by Stasia Black
One day at a time, one foot in front of another.
I throw my mascara covered tissues in the trash and open up the clothes cabinet at the back of my office. I fix my makeup in the cabinet mirror and smile at my reflection. It looks more like a grimace. I roll my eyes, grab an outfit for tomorrow, and shut the door tight.
The rest of the week, nothing happens.
Well, I mean, a lot of things happen. I’m thrown in the deep end as far as figuring out what the hell a personal assistant does.
Some of it is what you see on TV and the movies—getting coffee and the boss’s dry cleaning, but the rest of it is just mundane office stuff. Learning how to deal with Bryce’s personal and business email correspondence, i.e., copying and pasting similar polite responses with brief personalizations at the start and end, mostly saying thank you for contacting me but I’m very busy, blah, blah, blah. Or fielding requests for meetings, personal appearances, interviews, and managing his very hectic calendar. Along with the emails of the female variety wanting a follow up encounter for a rendezvous. When I ask Bryce about them, he only dismissively rolls his eyes and asks how they got his email in the first place. I very diplomatically do not mention that I can see from the email history that he and whichever woman have emailed back and forth several times—often with him initiating contact after he’s met the woman at some social event or other. At his bidding, I write a quick response requesting no further communication and then block their emails. I try to use the nicest language I can. But really, is there a nice way to tell someone you’ve been intimate with to fuck off and never contact you again? I’ve been on the other side of that and I know that no, there’s not.
But apart from the never-ending task of keeping up with his email, taking notes whenever he has meetings, ordering his schedule, and keeping him in hot, caffeinated beverages, Bryce doesn’t request any extras outside the scope of a normal PA’s duties. I’m both relieved and on edge every second waiting for the other shoe to drop.
At home each night I’ve started taking the hottest baths I can stand to loosen the muscles in my back and neck. I’m sore from being so tense all day, just waiting for the next crass demand from my boss.
But other than that first day… nothing. Friday comes and goes, and it’s a totally normal workplace situation. I’m baffled. I mean, is Bryce just screwing with me or did he decide I’m not his type? Hell, maybe he’s found some lovely woman who’s so worth his time he’s actually decided not to send her to my inbox for the impersonal email FU.
But I’m to the elevator and free from the office for the weekend without anything else happening. Oh glorious weekend! I get to be the uncomplicated mommy version of me.
Shannon catches up on her graphic design work and Charlie and I do mundane things like shopping and laundry and cleaning the house.
And of course, playing blocks together over and over and over. This is his favorite pastime. It involves stacking blocks.
And then knocking them over.
Stacking them.
Knocking them over.
Over and over and over and on and on for all eternity.
Most of the time it drives me bananas, but this weekend I find the monotonous action soothing. Especially when Charlie giggles every time the blocks fall over like we’ve just invented the absolute most hilarious thing in the world.
When I finally can’t handle the blocks anymore, I put on my favorite upbeat playlist and dance with Charlie all around the apartment. He giggles like crazy every time we do this. No one can stay stressed out or unhappy when he’s in full-giggle mode.
He’s more than ready when I put him down for his afternoon nap. I collapse on the couch with a pile of laundry that needs folding and push play on a Netflix series I’ve been meaning to catch up on.
It’s not the ringing doorbell that jerks me from sleep. It’s Charlie’s screaming from down the hall. I shoot to my feet, disoriented from the awkward cramped position I must have drifted off in. The doorbell continues its shrill chirping. I glare.
Do I go ream out whoever’s pushing it repeatedly in spite of the clearly ducktaped note over it that says ‘DO NOT RING’ in capital letters, or go soothe Charlie?
“I’ll be right there!” I yell as I jog toward Charlie’s room, aka, my room.
He won’t calm down until the noise stops. I don’t know why, but he just starts to screech whenever the damn bell is pushed. And the idiot is out there isn’t letting up.
“Stop pressing the bell!” I shout at the door. Charlie screams bloody murder in my ear as I hoist him on my hip and then hurry toward the door. I stub my toe on Thomas the fucking Train and I’m ready for a mommy beat-down when I finally swing the door open.
There stands David. And walking away from the stoop is a tall, slim, and immaculately dressed woman who must be his wife. She’s wearing some kind of expensive-looking wrap dress that falls just slightly past her knees. She doesn’t give a backward glance before sliding into the driver’s seat of their Audi parked at the curb.
Dammit. I must have forgotten this was his weekend. He emailed last week, but I totally spaced it. Usually on his weekends he picks up Charlie on Friday night, but he had some work mixer last night and asked to pick Charlie up this afternoon instead. I blink, still trying to wake up.
“What’s wrong with him?” David tries to pull Charlie from my arms.
I step back and glare at him. Is he crazy trying to pull Charlie away from me when he’s so upset? He needs his mother.
“What’s wrong is someone can’t read.” I nod toward the sign over the doorbell for emphasis. It’s hard to be heard through Charlie’s continued crying. He’s squirming in my arms and I bounce him. “Shh, it’s okay, baby. No more bad noises.” I spin around a couple times until I start to feel dizzy.
It does the trick though. His cries turn to giggling squeals. I drop down to the ground. I have to keep distracting him if I really want to win the battle and keep the crying at bay.
“What’s this, Charlie?” I rip off a blade of grass from the small square of green space that counts as ‘lawn’ in this place. It’s basically a place for the tenants who have pets to take them to piss and crap. Most of the time they’re good about bagging it. And when they aren’t? Well, there’s a reason these patches stay so green.
I run the blade of grass down Charlie’s nose, across his cheeks and down underneath his neck until his grin and giggles seem like they’re going to stay. Soon he’s got a clump of grass in his hand, tugging to try to get it out of the ground. He yanks and yanks, and finally a few pieces come off clutched between his tiny knuckles. He looks delighted and smiles his big drooly smile at me.
“You’re so strong, Charlie! But no,” I grab the fist that’s heading toward his mouth, “grass is not for eating.” Especially considering what I know about what these patches are used for.
I hear an unfamiliar phone ringtone and look up and around. David pulls his phone out of his pocket. He looks tired today, wearing his forty-two years roughly in the lines on his face.
He straightens and frowns—I can’t tell if it’s because he caught me watching or because of what’s being said on the other end of the conversation.
Either way, when he hangs up, his voice is clipped. “Enough of this. You’re delaying me taking my son. I can document this, you know.”
My mouth drops open and immediately my eyes shoot to the car and the woman waiting there. Sure enough, she has her phone up like a camera, maybe even like she’s taking video of the event.
“What the crap, David?” I whisper to him.
He stubbornly resists meeting my eyes. “You’re half an hour late in delivering him to my care. That’s another breach of our court custody agreement.”
I scoff in disbelief, popping my own phone out of my pocket to look at the time. “It’s four-twenty. I didn’t spend twenty minutes getting to the door. You were late. Plus, I was cool with you guys picking him up today instead of yesterday like you were su
pposed to. Then I had to calm Charlie down after you terrorized him with the doorbell!”
Dammit, Cals, get yourself together, he’s goading you.
“That’s not the way I see it,” David says. “Or the way the courts will see it.” He looks down when he says it, like he’s parroting someone and it’s obvious to even him. Two guesses as to who—my eyes shoot to the profile of the woman sitting in the Audi. I bet it was her on the phone telling him to hurry up. She is such a shrew.
When I look back, David’s scooping Charlie off the ground and up into his arms. I hate what a good picture they make together. Charlie has the same wide, flat nose and dramatic eyebrows as his father. It was a little difficult for me in the beginning—Charlie looking so much like his dad when the abandonment was fresh. Most the time now, though, I see Charlie as his own little person. It’s only rare moments like now where I feel that kick in the gut about the resemblance.
David flips Charlie over his shoulder. Charlie squeals and giggles as his dad heads with him toward the car. Away from me.
“Wait!” It’s a mixture of pissed off and desperate, and I hate it. I hate being reminded that I ever felt anything for this man. I hate that he has the legal right to just walk off with my son like this. “Just wait a second, okay? I need to wash his hands off.”
David looks impatient, but I go jogging into the house anyway. Charlie’s health is more important than some stupid feud going on among his parents. I scramble through Charlie’s diaper bag, having to all but empty the damn thing before I finally find the baby wipes. I hurry back outside. Of course, David’s already almost to his car.
Goddamn. I was only gone a few seconds. “Just wait,” I call while David puts Charlie into his car seat and starts to strap him in. I squeeze in between him and the side of the car, no small feat considering the narrow space and my wide hips. David backs away almost immediately as soon as my hip bumps into his. Instead of the tailspin of lust it would have shot me into three years ago, now I just feel the pressing need to make things right with my son.
“Col’!” Charlie says, his ds not very well defined yet.
“Yes, cold.” I smile as I wipe down his hands with the wipes that do feel a little chilled compared to the early summer air.
Icy, neatly made-up eyes narrow at me in the rearview mirror. “This is just more time that you’re intruding on with our son. We’re making a note of every minute over and the judge will hear about it.”
For a second I just stare back at her through the mirror. Bitch say wah? There’s so much in that last statement that is fucked up—
Charlie grabs the wet-wipe from me and starts smacking me in the face with it.
Court. I breathe out. This is why I will hire a good lawyer. We’re going to court and everything will get settled there. Opening the driver’s door and bitch-slapping her in the presence of my son might feel awesome in the short term, but it won’t do me any favors in the long run.
I turn back to Charlie and give him a smile and an extra-smoochy kiss on his forehead. “Nose kisses.” He snuggles his nose against mine and my smile turns real. “Momma loves you.”
“Wove you.”
My grin is wide as I pull back from him and wave. David immediately slams the door shut. I spin on my heel and glare at him.
My voice is a heated whisper. “You try to pull any of that counting minutes BS on me, I’ll do the same to you. You were at least fifteen minutes late. I can keep records, too. And you might want to remind your,” I grind my teeth together and bite back the adjectives batshit crazy, “wife that, while Charlie might be your son by an unfortunate quirk of biology, there is no way in hell, that he belongs in any way to that woman.” I jab an elbow toward the Shrew in question.
David just rolls his eyes at me and walks away. Just walks away without a word.
My fists ball together until my nails are biting so hard into my palms I’m almost drawing blood. Old me would have chased after the bastard and demanded he listened to me.
But this has always been his super-power, after all.
Leaving when shit gets real.
Their fancy-ass car takes off almost the moment his door closes. With my son inside. And I have no say about it.
It still shocks me, that some stranger who didn’t know me or Charlie or anything about any of it could sit down one day and just decide that these people get to take my son twice a week.
What if, someday soon, another stranger decides that David and the Shrew get to drive off with Charlie and never bring him back?
The light-headed feeling swoops in. I sit down on my steps and put my head between my legs. I take a deep breath in. That decides it. I paid off my two month’s back rent but was holding off paying this month’s until I figured out if the money needed to go toward rent or for the lawyer.
Lawyer it is.
Chapter Five
“Undo your top two buttons.” Bryce eyes my breasts critically.
I’m caught aback. It’s week number three that I’ve been working here, but other than a few emails from afar requesting I work topless while the glass between us was clear, he hasn’t directly engaged me other than professionally at meetings. What’s changed today?
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he all but snaps.
Shit. I forgot how mercurial he can be. I get to the buttons. Remember what it’s all for, Cals. I have an appointment with my top family law firm pick in a few days. Eyes on the prize, eyes on the prize.
Bryce tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “One more.” He makes a gesture of impatience when my fingers hesitate on the buttons, and I quickly comply. Eyes on the fucking prize.
Then he looks me up and down. Almost immediately, he starts shaking his head. “No, that skirt won’t do.”
I look down at myself. I’m wearing a gray pencil skirt. It hugs my curves. I look up in surprise. Almost all the clothes in the closet are replicas of this style in varying colors.
He walks to the cabinet and pulls it open. The next thing I know I hear hangers clanking and the swish of cloth. What the hell? He’s a fashion consultant now?
“This one.”
He pulls out one of the few dresses. It’s very classy and… cute. Not slutty at all. It’s an A-line black and gray hounds-tooth dress with a fitted bodice that flares slightly at the bottom. Like something I might buy at Modcloth, but probably of higher quality fabric. My eyes flick up to Mr. Gentry in question. He’s smirking at me. Naturally.
“Change.” He holds out the dress. And doesn’t make a move to turn away.
Right. Back to game playing. I didn’t really think he was done with them, did I? No, I just tried to pretend it was over so I’d have enough peace of mind to focus on not fucking up learning all I had to over the past few weeks. But that’s probably exactly what he’s wanted, me on edge, waiting for whatever twisted shit he has coming next. Sadistic bastard. Always keeping me guessing and off kilter.
Don’t give him the satisfaction of rattling you, Cals.
I undress at the same pace as I would do if at home. No faster or slower. I keep my gaze somewhere around the area of his chest.
Is that a cop out? Should I be glaring him in the eyes? Or is that what he wants? Would my defiance make it worse? Dammit. I hate having to second guess every single thing I’m doing. No matter what I do, I’m still probably out of my depth in this stupid chess match.
I finish undressing and put my clothes in the cabinet. I can’t help glancing at him as I reach for the dress he’s still holding. He pulls it away when I do. I bite back the urge to roll my eyes. What? Are we in grade school?
His smirk gets bigger. Goddamned bastard.
“I approve of your undergarment choices.” He nods at my black thong. In spite of myself, my cheeks flush.
“I didn’t wear it for you.”
His eyebrows raise as if in disagreement.
I grit my teeth.
He gives me a winsome smile. “Either way, it does well for our purposes today
.”
What does that mean? I keep my posture straight. I swear my posture’s never been as good as it has been since I’ve met this man. I always stiffen like it’s some kind of armor. Ridiculous. “How so?”
He ignores my question. “Go to the bathroom and bring yourself to orgasm. Make sure to touch yourself through the underwear. I want them drenched with your scent.”
“Wha—” I start, but break off mid-question. Of course, this fucker would make this kind of request.
His face darkens. “You have,” he pulls his phone from his pocket, “approximately eight minutes. If you haven’t soaked them sufficiently at that point,” he leans in close so that his breath is hot on my ear, “I’ll come and give you a helping hand.”
I pull back from him and his smile goes wide in what I can only feel is an imitation of a shark—all sharp, white teeth.
I push past him and head to the en-suite bathroom in his office. His easy-going laugh follows me. I don’t know what this new game is, but if I have the opportunity to do something without his hands or presence, I’m all for it.
I get in the smaller, bright room—all white, of course, and shut the door with a slam. For a second I lean back against it and just breathe. I see myself in the mirror. Against the backdrop of this oh so stylish bathroom, standing in my black bra, thong and high heels, with my blonde up-do and pristine makeup, I look like I’m some kind of pin-up model. Or a high-paid prostitute. My arms immediately raise to cover myself and I turn away from the mirror.
But who am I kidding? I came in here with the express directions from my boss to get myself off in eight minutes. Shit, probably more like seven now. My arms drop. Or six.
Screw it. There’s no time for shame or anything else. I just have to get it done. Just push everything else out.
