by Ami Snow
I rearranged the old records on the box to my left, biting down on my lip in concentration as I straightened the rows of faded vinyl cases. Deeply engrossed in my reorganization frenzy, I hardly noticed the looming shadow of the mysterious figure across me.
“I saw what you did with the little girl – Nadine, was it? That was real sweet of you.”
The back of my neck prickled at the crisp tone of an orotund, silvery voice. I glimpsed up from the stacks of records, my cheeks flushing beet red, gawking at the devilishly handsome stranger before me. The man's short, but luxuriant, vanilla blonde hair was sleekly parted to the side, his smoldering, pool-blue eyes piercing straight into my soul.
I pushed a strand of my spirally, brick-red curls behind my burning ears, clearing my throat before mumbling, “Was for a good cause. I – can I help you with something, sir?”
“I've actually been looking all over town for the Road House soundtrack on vinyl, any chance you've got that in your collection?”
I shook my head slowly, fumbling through the cases, “Lemme check that for you right now, but I don't think we have it. I've been through all the records...”
I sighed, defeated, “No, sorry. Are you a collector or are you looking for a gift?”
“A gift – it's my buddy's birthday this weekend –”
“So I take it he's into old action flicks?” I selected two records from the box, suggesting, “We've got the original soundtracks of Smokey and the Bandit and The Dukes of Hazzard – the TV show. These are both pretty rad – I've got them both on cassettes myself.”
“Great, I'll take them both.”
“That'll be thirty –”
“Here, keep the change. It's for a good cause, yeah?”
My shoulders shivered as his eyebrows wriggled sexily, accepting his hundred-dollar bill.
I stuttered, “That's – that's very generous of you, sir. Thank you.”
He reached into his pocket and slipped a name card into my hands. Adjusting the buttons of his fitted, burgundy henley shirt, he explained coolly, “Kane Crawford, of –”
“Crawford & Co. Modeling Group?” My eyes bulged in disbelief, “Don't y'all represent Kira Moore and Laney Chavez? Are you serious? What're you all doing in a town like –”
“Are you interested in coming in for a position? I'm looking for a personal secretary.”
My lips popped open in shock. I was bewildered, unsure I heard him correctly, “You're – you're what now? Me? Work for you? But I've never –”
“I don't look for experience – I'm looking for an eager learner.”
I raised my eyebrows thoughtfully, the corners of the card barbing my fingertips, “I'm really flattered, Mr. Crawford, sir, I'm just not sure I'm the right –”
“Your salary's guaranteed to be triple your usual rate, all benefits included. We can talk.”
“Mr. Crawford, it's not the money, I –”
“Think about it, Ms. – ?”
“Walsh. Cleo Walsh. I –”
“Very well, Ms. Walsh. The address is on my card. Like I said – think about it. I hope to see you in my office for an interview at nine AM sharp, Monday morning.”
As he strode away, my eyes fell to the snug silhouette of his sculpted cheeks, visibly tight through his jeans. I blushed, immediately ripping my eyes away, my heart fluttering excitedly in my chest. The wave of exhilaration quickly evaporated, the image of Mathias' ruddy, growling face sneaking into my mind. I breathed deeply, slowly piecing together how I would break the news to him.
Chapter Three –
The Crawford & Co. building towered over me like the illustrious, swanky business empire it was, conquering the North American industry of fashion in the '10s and earning them a permanent spot in Forbes lists. The modish, twisted skyscraper stood about fifty stories tall, its curtain walls constructed of spider-black, polished stone, the scintillating windows trimmed with scarlet. My shoulders shrunk spontaneously. The “small-town” girl in me shuddered in anxiety, grossly intimidated, immediately probing at my self-worth and ability. I took a deep breath, shaking off my qualms and pestering negativity. I'm an excellent, hard-working, Jesus-loving, karma-wary, decent, human being. This hoity-toity, big-named corporation would be lucky to have me on their team.
I scooted towards the speckless, glass commercial doors with unique, spiraled handles, smiling courteously at the sharply-dressed, burly gentlemen who opened the door for me. I cringed, my brand-new, silver pumps cheeping noisily under my weight. Making sure to tread lightly, I silently rebuked myself for not having broken them in sooner. As I wandered through the establishment, I inspected the fancy, gold-plated signage and directed myself towards the elevators.
Crimson flooded my lightly-rouged cheeks. I kept a straight, fixed look at the slim slit between the elevator doors, a complementary shade to the black of the building. From the corner of my eye, I ineffectively ignored the catty stage-whispers of the barely-clothed, Amazonian women to my left. My nose twitched. They were clearly discussing their less-than-impressed notions of my carefully-chosen interview attire.
With all the forbearance I could muster, I kept a straight face, but inside, the feathers of my confidence were ruffled, slowly being plucked, one at a time. I glanced down speedily, sighing as I examined my outfit. I stood out like a quarter in a stack of needles. My weighty, buxom chest could hardly be restrained despite the number of safety pins I'd fastened between the stubborn closings of my blouse. The women's glitzy, glamorous tops draped over them effortlessly, shaping their slinky silhouettes, reducing me to an insecure schoolgirl.
The elevator dinged, detangling me from of my jumbled, precarious thoughts. I boarded the elevator, decked out with floor-length mirrors, secretly grateful the disparaging divas were heading south. The tile floor underneath my feet buzzed to life, steadily creeping upwards.
The elevators doors glided open, the bustling activity of the forty-second floor spilling into the small room. I made a beeline towards the receptionist, easing my guard at the affable smile on her approachable features. She edged around her table, extending a warm hand, her fingers garnished with large, flashy rings.
“You must be Cleo. My name's Shannon. Mr. Crawford is expecting you in five minutes – come on, I'll show you to his office.”
“Bless your soul,” I grinned appreciatively, “Thank you – I'd probably still be roaming these halls tomorrow if it weren't for you. This place is –”
“Insanity?” Shannon piped up hopefully as she navigated, “I'm drowning in work and overtime – but I do it for Crawford. He's got unbelievable vision, I mean, I don't have to tell you that –”
“He's an international magnate,” I agreed.
“I'll just put it this way – Crawford & Co. is by far, the best company I've ever worked for. Trust me, you'll want this job. Don't hesitate – just take it. Thousands of people would kill to be in your shoes right now – and, we're here. Good luck.”
I knocked lightly with the back of my knuckles, firming my jittery kneecaps as I pushed open the door. My tightened lips unhinged, a tingling sensation flowering on the tips of my fingers.
Kane Crawford sat behind a desk, the wood painted completely black, seemingly the running theme of the enterprise. He was a veritable Don Draper in his immaculately-tailored, three-piece suit, a striking shade of cobalt blue. He raised the corner of his mouth slightly, beckoning me forward with a masculine, but neatly-manicured hand.
I obliged, seating myself across his desk. He cocked an eyebrow, the intensity of his gaze sizzling into my skin. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, finally remembering the resume clenched firmly in my grasp. He accepted the resume, his hooded, blue eyes darting from side to side, skimming through my type-written achievements.
“I know I don't have a lot of –”
Mr. Crawford interjected, cocking an eyebrow, “Like I said – experience isn't crucial to your employment. Can you type?”
I nodded enthusiastically, “Yes, I've got a 103 WPM –�
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“Show me.”
“What?” I blinked, furrowing my brows, “Right now?”
I rose from my chair, meeting his unwavering stare. My heart pounded in my ears as I teetered towards him awkwardly in my heels, my confined breasts swinging heavily. Did I just notice his eyes lingering on my heaving chest? A rush of exhilaration coursed through my veins.
Mr. Crawford dragged away his leather throne, pulling up a plain, sturdy wooden chair in its place. I slanted my head to the side in confusion. I shivered, catching a hinted whiff of his brisk, cognac-inspired cologne, the back of his hand delicately brushing against the small of my back. My toes curled inside my pumps.
“Bend over.”
I gasped, crinkling my forehead, “Excuse me, sir?”
He leaned in close to me, his hot breath tickling my earlobes, “You heard me. Get up on the chair and bend over, ass up.”
I glanced at the blank document on the screen of his desktop. My eyes fell to the leather-bound Bible next to his computer, displaying a highlighted passage. In a trance-like state, I heaved myself up on the wooden chair, resting my elbows on his desk, wobbling until I gained balance. I turned to him for his approval.
“Like this, sir?”
“Good girl. Start typing.”
I swallowed. Beads of sweat collected in the creases of my palms, dampening his keyboard. I froze, his fingers crawling up my thighs, slowly hiking my skirt over my waist. An icy blast blew past my unsheltered skin, the thin, white cotton of my high-cut briefs clinging to my ample cheeks.
“Sir?” I squeaked, “What are you –”
“I want to see how you fare under distraction. Now, type.”
My eyes widened at the irony of the verse I had become well-acquainted with over the years – 1 Corinthians 6, verses 18 to 20. I propped my trembling fingers upon the keyboard, my thumping pulse accelerating in my wrists as he grabbed a handful of my left cheek, melting at his touch.
I feebly clicked away, “Flee from sexual immorality...Every other sin...”
Mr. Crawford opened his bottom drawer and brandished a black, seven-inch scourge with leather fringes. I hunched my shoulders, a cold, frigid fear gripping me motionless. He yanked my panties down to my ankles. I glimpsed at him behind my shoulders, his eyes hovering over the diamond on my ring finger. I curled my fists.
Without warning, he cracked his whip violently against my bare cheeks. My back arched, a pained shriek trilling out of my lips. The skin of my jiggling cheeks numbed, a faint, reddish stain blossoming from where he struck me.
Mr. Crawford grunted through gritted teeth, grabbing a fistful of my hair, “I didn't ask you to stop. Keep typing.”
The room around me hazed, my heart pounding in my ears as my eyes snapped back to the screen. My knees quavered, a thin stream of my juices trickling between my legs. God forgive me.
Chapter Four –
Just as I expected, Mathias awaited my return. I groaned under my breath, bracing myself as I spotted his department-issued motorcycle, parked on the curb across my house. Mathias was leaning against his ride, sporting his full uniform, his spotless badge glinting under the muted glow of the streetlamp. He hung his helmet over his handlebar, his arms crossed and his face contorted in a seething sneer.
“So we've finally made it home, huh?”
I stifled the urge to roll my eyes, skirting past him as I headed for my front door. Mathias followed closely behind, his jagged breath beating down on the back of my neck. I bit down on my lip as I stuck my hand into my purse, searching for my keys. I jolted backwards, startled as Mathias reached into his pocket. He jammed a key into my door and booted it open.
My eyes bugged out in disbelief.
“Mathias?” I inquired, my blood running cold, “How'd you get a copy of my keys?”
He curled his bottom lip in disdain, snarling, “I took it upon myself to make a copy of my own, as you obviously have no intention of ever making me the one I asked for.”
I opened my mouth in protest, quickly deciding against fruitless arguing and instead, slithered through my doorway. Mathias lumbered in after me, slamming the door shut behind him. His tedious, unchanging harping fell incoherent to my ears as I kicked off my shoes, tailing me to my living room. I collapsed on my couch, shivering. I could still feel Kane's long, smooth fingertips scraping against my skin...
“Why you looking so doe-eyed for? Answer me, Cleo!”
I blinked. The velvety, bearded goatee on Mathias' chin was streaked with his angered spittle, his rounded, sepia eyes a product of his uncontrollable wrath.
Crestfallen, I sighed, “Aren't you going to ask me about my interview?”
He huffed, cracking his neck as he folded his arms across his brawny chest. He asked, his tone challenging, “So? How'd it go?”
“It was – er – interesting, but hey, I got the job, baby! You're looking at the new secretary of –”
“I knew it.”
My mouth hung open, his words settling in my ears. I rose from my sofa, wincing at the sudden aching of my stretching, tender cheeks. I hurled a spiteful look at my fiance, sizing him up from head to toe.
“Well, don't get yourself too excited,” I grumbled sarcastically, “Unbelievable, Mathias. This is a good thing. I'm moving up in the world. I'm growing – why can't you ever be happy for something that doesn't concern you?”
“Don't fucking talk to me like that –”
I'm not quite sure what it was – maybe it was the overwhelmingly cold, callous look in his beady eyes, the way his chest inflated with such passion and vigor. A bizarre, sensual prowess overcame me, spurring my tranced limbs into action. I swung my arms around his shoulders and pulled him towards me, fiercely pressing my lips against his, kissing him with more passion and vigor in all our seven years combined.
I groaned sultrily into his mouth, the thorns of his closely cropped hair piercing into my fingertips. Mathias fell back onto the sofa, his adam's apple bobbing as I climbed on top of him, straddling him. I cupped his chin in my hands, gently nibbling on his lip as I carefully urged his hands towards the swollen mounds of my aching breasts. I undid the top three buttons of my blouse, my ample, creamy cleavage taunting him just inches from his nose.
“I think we've waited long enough,” I purred into his ear, gingerly rubbing against the growing bulge on his crotch.
His glazed, widened eyes narrowed abruptly, glowering as he hefted me off him. I toppled backwards onto the floor, swearing under my breath as I scrambled to my feet. Mathias bared his grinding teeth, tucking his obvious erection into place.
“What the fuck do you think you're doing, Cleo?”
Wading in my dreadful pool of embarrassment, I stammered, “What – what do you mean, Mathias? I thought we could just –”
Mathias threw his hands up in the air in frustration, shaking his head, “Let me get this straight – so you won't marry me, but you'll try to get me to fuck you with the man upstairs watching us? What's gotten into you, Chloe? We've been engaged for three years now –”
“Maybe I just don't wanna be tied down with you,” I retorted, breathing heavily, “For fuck's sake, Mathias, why does everything have to be turned to a religious debate? There's –”
“Slut.”
My nostrils flared with rage at the hateful utterance of his words, my ears ringing. I locked my right foot securely on the ground, leering. It didn't matter that he stood a good three feet over me – at that very moment, the man I stood by for seven years was a mere two inches tall.
I took a deep breath, my frothing rage slowly subsiding.
“Get out, Mathias.”
His fists curled at his sides, shaking his head adamantly. I pounced towards the sofa and dug into my purse, grabbing hold of my phone. Mathias stopped in his tracks, an inkling of fear swimming in his dark, heavily-hooded eyes.
“If you don't get the fuck out of my house now, I'm calling the cops – the real cops – and Matthew.”
Mathias
froze at the sound of his brother's name, his face wracked with defeat. He turned on his heel and stalked out the door, his shoulders grudgingly slouched. I cringed, the door slamming shut behind him. I raced towards the door and bolted it shut before slowly slinking back to my living room. I climbed onto my sofa, coiling myself into a ball. As the rumbling sound of Mathias' motorcycle sped away, my eyelids slowly fluttered shut.
Chapter Five –
I peered into the shutter-blinded, glass windows of the conference room, squinting at the row of important-looking, suited gentlemen gathered around the lengthy, circular table. I shifted in my heels, the skimpy underwear I purchased riding up on my cheeks. The lacy fabric scratched against my skin. Irritated, I clicked my tongue, craning my neck to ensure that my oblivious colleagues, who were permanently nose-deep in the self-obsessed worlds that revolved around them, were doing just that. I furtively adjusted my panties through my skirt, feigning a hacking cough into my hand as Phil from HR strolled past. I clutched the clear folder of documents to my chest and opened the door to the meeting, the jittery sensation in my stomach intensifying.
My cheeks pinked, the weight of the men's perplexed, fixated stares anchoring down on me. Mr. Crawford was seated in a swiveling chair at the far end of the table, facing an attractive man in a pinstriped suit, standing in the center of the room, evidently in the midst of a presentation. I flashed them a wavering, rueful smile.
“So sorry for bursting in here, gentlemen – Mr. Crawford, I've got some documents from Shannon that need your signatures right away.”
Mr. Crawford lifted an eyebrow, his slight confusion apparent through his slightly parted lips. He nodded, quietly gesturing for me to enter. I scuttled towards Mr. Crawford, the man in front resuming with his presentation, jabbing his pointer stick at the projections on the wall.
I removed a stack of papers from the folder and placed it in his hands. His eyes widened, bewildered at the blank papers I had slyly inserted in his fingers. I regarded the inattentive presiders of the meeting, their lines of vision preoccupied with the redundant drivel spewing out of the presenter's mouth.
