by Hamel, B. B.
Well, Declan is cocky. He thinks he own the place, and I’m sure he looks down on Rogers. Declan sees Rogers as just some kind of mindless servant, around to pour coffee and fetch the dry cleaning.
He has no clue what the man is capable of. For that matter, I’m not so sure myself, but we’ll find out together.
Hazel comes into the room a moment later. I cock my head at her as she curtsies in front of my desk, eyes lowered to the floor.
“You called for me, Daddy?”
I smile. “Go stand over by the window in your normal morning spot.”
She does as I command.
I turn to her, a wicked grin on my face.
“Don’t move a muscle until I tell you.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
I turn back to my computer and go through the numbers one more time, trying to ignore the girl standing near the window.
I wonder how long she’ll last. I wonder how strong she is.
But I already know, if I’m honest with myself.
She’ll stand there for as long as I tell her to.
15
Hazel
I watch him work for nearly four hours.
At first, I think he’s going to call me over, make me sit on his lip, and kiss me. It’s strange how much I crave his touch and his kiss now. It’s like I can’t go ten minutes without feeling his fingers on my skin, and if I do, I have these phantom touches all along my body.
Instead, he keeps me standing. He barely looks in my direction. Minutes slip past, and then hours. My legs start to hurt, my back aches, my feet scream for me to just sit down for a second or at least move around.
I don’t move a muscle. I do lean back against the wall, ever so slightly, just to keep myself from passing out. Otherwise, I stay right where he told me to stand.
I watch him closely. I watch his every movement, every sound. He watches his computer and reads while moving his mouth ever so slightly, and I bet he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He has a habit of leaning against his right hand, fist on his chin, elbow on the desktop.
I want to reach out and brush my fingers through his hair. I don’t care how long he wants me to stand around. At least I get to watch him.
I don’t know how long he leaves me there. Time stops meaning anything. I just watch him closely like the best television show I’ve ever seen. Any little twitch, any movement, it’s like a revelation.
I study him. I feel like it’s the most intimate thing imaginable.
Finally, after some time has passed, he looks at me. He smiles.
“Come, sit down.” He stands and gently leads me over to the couch.
I practically collapse. He gets me some water and gives me the glass. “Drink,” he says.
I sip it, looking up at him. “I’m okay,” I say.
He smiles. “I know you are. Stronger than you look.”
“Stronger than you are.” I make a face at him.
“Tell me where it hurts.”
I sigh. “I told you—”
“Tell me where it hurts,” he repeats.
“My feet,” I admit. They’re so sore it’s like I can’t feel them.
He takes my shoes off. I groan in relief as he slowly starts to rub my right foot, his practiced, strong hands easily starting to bring some life back into it.
I bite my lip.
“Better?” he asks.
“That’s nice.”
He nods, smiling a little. “Good.” He keeps rubbing my foot. “I used to do this for my mother.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised. He rarely talks about his parents. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever heard him mention his mother.
“She was very smart,” he says. “And very beautiful. She spent most of her time organizing charity events and gossiping like every other wealthy woman in her position. Late at night, she’d get drunk and ask me to rub her feet, and I’d do it. We’d watch late-night TV together in silence while she drank and I gave her foot massages.” He laughs softly, almost sadly. “It was the nicest she ever was to me.”
I watch him carefully. I can tell this is difficult for him.
“She died of cancer,” he says. “I wasn’t there at the end. She refused to let anyone near her, other than my brother and her nurses. I didn’t get to say goodbye, but I think she preferred it that way. She wanted everyone to remember the woman she was, not the woman cancer turned her into.”
“I can understand that,” I say softly. “But it must have been hard.”
“It was,” he admits. “Three years later, my father died of a heart attack. He was out on a boat with his new mistress. Allegedly they were fucking, but who really knows.”
“Both parents in three years,” I say softly.
“Losing my father wasn’t so hard. The hard part came after that.”
I cock my head. “What happened?”
“Did you know that I have an older brother?”
“You mentioned him,” I say.
“His name is Jeremy,” he says softly, switching to my other foot. I can’t suppress a groan of delight. “I try not to think about him often.” He’s silent for a moment, rubbing my foot. “He was an addict. Heroin, oxy, whatever he could get his hands on. Started when he was young and just got worse and worse as he got older. My father hated him for it, thought he was weak and pathetic. You should’ve heard the fights.”
He doesn’t smile as he remembers.
“Jeremy wasted away,” he says softly. “My parents supported him financially, but barely. Kept him in drugs, though. Kept him alive. He was in and out of rehab but by the fourth time I think my parents had given up on him already.
“After my father died, I remember the lawyers coming to us, sitting us down in Dad’s study, and reading the will. Everyone expected Jeremy to inherit everything. That’s how the Wards always did things, the oldest male took it all, no matter what. Even though Jeremy was an addict, I still figured he’d get every penny.”
He goes silent, slowly kneading my foot.
“What happened?” I prompt him softly.
“He got nothing,” Mason says. “Not a cent. I couldn’t believe it. They left it all to me, and Jeremy got nothing at all. There wasn’t even a mention of him in the will, almost like he never existed. Even my sister got something, a nice little trust fund. Everything else went to me. Jeremy overdosed two weeks later.”
I stare at him, eyes wide. I don’t know what to say. He keeps rubbing my foot, slowly but surely.
“I blamed myself. It’s my fault that he died. He was so angry, so depressed. I got everything and he got nothing, and he couldn’t handle it. He tried to deal the only way he knew how, by getting fucking high… and this time it killed him.”
He goes silent now. I let it stretch on for a moment.
“You know it isn’t your fault,” I say.
“He was probably going to do it no matter what, sooner or later,” he admits. “If they had left him the money, it would’ve been a real mess. They did what they had to do…”
He trails off.
“But you’ve never forgiven yourself,” I say to him.
“Right.” He takes a breath and stops rubbing my foot. He slowly releases it. “I’ve never told anyone that.”
I lean forward and kiss him. I don’t know what else to do. That’s such a hard story to hear, such a tragedy. He blames himself for his brother’s death when he had nothing to do with it. His brother was an addict, and he can’t control that. Sooner or later, that sort of thing catches up with you.
I understand it, though. I can see the pain in him, even now, almost like it’s still fresh. He hates himself for what happened to his brother.
I kiss him and hug him tight. He doesn’t cry, but he holds me close. We stay like that for a little while until slowly breaking apart.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“For what?”
“Listening. It felt good to say that out loud.”
“You can tell me these
things,” I say. “Anytime you want. You don’t… you don’t have to make me wait for hours.”
He laughs softly and kisses me. “I don’t open up easily. Sometimes I need to make sure you’re real before telling you my secrets.”
I sigh a little bit, stretching. “Well, I’m real. Get used to it.”
He laughs again before standing. “I have work to do.”
I nod and stand, slipping my shoes back on. “I’ll leave you to it.” I head back to the door.
“Hazel,” he says, and I turn to look at him. “Really. Thank you.”
I smile. He looks so incredibly beautiful standing there, darkness all around him, but still trying.
“Any time,” I say, and leave his office.
16
Mason
I wake up with light streaming in through my window and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel the need to look at the clock.
I smile and stretch. Another dreamless night, another gift. It’s pretty obvious why I’m sleeping so well, although I’m not sure I’m ready to admit it.
I think back to yesterday, telling Hazel about my past. She didn’t seem judgmental or angry about what had happened with my parents and my brother. That story is a deep pit of guilt that I’ve been holding onto for a long time, and finally I feel like I can relax a little bit.
I never told anyone that. Not even my first wife, Marla.
She was so different from Hazel. Marla was tall, thin, blonde. She was almost severe, except for when she laughed. I thought she was beautiful and funny and would make a good wife to bring with me to charity events. I thought she’d be a good mother.
I don’t know if I loved her. She was the daughter of a well-respected man with a ton of money, so I figured she’d be a good match. I liked to fuck her and I liked having her around, so I figured that was good enough. I was in my thirties, it was time to settle down.
We got married when I was thirty-three. Two years later, she got pregnant.
I take a breath and let it out. I can’t think about Marla. I haven’t let myself go down this road in a long time but since I’m starting to release some guilt, maybe part of me is trying to release her as well.
I’m not ready to release her. I’m afraid I never will be.
I stretch and roll over onto my side, looking at the clock. I have to look again, eyes going slowly wide.
It’s nine-fucking-thirty.
I start to jump out of bed, but I stop myself. I’m already late and everyone is aware of it by now, so why bother pretending like I didn’t oversleep? I mean, fucking hell, I haven’t overslept once in the last five years. This is the first time I’ve gotten over eight hours of sleep since the accident.
Why the fuck shouldn’t I just enjoy it for once?
I roll back into bed and grab my phone. I dial Rogers’ number and wait for him to pick up.
“Good morning, sir,” he says.
“Good morning. As it turns out, I overslept.”
“Yes, sir. You did.” He doesn’t sound annoyed. He actually sounds… happy.
“I was hoping you could send Hazel back here.”
A short but noticeable pause. “Back to your room, sir?”
“Yes, Rogers. Have her bring coffee and my paper, will you?”
“Coffee and your paper in bed,” he says softly. “Very well, sir.”
I shake my head and hang up the phone. Rogers rarely tips his hand and shows what he thinks about how I live my life, but clearly he couldn’t help himself.
I know he worried about me. He’s said as much over the years. I know Rogers thinks it’s well past time to let go of the ghosts that keep dragging me back to this place and rejoin society. He’s been advocating release for me for at least a couple of years now.
Unfortunately I’ve been my own judge and jury, and only my opinion mattered.
I don’t have to wait long. I hear her footsteps come down the hall and stop outside of my door. She knocks three times and waits.
“Come in,” I call out.
She manages to get the door open and carry the tray inside. I sit up in bed, wearing just my pajama pants, the covers hanging loosely around my waist. She looks at my shirtless body, my rumpled hair, and quickly looks down at the floor.
“Good morning, Daddy,” she says, performing a curtsy with her hands full.
“Bring that over here.”
She carries the tray over. I place it down on the bed, sitting cross-legged. She hesitates next to me.
“Anything else?” she asks.
“Sit,” I say, pointing at the bed. “Have some.”
There’s a second mug, and she does as I asked. I’m guessing Rogers put the second mug there, the sly dog. I smile a little as I sip my coffee and Hazel pours herself some.
I grab the paper and place it down on the bed next to me. “What do you think?” I ask her almost casually.
“Of what?”
“My room.”
She looks around. It’s a simple room, almost spartan. There’s a bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and a closet. There’s a TV mounted on the wall.
The only interesting aspects are the paintings. Ever since I locked myself away, I’ve been investing in art slowly but surely, and over the last five years I’ve amassed a pretty solid collection.
They’re all hanging on the walls. A Picasso, a Rembrandt, along with more contemporary artists like Cy Twombly and Jackson Pollock. Some of them are by up-and-coming no-name artists, and there’s at least one Banksy, a tiny little thing perched in a corner.
She looks around and smiles. “I had no idea,” she says, laughing a little.
“Take a look around.”
She stands and walks toward the Pollock. “Is this really…?”
“Cost a lot of money, but it’s real,” I say.
She shakes her head, looking closely at each painting. “This is incredible.”
“I’m glad you like it.” I sip my coffee and watch as she goes around the room looking at each painting closely. It takes her at least fifteen minutes and she talks quietly under her breath the whole time.
Finally, she faces me. “Is this why you hired me?”
I raise an eyebrow. “No, I didn’t hire you because I also collect art.”
“I mean, did you hire me because I’m a painter?”
“No,” I say, laughing a little. “That was an added bonus.”
“You gave me shit for it.”
“That’s right.”
“And yet you spend millions on paintings. How does someone that spends so much money collecting art look down on people that get art degrees?”
I shrug a little, sipping my coffee again. “You don’t need a degree to be a painter, Hazel,” I say. “Do you think Banksy went and did an MFA program?”
“There’s a long tradition of painters learning their craft at a school,” she counters.
“Maybe, but we’re not living in the Middle Ages anymore.”
“You’re just an ass.”
“You’re not seeing the point.” I sit up straighter as she glares at me. “You can paint no matter what. You can go home and paint, you can look at millions of artworks online, you can read limitless articles about it, you can even watch YouTube videos on technique. You don’t need to learn any of that in school.”
“But none of that is a substitute for real community,” she says softly.
“True, although you could just as easily get community by meeting other artists in real life.”
“I think you’re being purposefully obtuse.”
“Probably.” I shrug again. “I just feel that an artist can learn so much on their own now, it waters down their art to go to school for it. Besides, if art doesn’t work out, you should have a degree to fall back on.”
She glares at me again. “I’m not falling back on anything.”
“Okay, okay.” I smile and pat the bed. “Come sit back down.”
She hesitates, but she does as I ask. She sips her co
ffee, looking annoyed, but she keeps glancing around at the art hanging on the walls.
I’m pleased that she likes it. I’ve never shown anyone this room. I’ve been buying these paintings and bringing them into my bedroom strictly for my own enjoyment. I have an amazing collection in there, and I’ve kept it from the world, hoarded it in this room.
That’s been part of the pleasure of it for me. I know I have a unique little collection here, a collection people would beg and plead to see for even a few minutes. It’s like my own little secret treasure trove.
I never expected to show Hazel. Of course, when she told me that she’s a painter, the idea did cross my mind. I never took it seriously, though. Nobody ever comes back into my room, not in five years.
I study her closely as she looks around again. I know she wants to get up and study it all, but she’s stopping herself.
“You know, you’re the first person to see all this,” I say to her casually.
She looks at me, surprised. “Really?”
“Really. Not even Rogers has been in here since I’ve collected it all.”
“Why?” she asks.
“When I decided to go private, I made a conscious decision not to bring people in here. The office, that’s my public space, even though that’s also pretty damn private. But this room…” I trail off and shrug. “I wanted something special, something unique in the world, just for myself.”
“So you collected all this.” She can’t help herself. She gets back up, looking closely at the works.
“Exactly. I told myself I’d never share it, not with anyone. It would be all mine.”
She looks back at me, frowning a little. “But I’m in here now.”
“You’re right. You’re in here now.”
She smiles softly. “You’re still an asshole.”
“I know.” I pick up the paper and sip my coffee. “Go ahead and look around.”
She turns away and I flip through the paper, reading a few headlines, but mostly watching her as she goes from priceless painting to priceless painting.
Very few people get to be so close to works of this magnitude. In a museum, you have to keep your distance, but in my bedroom she can get right up in front of it, staring at the brushstrokes. I’d let her touch one, if she wanted to, but she holds back. She’s a good little university-trained artist, after all.
