved the shape of my name into the air, I felt instantly certain that no one had ever before made my syllables sing so beautifully.
I nodded awkwardly and then quickly turned my eyes back down towards the floor, busying myself with peering at the ornate tiles and trying to spy any last bits of glass that had evaded my careful gaze.
“It’s a good name,” I heard him say as I squinted at the patterns on the floor tiles. I swallowed and forced myself not to look back up at him as he continued his quiet musing. “Molly,” he said again, this time stretching out my name against his tongue as if tasting it, savoring the way it felt to let the letters dance across the insides of his cheeks.
I felt my heart beat race against my chest, which caused my fingers to shake dangerously, the handful of glass I had so carefully pressed against the inside of my palm threatened to bite into the soft white skin of my shivering hand and send droplets of blood shimmying down my fingertips.
“Yes,” I said in response to the sound of my name, willing my hand to stop its irrational trembling.
Why was I feeling so completely off kilter? It could not possibly be because this dark, tall man was rolling the syllables of my name around his lips. No, that just could not be. I was a smart woman. A reserved woman. A woman who had control of herself and her emotions. There was no way that I was trembling and shivering just because some dark haired, fire-eyed man was flicking at my name with this velvet tongue. I blinked several times and cleared my throat.
“Yes,” I said again, this time louder, more solidly, my voice stronger and my fingers no longer trembling.
I felt the heat ebb away from my face and finally was able to again stand to my full height. I did, my fingers carefully curling up to protect the shards of glass from tumbling away to the floor again. I turned to face my new employer, using my free hand to tuck my straight hair securely behind my ear.
He grinned at me, shaking his head boyishly. I noticed that he seemed more sober than he had earlier in the evening. Then, he had been all juiced up charm, his hands fluttering dangerously over the naked shoulders of every woman that walked up to him, his eyebrows wiggling persuasively, his lips curling open in an endless supply of seductive half smiles. Since meeting with his boss, the owner of the company to which he was CEO, Mr. Cartwright had become considerably more sober. His face looked less lively now, more tired, though the lusty light of alcohol still hung faintly in the corners of his eyes. His eyebrows twitched, ever so slightly, teasing me as he spoke.
“Thank you for picking up that glass, Molly,” he said, nodding to my palm. I nodded curtly and crossed the room, emptying my hand into the small recycling bin that stood against the wall. “People can just be so clumsy, can’t they?” Mr. Cartwright said, watching me as I walked back towards him.
I nodded awkwardly, feeling uncomfortable under his gaze. He was very attractive, all muscled body and chiseled jaw and suave, smooth words. I swallowed and kept my gaze trained upon the discarded bits of glass.
“I suppose so, sir,” I said carefully. “But it is my job to look after these things, isn’t it, so I really do not mind.”
Mr. Cartwright seemed to consider this as he ran a hand thoughtfully over the light outcropping of facial hair that pricked his ruddy cheeks and then nodded.
“Nothing wrong with a woman who does not blink at the idea of some good honest work,” he said, grinning that playful grin at me again.
I stared back at him, not exactly sure how to respond. Was he trying to make conversation with me? Or was he just being polite? I glanced away quickly, my cheeks flushing pink. To think that a person as attractive and successful as Mr. Cartwright would endeavor to make flirty conversation with me was just plain wishful thinking. Focus, Molly, focus, I thought, biting down on my lip, trying to will the embarrassment away. I had never before in my life felt this way around a man; I was not about to turn all silly and girlish now, when it mattered the most that I maintain my cool.
“Sure, sir,” I said, remembering myself, and then, for extra measure, I forced a quick smile across my face. “Now, if you will excuse me,” I began, “I think I had best check on your boss, and make sure that he is properly seen out.”
Mr. Cartwright waved a hand through the air and rolled his eyes.
“Oh, no, no, don’t you even bother with him,” he said, rolling his eyes up towards the Red Lounge. “He owns this place,” he continued, fixing me with a knowing stare. “He knows how to come and go however he pleases.”
“Alright, Mr. Cartwright, sir,” I said.
I glanced around the room, desperate to find something I could busy myself with. I did not want to risk looking like a waste of paycheck on my very first day of the job. I also did not really want to spend any more time in such close proximity to Mr. Cartwright; we were so close right now that I could smell the cologne he wore, could feel the heat of his breath lightly grazing the back of my neck. It was beyond distracting to stay so close to someone so impossibly attractive. I needed to find something to busy my mind, some excuse to get away. My eyes landed on the small bar that sat in the corner and an idea formed in my head.
“In that case, I will get to work polishing the bottles,” I said, and I began to walk towards the bar.
“Now there is an idea!” Mr. Cartwright called out, and to my surprise, he fell into step alongside me. I flushed slightly, wondering if he was perhaps testing me, trying to see if I was worth keeping around.
“It just so happens that I am something of a professional,” he said, grabbing a bottle of expensive scotch from the bar. “When it comes to polishing off bottles.”
He twisted the stopper free from the glass and tilted the bottle back. The dark liquid poured down the neck of the bottle and past his lips, and I could not help but watch as he emptied the glass in one large gulp.
“Well,” I said, watching as Mr. Cartwright pulled the emptied bottle away from his lips and sighed in satisfaction. “Well, that was not exactly the type of polishing bottles that I had in mind.”
Mr. Cartwright glanced at me and burst out laughing. He slammed the emptied scotch bottle back down on the very edge counter and ran his hands over his flushed face.
“Oh, Molly,” he said, shaking his head. “You are a very funny girl, now, aren’t you? Miranda told me a lot about your very many skills and qualities, but I must admit that she neglected to inform me of your superior sense of humor.”
“It’s Melissa,” I corrected, glancing at the emptied bottle as it teetered on the edge of the bar counter top. I edged it away from its precarious position and then turned my attention back to my employer. “And, um, regarding my humor, um… thank you, I guess,” I added hesitantly.
“Ah, yes, you really are some sort of a treat to have around, aren’t you Molly,” Mr. Cartwright continued, appearing to not have heard a thing I had said. “I am sure we will get on splendidly. But now!” He suddenly clapped his hands together and turned to directly face me. “Do you mind indulging me in some quick questions?”
I glanced around. There seemed to be nothing else to do.
“Um, sure. Of course,” I replied.
Mr. Cartwright smiled beautifully. God, he had an incredible smile. He was the type of man who could smile and instantly light up an entire room. His smile was all large lips, beautiful copper eyes, leaping cheekbones and rugged, square-jawed bliss. When he dropped those dark eyes onto my face and poured that smile towards me, I felt, for an instant, that everything was alright, that I actually did have a purpose and that somehow, in some way, I was doing something to truly better the world. It was the kind of smile that poets write about, that love songs build their choruses around, that people carve onto statues of gold. When he smiled at me like that, it was impossible not to oblige him.
“Alright then!” He said again, his voice sliding out like honey from between those perfectly parted lips. “Let the questions begin.”
He placed a gentle hand upon my shoulder and looked me straight in the eyes. I felt my stomach roll over at his touch, and my cheeks instantly transitioned to a bright pink. Why did my body react like this whenever he poured his attention onto me?! I was never like this at all. I swallowed and fixed my gaze upon the crisply pressed collar of his shirt, trying to remain the cool and collected woman I usually was.
“So, question number one,” Mr. Cartwright began, his voice suddenly taking on a quieter, more serious tone. “You and Melinda are good friends, yes?”
I blinked once and fought the urge to cry out in frustration.
“Her name is Melissa, Mr. Cartwright,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Ah, yes, Melissa, that’s right,” he said. He tapped his fingers lightly on my shoulder. “Thank you for that, Molly, you gem! So, Melissa, then. Are you and Melissa good friends?”
I nodded without even thinking.
“Yes,” I said. “Of course. Melissa is the closest friend I have.”
Mr. Cartwright nodded slowly back, staring at me carefully. Although his eyes were fixed upon my face, he seemed to be looking off somewhere inside of his mind.
“Very good,” he said slowly, still nodding his head slowly up and down. “That is very good, Molly, thank you.” He slipped his hand from my shoulder to the small of my back and began to very gently guide me across the room. “Now let us move on to question number two.”
“Alright,” I said, trying to keep in time with his steps and trying to ignore the butterflies that had taken up a sudden and unwelcome residence in the pits of my stomach the very second his fingers had grazed my back.
“Great,” he smiled. “Question number two is this: what kind of activities would you say your good friend Melissa likes to involve herself with?”
I glanced sideways at Mr. Cartwright as he led me slowly across the floor. What activities? What was that supposed to mean? Was he trying to get a read on me, testing me to see if I might bad talk the woman who had won me this position? Or was Mr. Cartwright perhaps trying to understand if Melissa would be a good fit for his company? I decided that, whatever he was trying to do, I would answer his questions with honesty.
“Melissa likes to go out,” I began. “When she has some free time, which is not all too often, mind you,” I added. “Because she is one of the hardest working people I have ever had the privilege of knowing.”
The answer seemed to please him, because Mr. Cartwright’s face erupted into a sudden, genuine smile and he tapped me lightly on my back, as if in praise.
“Well that is very good, Molly,” he said, grinning at me as we continued our slow walk across the room. “That is very, very good indeed. But now,” he said, turning us towards the dance floor packed with people. “Do tell me a bit more about what Miss Melissa likes to get up to on these nights out that you mentioned? Would you say that these are quiet nights out? Perhaps nights spent… oh… I don’t know….”
His brow furrowed and he glanced upwards as if searching the ceiling for some sort of an idea as to what a quiet night might involve. It was all I could do not to break down laughing, for he certainly had no idea what a quiet night was. He was infamous for frequenting the Playboy mansion, after all. After a number of steps taken in silence, he seemed to come up with some sort of idea and turned his eyes back towards me.
“...maybe a quiet walk with friends, or a cup of tea and a nice ladies’ magazine?”
I could not help it that time. I burst out laughing at the absurdity of his assumptions. So loud, in fact, that several of the guests who stood flirting nearby halted their conversations to stare in disgust at my guffaws. Mr. Cartwright also looked genuinely caught off guard. He half smiled at me, his face a mask of unreadable confusion, his eyes glancing around the room as if worried about what his guests might think.
“I’m sorry,” I gasped after I had regained a bit of composure. I wiped at the tears that had formed in the corners of my eyes. “It’s just… oh, if you knew Melissa, you’d know how funny that sounded.”
Mr. Cartwright wrapped an arm around me and pulled me off the dance floor and out of the eye line of the over-curious guests. His eyes darted anxiously back and forth as he hurried me into the small lounge that was tucked just behind the stage. He pressed his hand against my lower back. It was a gentle touch, but one that was firm enough to allow me to understand the urgency in his nudging. I shuffled into the lounge, and Mr. Cartwright slipped in behind me, looking both to the left and to the right before securing the door tightly, twisting the golden lock and then slamming the chain lock, too.
I stood timidly in the center of the room, awkwardly straightening out the wrinkles in the skirt of my dress, while I waited for Mr. Cartwright to turn around. He took several moments of time checking, and then double checking, the looks on the heavy looking door. Finally, after he had rattled the door heartily a number of times, checking that it would not come open even if banged upon violently, he turned around to face me.
“Okay,” he said, taking a breath, his shoulders leaping up and down anxiously.
He fixed me with a very somber look, his eyebrows no longer dancing flirtatiously up and down his forehead, his solid jaw line somehow appearing more square and serious than ever before. I swallowed nervously in spite of myself. There was just something about this man, some weird sort of… energy, or something, that allowed him to command the attention of an entire room, to change the atmosphere of an entire place, just by stepping into it. He was something unique, something powerful. And undeniably, Mr. Cartwright was some sort of force to be reckoned with. I nervously pushed my hair behind my ears and forced myself to meet his dark eyes.
“Please, if you do not mind, tell me more about your friend,” Mr. Cartwright began, taking a small step towards me. He seemed visibly distressed, and this threw me off. I watched him carefully as he began to pace in small circles while he spoke. “You have told me that Miss Melissa is a professional, and an exceptional worker, possessing unmatched wit, or so you think, anyway,” he added, almost talking more to himself, a small, self-indulgent smile curling privately across his lips. “Not to mention unmatched beauty… and that quality is absolutely true, as I myself have had the privilege of appraising it.”
At these words, I felt my face grow hot. Yes, Melissa was beautiful, but did Mr. Cartwright really think so highly of himself that he would only find a woman attractive if he himself had had the opportunity to lay eyes on her?
What a complete asshole, I heard my mind whisper.
And yet, even as the words danced around my mind, I felt a sort of tug, or pull, towards this world class, professional bad boy. There was something entirely tantalizing about just how much of an asshole he was. Something, dare I say it, even impressive. He just did not give a single fuck about any other person’s opinions, and that was something I so wished I myself had the power to do. As I watched him pace the room, his hands dancing in the air before him, accentuating his words as they spilled from his perfect lips. I found my eyes tracing the lines of his body, the way his muscles visibly rumbled and worked beneath the expensive pressed linen of his custom designed suit. I watched the way his jaw line jumped and flexed when he spat out a word he found distasteful and the shape his eyebrows formed when he chuckled quietly in a private moment with himself. I observed how his eyes would fill with electricity when his tongue leaped over the syllables that formed Melissa’s name. I felt envy creep into the pit of my belly as his eyes filled with lust, and it was a sensation that bothered me. I wasn’t sure what this envy was, for how could I feel envious of Mr. Cartwright’s desire for Melissa if I did not at all desire him? I did not have long to muse about this thought, however, because it was just then that Mr. Cartwright halted his pacing abruptly and sharply turned on his heel.
“Well?!” he yelped, facing me, his eyes wide with question. “Does she?”
I stared back, my mouth hanging open, realizing that I had completely missed the last few minutes of Mr. Cartwright’s ramblings because I had been, well, watching his body and how it moved across the room, instead. I instantly blushed a deep crimson and tried not to tremble too much from the embarrassment I was feeling. I swallowed and stared back, my lips flapping stupidly, searching for words, for anything I might be able to say to save me from being caught in such an awkward situation.
“I… I, um, well, Mr. Cartwright, sir….” I tried, grasping at anything that I could think of.
He stared at me, confused, his hands still hanging, mid-air, in question, his eyes still wide with hopeful expectation. I cleared my throat and tried again.
“I mean, that is not really the easiest question, you know, sir, because, well, she is, well… Melissa is unique.”
I ended on that widely general statement, hoping it would, in some way, serve as a suitable enough answer to whatever question Mr. Cartwright had posed towards me. My boss stared at me; his face a mask of confusion or frustration or perhaps both, it was difficult to tell.
After a moment he responded, “I know she is unique, Molly. That is precisely why we are having this conversation.” He crossed the room to the small loveseat that stood pressed against the wall and flopped down upon it, kicking his heels over the arm rest. “I just want to know what exactly her ‘unique’ outings include, alright.” He sighed, rubbing a hand over his ruddy face. “I need to know what she does when she goes out… if she is, well…” He seemed to search the air with his fingers, probing it for the word he needed. “... as adventurous as I am.”
I had succeeded in getting him to repeat the question, in some form or another, and felt a shiver of release tickle its way down my spine. I took a careful step forward, feeling very much like a therapist in a therapy session with my patient, thanks to the way that Mr. Cartwright had draped himself across the couch.
“Well,” I began; still unsure as to why Mr. Cartwright desired to know so much about Melissa. “I suppose that would likely depend on your definition of the word ‘adventurous.' If you mean rock climbing and the like, she definitely does complete quite a bit of physical activity,” I revealed.
Mr. Cartwright dropped his hands from his face and turned his head to look at me. He served up a look of absolute incredulity.
“No, Molly, my dear,” he said as patiently as he could muster. “I am not referring to extreme sports. What I am asking you, if I must put it so plainly, is whether or not your lovely friend Miss Melissa enjoys going out, drinking ridiculous amounts of expensive alcohol, and sleeping with beautiful people... and whether or not she enjoys doing this on a regular basis.”
I blinked at Mr. Cartwright several times. The question had caught me off guard, but I felt that under the stoic, examinatory stare of my brand new employer, I could not tell a lie.
“Oh,” I said, still blinking in surprise. “You mean that definition of adventurous. Well,” I said, clearing my throat. I gripped my hands together. “Well, then, by that definition, I would have to go ahead and say that, yes, Miss Melissa is adventurous. Yes,” I added, thinking back to our last conversation which had been, thanks to Melissa’s updates on her latest crazy nights out, very colorful. “Yes, I would in fact venture to say that Melissa is very, very, very, um, ‘adventurous’.”
Mr. Cartwright sat up instantly, nearly smacking his head off of the back of the wall. He looked at me seriously, his eyebrows shooting anxiously up his forehead.
“Very?” he repeated, as if not possibly believing that he had heard me speak this word, multiple times.
I nodded slowly, keeping my eyes trained on his.
“Very, very, very, very,” I repeated, never once taking my eyes off of his dark, serious orbs. Staring into his eyes left my stomach leaping with electricity. I swallowed, it was taking everything in me to keep my cool, and the fact that this man was making me so hot and bothered was concerning me.
“Agghhhh!” He cried out, slamming his head into his hands.
He spent a moment like that, sitting, with his head cradled in his fingers. I watched, silently, awkwardly, not sure whether I should attempt to comfort him or immediately vacate the room. I was just about to take a hesitant step forward when Mr. Cartwright sat up sharply and jumped to his feet.
“I knew it,” he said quietly to himself. He ran his hands over his face once, then again. Then he looked straight at me and cried out, “I knew it!” And he swung around and slammed his fist down, hard, into the spongy pillows of the love seat. “Of course she is like that! Of course, she is! Because she is a perfect, perfect fucking wondrous human and so, of course, she is going to be one hundred percent exactly like me!”
I watched him as he flailed about, his arms smashing his fists into the pillows of the love seat until finally causing a flurry of tiny white feathers to leap out from the lips of the pillows and dance through the air. Even after this, Mr. Cartwright continued his angry assault upon the couch, thrusting his fists down into the couch, harder, harder, tiny white feathers dancing down all around him, christening his anger in a silent, soft flurry of gentle white.
After about five minutes of watching Mr. Cartwright smash the loveseat pillows to bits of flattened cotton, I cleared my throat. He did not so much as glance my way. Instead, he kept on driving his strong fists into the fabric, even though by now, not a single feather remained inside of the pillows. I watched for but a moment more and then, slightly concerned, cleared my throat again and managed to muster the confidence to speak.
“Mr. Cartwright,” I said gently.
The man finally threw two last, half-hearted punches at the love seat and finally came to a standstill. He stood with his back to me for a moment, his shoulders heaving up and down, riding the waves of adrenaline that his attack had no doubt sent roiling through his blood. Then he turned around, slowly, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, making a small, sad circle in the pile of feathers, a final two feathers fluttering slowly through the air and coming to land on the ground at his feet.
“I am sorry,” I said, because I did not know what else to say.
He was clearly upset by something, and I felt somewhat to blame for the whole pillow attacking ordeal. After all, he had been completely fine all evening until I had begun to provide him with details about Melissa. And yet I still had no clue as to why he now stood so very upset amidst a pile of sad feathers and flattened, lifeless pillows. All I could come up with was that he had wanted to know these details about Melissa because he was attracted to her. One could even see that much from a simple, quick glance at his eyes as he spoke her name. But then why would he become so upset upon discovering that the object of his affections (or at the very least, the object of his lust) was, in fact, a very similar person to him? It just made no sense to me. But then Mr. Cartwright was a bit of a strange man, I thought, glancing at the feathers that lay about the room, and thinking of the elaborate champagne rain storm that he had unleashed upon the dance floor. Perhaps he was simply prone to erratic moods. Still, I could not help feeling apologetic, and so I repeated myself again.
“I really am sorry, sir,” I said, glancing up carefully at his eyes.
Mr. Cartwright looked at me, his face softer, dejected.
“Ahhhh it is not your fault, Molly,” he said, waving a hand half-heartedly at me. “It is not your fault at all. It is completely me. Completely me,” he repeated, dragging the words out. He kicked at the feathers that lay at his feet and sent a fresh white flurry spiraling through the air. Then he flopped back down upon the flattened love seat and placed his head in his hands. He began to chuckle, and then he started to laugh more fully.
“Ohhhhh, dear,” he laughed, running his hands over his face again. He scratched his head and looked at me, his lips open with laughter, his cheeks pink with amusement. He continued to laugh while holding my gaze and so I forced a timid little laugh out of my lips. “Ohhhhhh, my,” he spoke again, and then he shook his head and leaned forward, placing his hands upon his knees. “As if I ever expected a woman such as Melissa to be anything other than a true, professional partier,” he said to me, and then he continued to laugh again, and so I forced a little, half-hearted chuckle to escape my lips. He shook his head again. “I mean, think of it. What I really need right now, right, is a woman who is absolutely, completely the opposite of a girl like Melissa! If Melissa liked to… to sing old songs while baking elaborate pies or… collect raspberries from the local market and make bird feeders or…” he flapped his hands through the air, searching for other things to toss into his description. “Or partake in scrapbooking and saving stray dogs from the slaughterhouse and what not! Then, why then, and only then, would she be the perfect woman for me. That is the kind of woman I need right now, and Melissa is more of, well, not that,” he said as he laughed nervously. “Yes, what I need is a scrapbooking, bird feeding, pie baking woman,” he rolled his eyes and coughed out a few short guffaws. “Because that is probably what those bastards would believe is the complete opposite of me.”
I tilted my head to the side, and this time a genuine laugh escaped my lips.
“Yes, sir, Melissa is not quite exactly that type of woman,” I confirmed, shaking my head with a chuckle. “She is a lot more, well, bold and goal oriented and party savvy,” I said. “If I may, sir, I would just like to be frank: Melissa is just kind of way too cool to be that sort of a woman. If you are looking for a woman like that, you would probably have a better chance looking at people who are, um, not as cool and popular.”
Mr. Cartwright nodded, thinking about this for a moment. Then he rolled his eyes and threw his head back with laughter.
“Where the fuck am I ever going to come across a woman who actually enjoys making bird feeders?” he laughed. “How did I even come up with that one?”
I shifted my weight uncomfortably from foot to foot as he sat there lost in his own laughter. I tipped my head back and forth, considering whether or not I ought to speak up. After several seconds, I felt my own ego taking such a blow that I could not keep the information from escaping my lips any longer.
“Actually, Mr. Cartwright, sir,” I said, my cheeks growing hot with frustration. “Making bird feeders is not something that deserves to be laughed at. It is, in fact, a very demanding undertaking that requires both a considerable knowledge of woodworking and the creativity to create something that will prove effective in attracting the proper avem.”
Mr. Cartwright stopped mid laugh and froze. He dropped his head back and looked at me, fixing me with a very strange look. A single eyebrow crept up his forehead, and he jutted out his chin at me, his expression posing the question before his lips did, “What did you just say?”
I cleared my throat and felt my cheeks reddening, this time not in anger, but in embarrassment. Had I actually just said that out loud? Had I actually just admitted to this man, on my first day of employment, that I was so uncool and so nerdy that I happened to enjoy building bird feeders?
Not a particularly good move, Molly, I told myself, glancing down at my hands. But I had said it, and now I had to stick with it.
“Um, I just mentioned that building bird feeders is not, as many people might think, a stupid or pointless endeavor,” I said nervously, glancing from my hands to Mr. Cartwright’s confused face, and then back down to my hands again. I gripped at my fingers and tangled them up around each other as I brought them to my chest. It was a nervous habit of mine, and if I had ever felt uncomfortable and nervous, it was right now, under the intense, appraising stare of my brand new, billionaire employer.
Mr. Cartwright ran his tongue over his lips and nodded slowly, never once removing his eyes from my face. He watched me carefully for a moment as I fiddled with my hands anxiously and attempted not to grow any redder than I already was. After several seconds of careful consideration, he spoke again.
“You make bird feeders?”
It was more of a statement than a question. I felt my cheeks grow hotter and I avoided his eyes, this time choosing to direct my response towards the puddles of feathers that covered the floor.
“Y...yes,” I sputtered, my hands grabbing at each other. “Yes, sir. Yes, I do make bird feeders.”
I stood there anxiously, embarrassed as ever, shifting my weight from foot to foot, tangling my hands nervously around each other, staring at the feathers on the floor and biting at my think pink lips. I risked one glance up at my new employer but that was not a wise choice. He sat staring at me, appraising me, his eyes running so obviously over my body that I nearly passed out; he was so attractive, damn it. That dark jaw line and light brown hair cut close to his head, those deep eyes jumping over the shape of my curves; I could not take it. I forced my eyes to stare down at the floor yet again and tried my best not to break out in a cold sweat.
Mr. Cartwright nodded slowly again, his eyes rolling from my lips, down to my breasts. They lingered upon my hips before dropping down to my ankles. I suddenly became, for the first time in my life, very self-conscious of my ankles. His eyes were then back up to my hips, my waist, sliding over the fullness of my breasts then finally, finally, climbing up the gentle slope of my neck and over the ridges of my trembling lips to meet my eyes. The moment I realized his eyes played on my own I immediately ended the embrace of pupils by focusing my attention again on the fallen white feathers that whispered sweet nothings softly to the marbled floor.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence made heated and heavy by Mr. Cartwright training his dark eyes upon my cheekbones, I took a breath. I squeezed my fingers tightly against each other and cleared my throat. Then finally, I forced myself to tear my gaze away from the delicate puddles of white feathers and look into the dark, deep eyes of my new employer. Mr. Cartwright stared right back into my eyes, not once blinking, not once hesitating as he countered my timid gaze with a stare of pure iron.
I swallowed. My mind raced, desperate to find something witty to say, desperate to save myself from further embarrassing myself in front of this incredibly influential, impossibly handsome man. Even now, as he sat upon the flattened pillows of the love seat (a stance that would have been comically awkward for any other person, and should have been a laughable image for him to conjure, too) he carried with him an air of preposterous and overwhelming attraction. He seemed to exude sex appeal. The curving of his fingers over his muscular thighs, the gentle flick of his eyebrows as he stared deeply into my eyes, even the way his shoulders rolled slightly forward, popping the muscles of his back so that his suit jacket stretched over his fit form… it was all nearly too much to bear. I took a slow, steady breath in and fixed him with a solid stare. I had to defend myself. I had caught him appraising me, no doubt thinking that my physical appearance matched my passion for past times. He had probably come to the conclusion that I was dull, uncool, and unfit to work for him; and maybe I was. In fact, I absolutely was, but that did not mean I was about to let him believe it. So I stood there in that small lounge behind the stage, feathers catching on my heels, loud music causing the double locked door to shiver and my billionaire employer staring up at me with dark eyes set in an impossibly stone-jawed face.
Without anything else to lose, I tilted my chin upwards, parted my lips, and said: “You may believe that my penchant for crafting birdhouses makes me a person unfit for this position. And while I do believe that everyone has the right to their own, individual beliefs, I would have to say that you believing this particular thing about me would be a completely unjust thing. I will explain why because I do not think that making a statement without the proper and adequate explanation to back it up warrants the statement of any real weight. So here are my reasons why: you do not, as I stated before, understand what it takes to create a truly excellent bird house. Perhaps you think that sounds hilarious but in reality, it is a surprisingly difficult task to accomplish and so thereby requires a great amount of care. You must be well versed in craftsmanship and able to handle large saws without difficulty; which I can. And do exceptionally well, I might add. You must also have a knack for architecture, one that has been, preferably, learned, and developed, for to be naturally inclined toward designing birdhouse structures is one thing, but to do it properly, mathematically, well… that takes precision and intelligence that can only be achieved through hours of studious trial and error and much research and good, clean, hands-on labor. And finally, to possess the creativity to create various bird houses, all of different, ingenious feeding abilities, thoroughly convenient and effective feeding abilities, I might add. For, if the feeder does not draw the correct bird than it does not matter at all how architecturally lovely the feeder is. This requires an incredible depth of thought, ingenuity, and resourcefulness. So while you may be sitting there, upon those flattened pillows, sure as ever that I am completely wrong for this position because of my general ‘uncoolness’, I assure you, Mr. Cartwright, that being an adept if not exceptional bird house crafter might just make me better suited for this position than any other person. As I have stated: ingenuity, creativity, craftsmanship, wittiness, and so much more. Bird house construction reveals me to possess these qualities, and these qualities being integral to this position, I pose to you now that I am very well suited to this position.”
My breath having run out I choked the last few words out from between my lips and then stood there, gripping my fingers to my breasts, my thin pink lips pressing tightly against each other, my cheeks flushed pink with the adrenaline of speeding through that small speech. I had to speak it quickly, or else I would have undoubtedly lost my nerve. My chest was heaving up and down, and I fixed Mr. Cartwright with a somber, almost challenging stare.
He looked back at me for several moments, his face blank, his eyes blinking quickly. And then, after several long seconds, he brought his hands together and began to clap.
I watched him awkwardly, not sure as to whether my new employer was making fun of me or truly, genuinely offering me some sort of odd praise.
“Well said,” Mr. Cartwright said, finishing his applauding and placing his hands upon his knees. “Well said, indeed, Molly.” He then stared at me again, his eyes narrowing slightly as if a plan was concocting itself within the hidden confines of his mind.
A knock sounded on the door, and Mr. Cartwright’s head snapped toward the double locked entranceway.
“Yes?” he called, his voice sailing over my head.
“Yes, Mr. Cartwright, sir, it’s Jenna Havelock,” a high pitched voice slurred through the door. “And I was wondering if you might like to discuss a certain business opportunity with Paul and I before we get too drunk to remember any deals that might come to be made?”
Mr. Cartwright glanced at me quickly, and I could not read his eyes. He then looked back to the door and called out, “Yes, yes of course, Jenna, darling. Thank you for reminding me. I will be right with you.”
Mr. Cartwright ran his hands quickly through his hair, fixing the loose strands that had crept free of his careful styling during his rage against the loveseat pillows. He then straightened his bow tie and fixed the collar of his jacket. He then stood, crossed the room, and unlocked the chain lock, and then twisted the golden knob lock with his gentle fingers. His hand was upon the golden door knob, just beginning to twist it to open the door when I turned sharply and took a breath.
“I really am very well suited to this position,” I gasped.
Mr. Cartwright paused. He stood for a moment with his back to me. Then he half turned, and I could see that a wicked smile played over his face, making his dark eyes dance with some sort of black fire that made my stomach flip over.
“Oh, Molly, my dear,” he said, his lips dancing into a near snarl as his tongue curled around the shape of my name. “You are very well suited... to this position, yes. And to another position, I think, as well.” And with those words, he turned, walked across the room, and grabbed me in his arms.
He pressed his lips against my own and kissed me tenderly, explosively. His muscular arms held me in an embrace that was both rough and sweet, all at once. His tongue flicked over mine, and his fingers slid up and down my back. I felt goose bumps leaping up across my flesh; my stomach flipped, and a warmth began to spread from my lips and down to my hips. I felt myself pulling in towards him. My fingers reached and wrapped around his neck, and suddenly they were combing through his hair, dragging him closer, and even closer to me. The next thing I knew, we were falling together, down and onto the floor, into the puddles of feathers; white downy snowflakes flying up and around us as we tumbled to the floor boards and my fingers were working through his hair and I could not believe how beautiful he was. His arms were impossibly chiseled, as if he was a statue of a god come to life, and touching me, embracing me. Our lips colliding urgently, fervently; my glasses falling down my nose as he kissed me again and then again, his fingers tracing the outline of my nipples growing hard and poking through my dress.
His hand slid up my leg, caressing my thigh, sliding the hem of my skirt up higher and higher, inch my inch. My spine curved in anticipation; I could feel myself getting wet. Mr. Cartwright’s fingers inched up my inner thigh, and then he was there. He slid the skirt of my dress up and looked at me full on, his eyes on my eyes, and he fed me a wicked, wicked gaze of copper magic; and then he dove down and began to kiss my pussy. My lips parted in pleasure and my shoulders arched.
“Oh my god,” I said, completely overwhelmed by the way my body shivered and shook whenever his lips and tongue touched my skin.
His tongue began to work around my clit, and I thought I might pass out from pure pleasure right then and there. Somehow, I held on, and the pleasure continued. He made me feel better than I had ever felt before, and I found myself reaching down subconsciously and gripping his hair in my fists. I tugged his lips against my pussy, begging him for more, forcing him to give me more. And then suddenly, his fingers were sliding into me, too, and I cried out.
“What! Oh, my fucking…”
I had never before ever in my life had someone inside of me; not in any way, shape or form. Mr. Cartwright sensed something was off and immediately pulled his fingers out of me. He tilted his head up towards mine.
“Are you okay?” he asked, a single eyebrow sliding up his forehead.
I looked down at him, Nikko Cartwright, the man of the moment, the man I had recently seen on Time magazine, was looking up at me; his lips grazing my clit as he spoke. I shivered and smiled.
“I’m very okay,” I managed.
Mr. Cartwright grinned that ever seductive half-smile and looked at me with wide, earnest eyes.
“Well that’s good, Molly, my dear,” he grinned. He glanced down at my pussy and bit his lips. “Mm. That’s very, very, good,” he smiled, and then his arms reaching up behind me and pulling me upwards, towards him.
Our bodies pressed together, and his fingers wound through my hair and pulling my face against his, so that, again, he drove his mouth against my own. He was kissing me, deeply, passionately, and there was fire all over the insides of my body, fireworks, moons, and stars exploding.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
“Nikko! What are you doing in there? Seriously, my darling, I am going to be far too wasted to make any deals soon. So, I suggest you hurry up!”
Mr. Cartwright pulled his face away from my own. I stood there, my breasts rising and falling with the adrenaline of kissing him, of his body pressing so closely against my flesh, of his fingers curling around my nipples and tracing paths over the curves of my body. I could still feel his lips kissing my clit, his tongue playing with my pussy. I shoved my glasses up my nose as he stood there, still gripping at my hips with his strong hands, simply standing still, looking just as perfectly composed as he had been before. He had leaned in and kissed me… me!
“I’m coming,” he called, his eyes still pouring into mine.
Then he dropped his hands from my hips and took a step back. He stood there for one moment more, simply looking at me. Then he said, “Very suited to another position, indeed.” And with that, he threw open the door and walked back out onto the crowded, writhing dance floor.
I stood staring at the door for some time, my heels piercing through the discarded white fluffy feathers, my fingers gripping at each other. My thoughts were whizzing and whirring as I tried to make sense of what had just happened in this small, marbled lounge room. My brain ran over the words that had fallen from both his lips and from my own, the way I had spoken so passionately about bird feeders. I sighed and a short chuckle escaped my lips as I recalled my zealous speech about a topic so quirky and bizarre. I ran my hands through my hair and tried to shake off the bout of trembles that had suddenly possessed me.
“Oh, fuck, Molly,” I said, laughing at myself. “What the hell did you just do?”
I remembered the way Mr. Cartwright had looked at me after I had finished my stupid speech about the bird feeders; not to mention the way he had looked at me before I had even begun to speak… The way he had dragged his eyes over the entirety of my body, all of its curves, every last inch of flesh. He had been appraising my true worth as an employee or in fact appraising my worth as… as a lover.
“Oh my God, Molly, as if,” I heard myself say out loud.
My cheeks instantly burned that familiar crimson and I shook my head. “Wow. AS IF you would even allow yourself to think that. Him? Into YOU? That is about as ridiculous as the fact that you just gave a speech on bird feeder design to one of the richest men in the world. He is drunk, no doubt. That is the only reason this happened. And the fact that you allowed it to happen, encouraged it to happen, that is pretty damn despicable, Molly.” I took a deep breath and let the air rush out of my mouth. “Don’t let yourself think that will happen again,” I said quietly, sternly, to myself as I pushed at my glasses and quickly straightening my hair. I pressed my hands against my dress and straightened the hem, swiped madly at the fabric of the skirt, trying my best to flatten out the newly minted creases. “It’s not going to happen again. It shouldn’t have even happened now, no matter how fucking gorgeous he is…” The instant I said the words I slapped a hand over my mouth. What was I doing, even allowing myself to think of my employer that way? Even in light of what had just happened, I could not afford to think of him that way.
“He has a reputation,” I told myself, reminded myself. My breath finally began to slow again, my temperature inched back down to its normal level. “And this,” I said, yanking a feather from my hair and throwing it down towards the floor. “Is precisely why. He gets brilliantly drunk, kisses girls he shouldn’t, and then people write about it. That is what just happened, and that is why you are now going to forget that it did happen, never think about it again, ever. And certainly don’t think about the fact that you really, really, fucking enjoyed it. So there. It’s done. We forget all about this; right… now.”
I shook my head, and took a step forward, causing a flurry of white feathers to dance up into the air and cascade down upon my gray dress. I stood there, very still for just a moment, checking to make sure that all of my body systems had returned to normal. When I was sure I had again composed myself and was in control of all my emotional faculties, I ran my hands through my hair one last time, ensuring my physical appearance matched my controlled mental state. Then I sighed and bent down and began to collect the feathers in my hand. Someone had to tidy the mess up, and seeing as there was no one else around, that someone looked like it was going to be me. After all, so far my only real duty as personal assistant to one of the world’s most successful CEOs had been picking up discarded and damaged objects off of the floor.
As I set to work catching a fistful of feathers from the air, I tried to focus my attention on my plans for the weekend: a nice bath, a good book, and a warm cup of freshly made tea. Yet try as I might to focus on these comforting thoughts, I could just not succeed in getting the image of Mr. Cartwright out of my head. All I could see was him, standing at the door, his fingers twisting open the golden door knob. His lips were twitching with some unknown mysteriousness, all dark lightning, and impossible attraction.
“You are very well suited. To this position, and to another position, as well,” he had snarled.
What could that mean? What could that possibly mean? Aside from… I blinked rapidly and violently shook my head. I had promised myself I would not dwell upon such thoughts. I would not be the girl who fell for a man who would never even take serious notice of her. I would not be that girl. Instead, I would be the professional woman who was cool, removed, and exceptional at her job. I turned my attention back to the feathers.
I tried not to picture it, tried to focus my energy upon the catching of feathers and the imagining of comforts such as baths and teas. But all I could think of, as I grabbed at feather after endless feather, was his muscular form sliding out of the doorway, offering me that subtle, parting wink.