SIR

by R. J. Lewis

  His eyelids lower the second I swear. I quickly add, “I will keep the profanity out of the office, don’t worry—”

  “I have a feeling that will be unlikely.”

  I shrug innocently. “Okay, so I swear a little, who doesn’t?”

  He runs his tongue along his bottom lip. It’s painfully distracting. “Miss Montcalm, you’re going to be a handful.”

  “In the best way!”

  He looks me over, eyes lingering on my Cookie Monster shorts. He even glimpses at my top, still wet, still see-through. He swallows hard and looks away, shaking his head as he runs a ragged hand through his hair. It’s way too long. I remember he hated when it fell over his forehead during a workout.

  “We need to give that a cut, too,” I remark quietly. “Get you back to your normal self.”

  “How would you know what my normal self is?” he growls.

  “Steven was very informative.”

  He shoots me a distasteful look.

  To appear more impressive, I add, “I’ll even do it.”

  He quirks a brow. “You cut hair, Miss Montcalm?”

  I shrug nonchalantly. “I’m pretty good at it.” I study his reaction and smile weakly. “You’ll notice that from me soon, Mr West. I’m full of surprises.”

  Isn’t that what he used to say to me all the time?

  God, this is heartbreaking for me.

  He grunts in response, moving back to the door. He opens it but hovers there, letting out a long breath. Without looking at me, he says, “Don’t be a bother to Nina. Don’t be a bother to me. I’m going to be patient with you, Miss Montcalm, just this once. Are we clear?”

  He’s being territorial with Nina? Are you fucking kidding me?

  Anger jolts through my body, but I stiffen a nod, biting back my curse. “We’re clear, sir.”

  Interesting what that word is doing to him, even after his memory loss.

  He drops his head, peering at the ground, looking almost pained. “Fuck,” he curses under his breath, frustrated. “Fuck.”

  I lick my lips, tempted to see him unravel with that word.

  Don’t push him, Ivy, I whisper to myself.

  Don’t –

  “Sir?” I say it as innocently as possible, in a concerned sort of way, but I watch him closely.

  His reaction is immediate.

  His eyes flare as he raises his head, giving me an angry look before he slams the door shut again. It’s with such force, the wall to my chamber shakes and before I can process the angry move, Aidan is striding across the room.

  To me.

  Like prey being cornered, I go completely still, anxiously awaiting some sort of unleashed fury—when his front slams into me and his mouth crashes against mine.

  Holy shit!

  The kiss is so abrupt, so out of nowhere, it takes a moment for me to process his mouth on mine. He kisses me hard, and I can taste his wrath, can taste his bitterness as he forces my lips apart. I don’t even respond. I simply can’t because his anger is startling, and I don’t know how to match it.

  My lips feel bruised as he presses his mouth harder against mine like he’s searching for something. His hand grips the back of my head, fingers gripping my hair roughly as he tastes me, his tongue sliding between my surprised, parted lips. He tastes me quickly, running his tongue along mine, and when he begins to pull away, his teeth nip at my bottom lip, biting me. I suck in a breath at the painful sting he leaves behind. When I open my eyes, he has let go of my hair and steps back, peering at me with those drunken eyes.

  Drunken, I repeat to myself. Not himself.

  “I know you,” he declares thoughtfully, studying me.

  I don’t respond to him. I’m panting, confused. My heart is in despair as I stare at him instead, trying to recognize him. There’s no warmth in his expression. His face is all wrong and cold. I almost feel like I’m staring into a stranger’s eyes because even they’re darker than I’m used to.

  “Well, I don’t,” I weakly reply, tone laced with pain. I don’t even bother to mask it. If he’s as drunk as he used to be, he likely won’t remember any of this come morning.

  His eyes narrow. He just kissed me, and I can still taste the alcohol on his tongue. He was so close to me, chest pressed against mine, hand tugging my hair, and yet…I feel like there’s an ocean between us.

  Nostrils flaring, he turns away from me and stomps back to the door. He rips it open and leaves, not even bothering to close it behind him. So, I do. I close it slowly, and rest my forehead against the door, breathing slowly as I run a tongue along my lips, trying to taste him over the taste of alcohol.

  My thoughts are scattered. I’m trying to catch up with them.

  What a weird, surreal day.

  I’ve managed to save my job by lying about a contract. Actually, I saved it by not cowering to him. I imagine he gets that a lot. People who shut up when he tells them to, people who fold under his glare. I don’t blame them. Aidan West is intense. Always has been, that’s not changed, but there’s a different edge to him now.

  He’s so…unfeeling.

  But I jogged something in him. I think. A feeling he was familiar with and he chased that feeling all the way to my lips. I can still feel that stabbing kiss on my lips, and as I run my finger along them, I feel how puffy they are.

  I couldn’t even kiss him back.

  Because it didn’t feel like him.

  That kiss was laced with wrong intentions. It wasn’t filled with the passion I’ve ached to relive, and whatever he tasted on them, he didn’t look entirely happy either.

  My body is weak. My spirit is sore. I am not in a good place, but the longer I’m in this house and the longer I’m seeing his reaction to me, the more certain I am I can do this.

  I’m going to find Aidan, I tell myself as I change into another set of clothes. I’m going to mine him out of this mean stranger (definitely not a total cunt like everyone keeps saying he is, but he’s rather bizarre) and make him mine again.

  I’m here to bring him back and destroy the mean man that looks at me like I’m a bug he wants to crush, and I’m going to do that. Heaven help me, I’m going to bring Aidan back. Even if it means losing myself in the process. Even if it means feeling my heart break apart along the way. Even if he doesn’t end up falling in love with me again. That’s okay. It is. I’m not giving up on him. I have so much I need to make amends for. I owe it to him to help him.

  I suck in a breath as I crawl into bed and curl into a ball.

  It’ll be okay.

  Aidan

  What I would fucking give right now to get high, to feel numb and not give a single fuck about anything. What I would give to feel myself detach from this body as it destroys everything around me.

  I crave that destruction.

  It feels so much better than this.

  I stand on the bedroom balcony, peering into the darkness. I can’t get my fucking heart to settle. Something is very, very off, and I know it has to do with that girl showing up at my door in that dress, with those smooth as fuck legs and lips I’m fucking adamant I’ve tasted before.

  My tongue traces my bottom lip as I relive that kiss.

  “I’ve been hired by Steven. I’m your new PA.”

  I don’t buy her bullshit story for a second, and fuck Steven for lying to me, too. I may have suffered memory loss in that crash, but I’m not a fucking idiot. The world isn’t the same, everything is different, and I’m wading through it blind and alone.

  I trust nobody.

  Everyone goes away in the end. No one stays…No one.

  I shut my eyes, trying to remember the fragments that come to me every single morning. Like a dream, they vanish from my mind the second I open my eyes, but sometimes…sometimes I remember fleeting moments.

  My fingers running through dark hair.

  A messy apartment the size of a shoebox.

  Beer bottles and plane seats.

  Ice cream and heavy rain.

&nb
sp; A cupcake and starry skies.

  I’m convinced these dreams are fragments of my memory coming back to me, and every fucking time I think about delving in, I feel a hard push.

  Something inside me doesn’t want to know.

  Something inside me says stop.

  And when I stop, when I hit that wall and feel a pain in my chest unlike anything I’ve ever felt, I see blue eyes staring back at me.

  Blue eyes like Ivy Montcalm’s.

  But that’s not possible, is it?

  It must be my brain playing tricks on me.

  Because I never saw those eyes before today.

  And now I’ve never felt so hopeless. I can’t trust anyone—I can’t even trust myself anymore.

  I move to my bed and collapse into the cool sheets. I run a hand over my face, already feeling the weariness take over. Sleep is medicine these days. When I get knocked out, I embrace the black. So easily submerged in it, I don’t even stir. Not even when the fragments come. Not even when I never see the face of that dark haired woman who refuses to look at me. I’m always reaching out for her.

  Reaching out for her hand…

  A pained sound escapes me.

  I fucking need Ruth to talk me off this ledge because when I look down, it’s so black, I can’t even see the bottom.

  But like my memory, Ruth is gone, and I’m hollow.

  Five

  Ivy

  “I feel like I hate you for some reason.”

  I open my eyes. His words keep running through my head.

  Even though my body clock is broken, I get out of bed early. My body is in such a state, I look like Break-neck lady from Haunting of Hill House.

  Moving around is easy to do when you haven’t slept a wink. This bed is sinister as fuck. It’s got soft spots on the mattress, but I had to find them in the night. Even then, part of my body was sleeping on a cloud, the other part was sleeping on cold, hard stone.

  Aidan is smart, I surmise. If his rude demeanor didn’t drive his former assistants away, I’m certain it was this fucking bed. Fucking well done, Mr West.

  I wear a short sleeve white bodysuit with a short black office skirt. I straighten my hair, which was initially problematic because the plug in the bathroom makes popping noises. I whispered a prayer before sticking the end of my straightener in it. Heavenly father, who art in heaven—

  I’m still alive. Yay…

  I slip into a pair of black flats because I don’t have the balls to put on any of the heels Ana packed for me. It seems sort of out of place walking around the house in heels anyway. Like, calm the fuck down, Ivy, he ain’t gonna be looking at your feet.

  Then I’m out the door and into the bright morning light. I’m instantly feeling better. This house in the sunlight is stunning, and I need some D (the vitamin kind).

  Tilda is in the kitchen, wiping down the counters when she sees me.

  “Good morning,” she greets, cheerfully. I don’t know how she can be so upbeat after last night’s mess, but I’ll take it.

  “Morning,” I groggily mutter. I’m foggy and tired. I have my French press and coffee beans in my hands. I drop them onto the counter next to her and begin to work on my cup of coffee.

  “You can use Aidan’s espresso machine, if you’d like.”

  I glance at the beast sitting in the corner of the kitchen. It’s intimidating me with all its buttons.

  “That’s okay, Tilda. I’ve got this puppy.”

  My French press cost like twelve bucks on special and there are no buttons whatsoever. I fill the kettle with water. Being in this kitchen is so much more positive than mine, and I still haven’t gotten around to properly cleaning it yet. I don’t think Estella got to either, or the PA before her and so on. There are things growing in that sink…

  The house is noticeably quiet. I am not used to the stillness. Ana’s apartment was always loud with her thumping about. Before that, it was Derek’s reign of terror through the rooms. I pause just thinking about him. Derek feels like another lifetime ago. Shudder.

  “I take it Mr West is still sleeping,” I state, trying to make conversation because my social skills are severely lacking in the mornings.

  “I imagine he is.”

  Hmm.

  Aidan used to be up at four in the morning. It used to drive me crazy to see him out the door by five. He was such an overachiever.

  I turn on the kettle and stand back, mulling over what the hell I’m supposed to do today. Step one is ensuring the guy is up and soon, but that means going into his bedroom and getting him out of bed. A pulsing shiver runs down my spine at the thought. I did tell him that I would do this; I’m just terrified of what I’ll find when I open that door.

  How do I bring this up without seeming obvious?

  “Will uh…will he be alone, do you think?” I ask quietly, looking down at my nails. Ana would kill me if she knew I’ve scraped off my nail polish already.

  “I would assume so.” She sounds confused.

  I clear my throat. “I’m only asking because I don’t want to intrude, you know…” Then I stop right there, hoping she catches my gist.

  Tilda just stares at me, waiting.

  Okay.

  “You know,” I press, this time looking at her pointedly. “Nina Hamilton’s been kicking around.”

  She nods slowly. “Yes, she hasn’t been here long. She’s here for work.”

  My brows come together. “She’s working for Mr West?”

  She shakes her head. “Oh, God, no.” She shudders, and I take it I’m not the only one who finds Nina distasteful. “She’s here for a photoshoot. She claims she’s on a”—she puts up air quotes—“‘countryside retreat’ on Vancouver Island for”—more air quotes—“‘spiritual healing’, whatever that means.”

  Ah, that would explain what I saw yesterday when I almost walked in on her humping that tree. How spiritual.

  I’m still holding my breath, feeling dread in the pit of my stomach, when I ask, “So, her and West aren’t together?”

  Now Tilda pauses, thinking. “I’ve overheard him saying she needs to go when she’s done, and she’s in a guest bedroom at the moment, but…she has made her wants known to him. I’m not around to know if he has reciprocated. Like I said, I get out of dodge at six every day, and even then, it’s not always early enough for me to miss out on the start of those parties.”

  “Did he throw them before she came around?”

  “Yes,” she says, hesitating. “They can get pretty bad, but most times the people have cleared by morning and I just have a messy home to clean up, so…not as raunchy as before, if you catch my drift.” She won’t meet my eye now, like she’s not eager to get into detail.

  I bite my lip, stressing. “Do you think she’s in his room, Tilda?” And before she gets curious why I’m so intent on knowing, I add, “Just because I don’t want to walk in on anything” — gross, horrifying, heartbreaking — “inappropriate.”

  Tilda can’t help me. She simply shrugs, appearing apologetic. “I don’t know, Ivy. Every time I’ve gone into his room to change his sheets, there’s been no sign of her, if that helps.”

  It sort of does help.

  So, cunt face Nina is on a countryside retreat in Aidan’s Georgian home on Vancouver Island for spiritual healing, but wait, she has to have a photographer on hand to take shots of her half-naked against a tree. It’s such bullshit, I can’t even right now. Bitch is making her moves, and I need to act fast to remove her from this house.

  I just don’t know how to yet and time is not on my side.

  “Are you alright?” Tilda asks me, watching me closely.

  I’ve been staring off, face strained. “I’m dandy. Just…need my coffee.”

  But not even that buys me much more time. My coffee is done within fifteen minutes. I pour it into the mug and walk around the home, sipping on it. I follow Tilda into another room, prolonging the inevitable.

  I’m being a wuss. I need to just go to his roo
m and wake him up.

  Not – a –big – deal.

  Before I do so, I shoot off a text to Steven, asking him where to bloody start once he’s up. But he’s answered this before, and I scroll up to see his text.

  Steven: He’s got business proposals to look over.

  Okay, we can start on that, then.

  I read another message of his.

  Steven: Remember, Ivy, he’s lost because he doesn’t remember letting go of the company. You must distract him with what he loves most: proposals. He will want to sink his teeth into a sound investment.

  Steven is right.

  This is what Aidan used to love to do.

  I click out of his messages and check on Ana.

  Ana: Call me anytime after 5 today, Ivy. Please. I need to hear from you. I need to know you’re okay. I love you.

  I instantly send her a heart and tell her I love her back.

  As Tilda cleans around me, I finally summon the courage to ask, “Where is Mr West’s bedroom, Tilda?”

  The time has come. I mentally put my solider helmet on.

  She leads me to it. It’s on the upper floor and in the opposite direction he led me down yesterday. His bedroom has solid white double doors. I don’t have to step in to know this room is going to be huge. It takes up a third of the upper floor. Tilda squeezes my shoulder and gives me a reassuring smile, and then she races out of there. I’m not being dramatic about this, either. She’s not walking quickly out of the room; she’s racing away from me.

  She does this a lot. It’s like she can predict a shitstorm.

  But that’s okay.

  Truly.

  I crack my neck. I got this.

  I stand outside of the doors for a while, not buying into my bullshit narrative. Nervous adrenaline is zipping through my body. I’m terrified and already miserable. I rest my hand on the knob, take a quick breath, and turn it.

  There. It’s done. I did it. Now walk, Ivy.