He Watches Me: The Seen Trilogy: Part One

by Cynthia Sax

  “A bunch of us are heading to Finn’s.” Michael is clad in his usual khakis and Birkenstocks, a loose-fitting sky blue short-sleeve dress shirt hanging from his wide shoulders. “You want to come?”

  “To hang with a bunch of trust fund babies?” Goth girl snorts. “Count me out.”

  “I already did, Camille.” Michael glares at her and I straighten, preparing to defend my new friend. “This is a private conversation between kiddo and myself that doesn’t concern you.” An exciting energy snaps in the air, raising the short hairs on the back of my neck.

  “Private?” Goth girl scoffs, not needing anyone else to defend her. “If you took that silver spoon out of your ass once in a while and looked around, you’d notice everyone in the pit is listening to your inane private conversation.”

  Michael’s gaze lowers to Goth girl’s creamy white cleavage, shown to advantage in an obscenely tight black leather corset. “Bite me, freak.”

  “In your dreams, drama queen.”

  Michael glares at Goth girl. She glares back. He huffs, his shaggy golden bangs lift and he turns to me, smiling that million dollar smile of his. He is so handsome, so perfect, he takes my breath away. “So what do you say, kiddo? You want to walk on the wild side?” He holds out his hand to me.

  Goth girl is right. Everyone in the pit is watching us, some of the other girls thin-lipped with envy . . . of me, the moth.

  “Yes,” I whisper. I grab my tote and take his hand, hoping I haven’t made a mistake, hoping I won’t be blamed for shoplifting a diamond ring or stealing money from a family’s safe or any other crime a thief’s daughter such as myself is often accused of.

  “Good. You intrigue me.” Michael’s fingers close around mine. His palm is warm and surprisingly soft. He has that all-American look, and I had speculated he would have played football in high school, but he couldn’t have been an athlete, not with his soft hands.

  “I want to get to know you better, kiddo,” Michael says as we walk down the hallway. He shares this as though it is the most normal thing in the world.

  It isn’t. He’s the guy every girl wants. I’m . . . me. “Ummm . . . okay.”

  “Good.” Michael releases my hand to high-five a passing coworker. They talk about last night’s televised professional poker game. He walks backward to continue the conversation, sprinkling in phrases like, “You gotta know when to hold ’em” and “If you don’t know who the sucker is, you’re the sucker.”

  I listen and learn, not having anything to contribute. I don’t have money to gamble, and even if I had the money, I don’t think I’d take the risk.

  Michael tells the receptionist she is as pretty as a picture and I struggle to keep a straight face. The receptionist giggles and flips her hair, chirping a cheerful, “Have a nice weekend.”

  Michael pushes through the door and I follow him into the warm L.A. evening, blinking at the bright sunlight. A beautiful blonde, Darla, I think her name is, and a red-faced guy with manufactured messy brown hair, stand on the sidewalk, not talking, staring down at their phone screens.

  Darla poses with one silver miniskirt-clad hip stuck out, a black designer bag held in the crook of her arm, her elbow bent. Oversized sunglasses matching her oversized hoop earrings rest on top of her perfect blond curls. Her black blouse fits snugly over her large breasts, the garment unbuttoned to display the never-ending crevice between her curves.

  Her big brown eyes flick toward me. “You’re the girl who nailed Blaine.” She looks me up and down and her top lip curls. “You must give good head.”

  The dark-haired guy, Stephen or Spencer, yes, Spencer, barks with laughter.

  “Darla.” Michael slings his arm around my shoulders and hugs me close, the contact thrilling me, his big body throwing off heat. “Be nice to my girl. Kiddo says she hardly knows Blaine.”

  My lie returns to haunt me. I wiggle, acutely aware that Blaine’s key dangles between my breasts, the scent of his cigar lingers on my skin, and last night he fucked me senseless with a beautiful marble dildo.

  “She knows him well enough.” The blonde rolls her eyes. “Obviously. He’s not the type to give money to strangers.”

  “We all receive lists of donors.” Michael continues to defend me, and my guilt escalates. “His name could have been on one of those lists.”

  “Gabriel Blaine’s phone number on a list?” Darla scoffs. “No one contacts him directly. He has layers of gatekeepers, people screening his calls.”

  “He’s a ghost,” Spencer volunteers.

  A ghost. I lift my chin, the label resonating with me.

  “There was that rumor floating around that he didn’t exist, remember?” They laugh.

  “Who are we talking about?” A brunette joins us. Her features resemble those of the front row blonde from yesterday.

  I frown. Are they all starting to look the same?

  “Gabriel Blaine,” Spencer explains, his flushed face growing redder. “Did you hear back?”

  The brunette sucks in her breath, clasping her gold-colored phone to her large chest. “Not yet.” She checks the small screen. “No, not yet.” Her lips twist. “He said he’d call today but maybe if it’s bad news—”

  “It won’t be,” Michael assures her. “Heather is being considered for a part in a slasher film,” he explains, his arm remaining around me. This makes me feel included, one of them.

  “Girl in the library and it’s only a first audition. My agent said the brown hair and glasses helped, though.” Heather fluffs her hair. “Ohhh . . . call, damn it.” She shakes her phone, her knuckles white. “I want this part so badly I can taste it. A lot of actresses got their big breaks in horror films.”

  Heather’s beauty intimidates me and I want to dislike her but I can’t. Her excitement is contagious and her passion is genuine. “You’ll get the part.”

  “Do you think so?” She gazes at me as though I have influence over the decision.

  “We all think so.” Darla taps her foot, her perfectly polished toes displayed in strappy sandals. “Shall we get our cars?”

  “Oh.” They must all have cars. “It’s only a block away.” This isn’t a lie. The converted bungalow housing Feed Your Hungry hugs the border between a trendy part of town and a lower rent area, balancing the donors’ need to get value for their contributions with their desire to avoid associating with any poor people. “And it is a nice evening. I think I’ll walk.”

  “Walk?” Darla sniffs. “You want to walk?” They stare at me as though I suggested swimming naked in a billionaire’s backyard pool.

  “What a great idea.” Michael rubs my arm. He smells like fresh sweat and citrus, an intriguing combination. “We can avoid Finn’s painfully slow valet service.”

  Decided, he strides forward, taking me with him. The others follow.

  “Perhaps we’ll pass a library.” Heather’s voice lifts. “I can do research.”

  She talks about the part, repeating the line in different voices. Darla texts. The guys jostle each other.

  I listen, happy to belong. People pass us, chatting and laughing. The crowd is young and well dressed, their outfits costing more than a week’s pay. I don’t fit in yet. Michael doesn’t seem to notice, resting his arm on my shoulder.

  “Guys, can we eat first?” Darla stops in front of a dimly lit Asian restaurant. Valets hustle to park European sports cars. A very large and very bald doorman waits in front of the rice-paper-decorated glass door. He stands with his feet braced apart, his arms crossed at the wrists as though he’s expecting trouble from his high society clientele.

  “We can eat at Finn’s,” Michael counters.

  “Ugh, no.” Darla makes a face. Heather also wrinkles her nose. “I want to live to see tomorrow.”

  As they discuss the food plan, I slip away from Michael and examine the menu posted in front of the restaurant. The items are described in flowing poetic words, each organically grown bean sprout, each aged to perfection tofu cube lovingly detaile
d. There are no prices listed.

  I hold my tote in front of me. I have almost a week to go to payday and the faux leather bag contains my last twenty dollars.

  “They can seat us now, kiddo.” Michael bumps against me. I’m beginning to suspect he doesn’t know my name.

  “You go ahead.” I summon up a smile. “I remembered an errand I have to run.” I add another lie to my rapidly growing list. “I’ll meet you in front of Finn’s.”

  “Are you sure?” Michael grips my shoulder, gazing at me with genuine concern, and I wiggle, the guilt eating at me.

  “She’s sure.” Darla smirks. She hooks her arm in Michael’s and drags him toward the door.

  “We’ll meet you in two hours,” Michael calls over his shoulder. Spencer pushes him forward. Heather gives me a friendly wave.

  I wave back. The door shuts behind them and I’m left standing on the sidewalk alone. I glance at the big bald doorman. He nods slightly, understanding in his brown eyes. We’re both outsiders.

  I wander down the now busy street, stepping onto the grass lawns whenever people pass. They don’t move because they no longer see me. I’ve returned to being invisible. I should find that comforting. Instead, I’m lonely.

  I enter a two-story house converted into a bookstore. The store’s doorman smokes a cigarette at his post and appears tormented, giving off an angst-filled artist vibe.

  The store is small, softly lit, and filled with the comforting scent of ink and paper. The floors are hardwood and the walls are painted the color of worn leather bindings. I drift to the magazine racks, pass the covers showing postorgasmic models and enter the domain of men.

  A distinguished older gentleman with closely cropped gray hair juggles a large cup of coffee and a magazine on luxury yachts. He has a navy blue sweater tied around his neck and I can easily picture him at the helm of a fancy sailboat.

  Farther down, a short round man peruses pictures of the hottest women of sports. He gives me a quick dismissive glance and returns to his eye porn.

  I pick up a magazine touting the secrets of high stakes poker and I open it. The scent of cigar smoke wafts upward from its glossy pages. I return the magazine to the rack, choosing instead to read about new developments in technology.

  I flip through the pages, scanning titles. I shouldn’t look for his name but I am. I can’t help myself and the article is so small I almost miss it. The unknown writer speculates that Blaine’s company is buying its New York-based rival.

  Normally I’d dismiss any article a writer doesn’t want to put his or her name on. However, Blaine is in New York and I can’t imagine my control-loving billionaire tolerating rivals. My gaze slides to the poker magazine. Tolerating rivals in business. I doubt Blaine cares what I do. It is not as though we have a relationship or an agreement or anything. I slip my right hand into my pants pocket and touch Blaine’s business card.

  If I call the number, he won’t answer. I’ll get his voice mail or an assistant, but it is more likely I’ll get his voice mail. A clunky old-fashioned phone has been placed on the corner of the bookstore’s front counter, a crisp ivory card reading COURTESY PHONE set beside it. The phone is meant for customers, not broke new grads reading the magazines, but no one will know I’m not a customer, and I yearn to hear Blaine’s voice.

  I circle the bookstore and casually pick up two expensive hardcover books on Californian wildflowers. I don’t open the books as I don’t want to damage them, not having the money to buy them. I carry the books to the counter.

  “May I use the phone?” I ask the sales clerk. I scan her name tag. Sorry, I ask the literary consultant hovering by her cash register. She’s wearing an ugly beige vest over her pretty floral dress, sports the required reading glasses of all pseudolibrarians, and has short, tightly curled ash-blond hair.

  “Uh-huh.” The woman fakes a smile. “It only works for local calls and has a ten minute limit.”

  “Thank you.” I doubt Blaine’s voice-mail message is more than ten minutes long. I set the wildflower books on the counter, place his business card on top of them and carefully dial the local number.

  It rings and I wonder what I’m doing.

  It rings again. I reach out my fingers to disconnect the call.

  “Blaine,” Blaine barks into the phone. I stare at the receiver. He’s not supposed to answer. Darla said no one can contact him directly.

  “Blaine,” he repeats, his voice curt. In the background, men are yelling. They sound very, very angry, and I’ve called him in the midst of all of this, interrupting him for no reason.

  “Ummm . . . hi.” I have to say something.

  The yelling decreases in volume. “Anna, is that you?” Blaine’s voice softens. There’s a click and the background noise disappears completely. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” I shift my weight, dancing in place. The sales clerk glances at me. “You’re busy. I shouldn’t have called you. I’ll hang up—”

  “No!”

  My nipples harden and my pussy convulses, Blaine able to arouse me with a single word.

  “Talk to me,” he commands. “Tell me what you’re wearing.”

  I look up at the sales clerk. She purses her lips, cracks forming in her cherry-colored lipstick. I turn my body and cover the receiver with my hand. “The same as yesterday,” I whisper. “I don’t have a lot of clothes.”

  “I see.” And I think Blaine truly does. “And underneath?” His voice lowers as though we’re sharing secrets, which I suppose we are.

  “Also the same as yesterday but with different panties.” I lie to everyone else but I can’t seem to lie to Blaine, even when the truth isn’t sexy. “I can’t return the bra and I don’t have the money to replace it.”

  “Ahhh . . . I didn’t think about that.”

  Does he think about me? I think about him. I worry about him. “Are you in trouble, Blaine? Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “You already have, nymph.” Blaine chuckles. “Yes,” he snaps, his tone edged with a crispness my body responds to. A woman’s voice murmurs. I can’t make out her words. “Tell them this is being finalized tonight. If they walk out, I won’t be back.” There’s a long pause and Blaine sighs. “Anna, are you still there?” He sounds exhausted.

  “Yeah.” Who is that woman Blaine talked to? Does he watch her also? Does she allow him to touch her?

  “I have to get back at it but I’ll be seeing you tonight.” Energy flows into his voice and I temporarily forget about the mystery woman.

  “Will you be watching me?” I want him. I need him. I miss him.

  “Always,” he drawls. “Be a good girl, Anna.” The phone clicks. The dial tone buzzes. I replace the receiver, pocket the business card, thank the sales clerk, and return to the magazines, forgetting the wildflower books on the counter.

  I open the technology magazine, reread the article on Blaine’s company, and then force myself to read every other article, including the letters to the editor. My liberal arts degree comes in handy because tech talk resembles a foreign language.

  I finish this magazine and I move to the next, learning about operating systems of mobile devices and designations I should look for if I want to hire an infrastructure architect, whatever that is. If Blaine has to keep all of the acronyms I’ve learned tonight straight, it is no wonder he’s exhausted.

  When I emerge from the bookstore, twilight has fallen. The crowded sidewalks are lined with romantic lanterns. The air is filled with the aromas of grilled meats and spices. My stomach rumbles and I wrap my arms around my waist, my tote slung over my shoulder.

  I wait outside Finn’s. The Irish-themed pub is packed with people, music and laughter spilling out from the open windows and front yard patio. Patrons look at me, their bloodshot eyes wide with curiosity. I move to the shadows, attempting to hide.

  A tall bearded man standing across the road stares at me. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t turn his head. He simply stares. This creeps me
out. Why is—

  “There you are, kiddo,” Michael calls out. He’s alone, his face is flushed and his blue eyes sparkle. “I didn’t see you.”

  I wish no one had seen me. I look back at the bearded man. He’s gone. A shiver rolls down my spine. “Where is everyone else?”

  “Still at the restaurant, celebrating.” Michael grabs my shoulders and hugs me, flattening my face against his chest. “Heather got a call back.”

  “I’m glad,” I mumble against his shirt. I’m safe and warm. Nothing bad will happen to me with Michael here. “Tell her I’m happy for her.”

  “You are, aren’t you?” He pulls his comforting heat away and studies me, his blond eyebrows lowered, his forehead furrowed with thought lines. “You’re genuinely happy for her.”

  “Of course I’m happy for her.” I frown. He sounds surprised. Does he think I’m a mean person? Am I a mean person? “So you’ll be at the restaurant for a while longer?” It couldn’t have been easy to leave his friends to meet with me.

  “Yeah.” Michael rests his hands on my hips, his lower body presses against mine. “Come, join us.”

  I’m tempted. I’m hungry, not only for food but for touch, starved for human contact, and Blaine is away, so far away. We don’t have any sort of understanding and what we share—stripping at midnight, secret calls, rules about touching—isn’t normal. This is normal—dating and flirting and meeting a guy’s friends. This is what I should want.

  “I can’t, not tonight.” Maybe not ever. “I have to go home.”

  “Are you sure?” Michael captures my face between his unblemished fingers, his hands clumsy. He smells like beer and grease. “I like you, kiddo.” He leans his forehead against mine. “You’re different.”

  Michael Cooke, the man every girl wants, likes me. A sexual excitement unfurls inside me, an intoxicating power. I sway into him, resting my fingers on his shoulders. His muscles flex under his shirt. His breathing grows heavy.

  His lips brush against mine, the contact soft and firm and insistent. Michael opens his mouth and pushes his tongue into the seam of my lips, seeking entrance.