by Lily Zante
She must have put that on me.
Which means she must have come looking for me.
Is she sleeping with him?
The thought taunts me, jabbing at me like a betrayed wife. I wonder what time she got back on Saturday night. I heard her in the kitchen, but I didn’t want to see her face so I slept in my study on Sunday night as well.
She must be sleeping with him.
I slather myself all over again. Picture Mari and Jamie, and then Mari again in her workout clothes.
My cock hardens.
Thinking about her has that effect.
I’m going to have to jerk myself off again, but I try not to think about her as I do it.
It’s creepy.
And wrong.
It’s what almost a year of no sex does to a man.
Chapter Seventeen
MARI
* * *
“He overslept and needs to take a shower,” I tell Jamie. “Can you wait?”
“I can wait.”
I pour a cup of coffee for him. “You look cute. Nice apron.” Jamie grins at the apron I wear sometimes, especially if I’m doing heavy cleaning. Today is my dusting day. I plan to dust the entire house from top to bottom. “His room smells like a pigsty. I want to clean it while he’s out. Give me a few minutes.”
“And miss the chance to see you dusting? No chance.” He follows me into Ward’s study.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Ward wouldn’t want him here. I speed up my dusting.
“It’s dark in here,” he says, walking around. “Aren’t you going to let down the blinds?”
“He likes it dark.” I tidy up the desk, shifting his items around the desk while giving it a good wipe and polish. I glance up to find Jamie examining Ward’s possessions. What’s wrong with him? He knows better than to poke around. “Hey, don’t touch. Ward doesn’t like it.”
“Relax. I won’t break anything.”
“You shouldn’t even be here. Ward would get mad if he saw you in here.” Ever wary, I polish quickly, moving his things around the desk then putting them back exactly as I found them.
I fold up my blanket and leave it there. He might need it another time, then I run the duster over the leather couch and the coffee table and any surface I can find. I would have polished it properly, pulled up the blinds and let some fresh air in but I’m anxious about Jamie’s presence and I want to be done with this room quickly.
“Pick up some of those things, would you?” There’s no point him snooping around when he can be of use.
“What a slob.” Jamie looks disgusted as he picks up empty bottles of water from everywhere and the empty donut box and junk food wrappers. “No wonder he’s out of shape. Have you seen this?”
I frown. Ward has obviously had a relapse these last few days. He was getting better. “He was starting to get better. He must have had a hard time this weekend.”
Jamie snorts as he walks over with a couple of cans in each hand. I finish setting everything back carefully, making sure that the pens and pencils line up exactly as Ward had left them.
“What are you doing?”
“They have to be arranged just so,” I explain. I see a greasy stain on the corner of the desk, something I’ve missed, and polish it immediately.
“Just so?” Jamie stares at the display. I must admit, I found it strange at first as well, but now I’m used to it. He sets the cans on the desk then picks up a pen and messes up the pencil display. I slap his hand. “Don’t!” I hiss. I grab the pen and set it back, then hand him back his bottles and wipe that area again.
“Is that the pen?” He examines it carefully. “So it is. The MontBlanc.”
“Stop it, Jamie. Put it back.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me. Are you serious?” He stares at the desk in astonishment.
“You’re the one who said writers have rituals. Well, this is Ward’s.”
“Weirdo.” Jamie shakes his head in disbelief.
“He’s not that weird. He’s … it’s just the way he is.” I try to fight in Ward’s corner.
“Just the way he is. A weirdo.”
“I don’t know why he’s the way he is, but he needs things to be in a certain order. You don’t understand. Writing isn’t easy.”
Jamie laughs. “I’m more shocked by the things you’re saying than by this guy’s craziness.”
“Out!” I shoo him out of the room and into the kitchen again. A few moments later, Ward comes in. “Sorry I’m late,” he says, sounding too happy for my liking and making me suspicious.
“Hey, no problem,” says Jamie. “I was just catching up with Mari. Late night?” he asks. I wait to hear Ward’s reply.
He pauses before answering. “I had a lot to catch up on.”
“Your new book. How’s it going?”
Ward is silent and I want to kick Jamie. Can’t he tell that Ward doesn’t want to talk about his book?
Ward says nothing, but pours himself a cup of coffee and sips it. Jamie looks at me, obviously finding this awkward, but I can’t stop looking at Ward. His hair is wet, the rich dark locks hanging just above his shoulders. I much prefer him with an almost beard. I can see the angles of his face better. He seems so different, less angry, less formidable without his Samson-and-Delilah growth. Though his hair is still long. He’s pulled it back into a man bun, like he usually does for the workout, only I never noticed it enough to stare at it so much before. Trimming his beard has made a world of difference to his entire appearance and I can’t help but stare at him. I notice he doesn’t look at me even once.
“Shall we go?” Ward says, having only taken a few sips of his drink.
He hasn’t glanced in my direction once.
* * *
WARD
* * *
I return to my study after the workout and having taken another shower. I run my hand across my face. If feels different now that I’ve trimmed. The hair is less dense. I should have shaved the damned thing off. Maybe next time. I’ll call a barber over to the house and get a haircut too.
The workout was just what I needed. Something to take my mind off things. Something happens to me when Mari is around. I can’t be myself. I can’t be me. I wish we could go back to how things were in the beginning.
She was friendly.
I was civil.
Now we have this awkward empty space between us. The more I try not to think of her, the more she’s in my head. Staying in my study the entire weekend helped, to an extent. Immersing myself in my writing worked. I got a lot done. At this rate, I’m certain I’ll get my first draft done much sooner than I envisaged.
I didn’t look at her today. I couldn’t. She was in the kitchen talking to Jamie but I couldn’t bring myself to stare in her direction.
She has an effect on that I can’t fathom. It’s something I could do without because I have enough people in my head to deal with and I don’t need real-life drama.
Mari complicates my life without even knowing.
I open my notepad and reach for my pen. Then I look up, because it’s not there.
My fingers search the desk, lifting papers, moving notebooks and Post-it pads out of the way.
My pen is missing.
My frenzied fingers search around the desk, but there is no sign of my pen.
Can’t be.
I had it this morning.
No, I overslept this morning.
I had it last night.
Or did I?
Of course I did. I was up until the early hours making more notes.
Where is the goddamn pen?
I hunt around under the desk, then look behind my chair, at the floor behind me, in case I’ve dropped it.
Fuck.
I need my pen.
I rush over to the couch and find the blanket folded up neatly. I unravel it, expecting the pen to ricochet forth.
There’s nothing there.
I search along the couch, underneath it, and all around the coffee table and mant
elpiece.
I even look at the coals in the fire.
No fucking pen.
I look around the room. It’s tidy. The plates and boxes and junk food trash are gone.
Mari tidied up.
I storm out of my study, hollering. “Mari!”
She comes running. Her face is ashen.
“What is it?” She looks terrified. My voice can be loud when I need it to be.
“My pen. Have you seen it?”
“Your pen?”
“My. Fucking. Pen.” It enrages me when my things are misplaced. It’s a waste of my time, of my creativity. The effort expended in looking for something which should never have been misplaced in the first place is a fucking time and energy sink.
She looks terrified. “I saw it this morning.”
“Then where is it?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes widen, the whites more noticeable. I almost feel sorry for her. “How do you not know?”
Her eyebrows squeeze together. “Know what?”
“Where my pen is.”
“Because I don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
She lets out a sigh. A veil of confusion clouds her expression. “What do you think we’re talking about, Mari?”
“Your pen.”
“My pen. That’s right. My pen.” I open the door, motioning for her to come inside. “My pen which isn’t there.” I nod my chin in the direction of my desk. She stares at my desk blankly. “Now, what do you expect me to do about it?”
She saw it this morning, she just admitted to it. She was the last person to see my pen. It didn’t vanish into thin air. She has misplaced it, mistakenly or otherwise. She stares up at me with her doe-like eyes, her mouth slightly open, looking worried.
“I saw it. I’m sure I saw—”
“It’s not there now. Maybe you moved it. Check your pockets.”
“I didn’t steal it.”
“I’m not saying you did. You might have accidentally ...” My words trail away as she gets down on all fours and starts to look under the desk. The sight of her on her knees sends a signal straight to my cock.
It’s bad enough that I had her in my head not so long ago, jerking off like a horny-as-hell teen. Now that she’s on all fours, my arousal kicks up a notch.
She crawls back but not all the way, and while I’m busy admiring her butt, she lifts her head and I hear a thud. Then a yelp. She’s hit her head on the underside of the desk. She touches her head as if she’s in pain. I want to ask her if she’s okay, but the raging throbbing between my legs makes me hold back.
“It’s not here,” she says, still kneeling as she glances around on the floor.
Rage overwhelms me. “You saw it last. Find. It.”
“I’ve looked for it and I can’t find—”
“I can’t write without that pen.”
Still touching her head, she reaches for the desk to help her get to standing but she knocks over my glass of juice. The sweet smell of oranges permeates the air as the liquid bleeds out all over my desk, heading towards my papers and notes.
No!
“What the fuck!” I cry and leap forward, scooping up the priceless papers. They are sopping wet underneath.
No!
What the hell has she gone and done now?
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and whips out a whole heap of tissues from the box on my desk then starts soaking the liquid.
“How clumsy are you?” I snarl, looking through my precious papers. All of my weekend’s work is wasted.
“I’m sorry.” She pulls some more tissues out and wipes furiously. It was a full glass of orange juice. The damage is done. It’s even gone all over her blouse.
“You’ve ruined everything I worked on.”
“I’m sorry,” she whimpers. “It was an accident. I was trying to help you.”
“Help me? You’ve been nothing but trouble.”
“Trouble?” she cries, taking a step back. “You’re a nightmare to work for.” She stops, presses her lips together and continues to clean up the mess. “I need to wipe this down,” she mutters. “It’s all sticky and I need to—”
“Don’t.” Any moment now my bottled-up rage will erupt.
She straightens up. “You don’t want me to clean this up?” Her voice is stronger now. The meekness has vanished. She’s angry, and stares at me as if she wishes I were dead.
“Leave it.”
“Fine. I’ll leave it then. If that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I want.”
I exhale a long, slow breath. Not only do I not have my pen, but I have to clean up this mess.
She thinks I’m crazy for making such a big deal about my pen. I’m not so sure this was to do with just the pen. Frustration and irritation mingle together to form one angry cocktail.
I’ve never had a pen go missing like that.
I’ve never had anyone in my personal space. In all the years I’ve known Freya, I’ve never had a pen go missing.
She’s not a thief, that much I’m know. It’s obvious that Mari has picked it up and misplaced it. I wish she’d own up to it.
Chapter Eighteen
MARI
* * *
The asshole.
The great, big, fat hairy asshole. He’s nothing but a pathetic, vile childish excuse for a man.
The orange juice clings to my arm and chest and feels uncomfortable. I need to change my blouse. I have no idea about his pen. But I banged my head trying to find it. What did I get from him? Nothing. Not even an ounce of sympathy.
I push the door to my bedroom open and rush straight for the bathroom where I take my top off. I wish I could stay here and not have to go back and make his lunch or dinner. I’m tempted to spit in it. I would, if I were that kind of person.
I can’t take a shower, so I wet a washcloth then squeeze a blob of shower gel onto it and attempt to remove the stickiness. But my mind is a riot of confusion spiked with hatred.
What just happened downstairs? I replay the scene over and over in my head, shocked that it has come to this. Disgusted by my response, that I became a whimpering, nervous wreck crawling under the desk so desperate to find the pen that I had no part in losing. He accused me. He thinks I had a hand in it. Instead of standing up for myself, I turned into a meek little mouse in front of that huge bully.
How does this man manage to do this to me?
Jackass.
Douchebag.
Prick.
I miss Jamie. I wish I could go and see him right now, and tell him what a monster this man is.
I wish I could leave.
I never expected this role to turn into this. I never expected Ward Maddox to be so nasty. For weeks, I’ve been picking things up after him, keeping his study clean, tidying up the TV room, cooking for him.
It’s your job. You’re getting good money for this.
I’m not sure it’s worth it. I dry myself, and stare at my expression in the mirror.
I look miserable.
He reduced me to a wreck and I’m so not that woman.
I’m independent and strong, and yet I muzzle my voice in order not to upset him.
I so don’t want to be here.
I want to leave.
I would leave.
But I’m trapped.
A few months. That’s what Rob said. Ward will be finished with his writing in a few months’ time. And then I’ll be free.
I can do this, I tell myself.
I have to do this because I have no alternative.
* * *
WARD
* * *
She said I was a nightmare to work for. I have a feeling she wanted to say much more but she’s scared I might fire her like I did Trevor. He didn’t say anything to my face. He said it behind my back.
She hates me, and she’s right.
I am a nightmare to work for.
This is all Rob’s fault.
I can be a jerk. I’ve spent
too much time alone by myself, in my own fictional worlds and places of horror and fear. I’m more used to being there than in the real world. It’s how I survived being locked up in the attic by the man my mother married. It’s how I dealt with her sudden change, her switch in love and loyalty. How I dealt with things when my once doting and loving mom fell completely under this man’s spell and forgot all about me.
Mari is right. I am a nightmare, because most of my childhood was a nightmare.
Guilt punches my gut at what just happened. I could have handled it better. I saw the fear in her eyes. I did that to her. Me.
I know what it is to fear others, but Mari shouldn’t need to fear me.
Annoyed and irritated, I get up and look around for her but she’s not in the kitchen or in any of the rooms nearby. I call out her name, but she doesn’t answer.
“Mari!” Still, no answer.
I take a moment to consider my options before going upstairs. I should forget this fiasco and get back to my writing. That’s my main priority and this—what I’m about to do now—isn’t. It’s also not easy for someone like me. Facing up, confronting, saying I’m sorry.
But I need to apologize. I was wrong. I got angry. Frustrated, more like. Bottled-up feelings. I’ve never had to deal with this situation before, with people living with me. Even former girlfriends didn’t.
I walk towards her bedroom and find her door slightly ajar. A closet slams shut.
“Mari,” I hover outside, but she doesn’t answer. She’s probably packing her bags to leave.
I push the door open and look inside. She’s disappeared. The room is clean and tidy as I would expect. A clean blouse is laid out on the bed.
“Mari.” My voice is so low, she probably hasn’t heard it. The bathroom door opens and she walks out, in her bra and skirt, then screams at the sight of me.
I can’t help it, but my gaze dips lower. Her full, buxom breasts are pushed up high in a black, lacy bra.
Hot damn.
She’s wearing that under her work clothes? I’ll never be able to erase that image from my mind. I suck in a breath, my cock hardening.
