A role; I like to think of it this way. It makes me feel less like an object, more like a professional. Less like the prostitute in Pretty Woman, and more like Julia Roberts herself.
"Sure. A list. I can do that," although something tells me I won't be buying Gucci handbags and sublime fur coats, "I can't wait."
As he slides his boxers back up his legs, and stretches for his pants, discarded messily upon the floor, he reaches inside the back pocket, picking something out and handing it to me.
"Expense account" he says tersely, pushing a silver credit card into my shuddering, trembling hands. I should perhaps be jumping up and down with the excitement of a shopping spree on the billionaire's dollar. As it turns out, I have more important things to consider.
I look upwards, my eyes slightly straining against the light of the sole light bulb hanging lonely in the centre of the ceiling. He's fully dressed, straightening his hair between the fingers of his right hand, before tucking his shirt in dutifully. A gorgeous, radiant, dapper man, standing proud like a cowboy in one of those old cigarette advertisements. I don't know if it's the light settling around his head like a glowing halo, or my growing affinity towards him, but for maybe the first time, I'm completely in awe.
I gussy up, pulling my dusty dress back around my knees, and straightening my long, black hair. As he seizes my hand, and draws me back downstairs, I realize I broke a nail on the carpet.
"I bet you're hungry," he states confidently, going back to the diligent businessperson he likes to portray. Nothing could be further from the truth, but I hang around regardless, sampling the gourmet delights of whatever billionaires prefer to eat. Few words pass between us, but I don't care. I think we shared enough tonight to warrant a few moments of comfortable silence together. We soon return to the Los Angeles night's sky, and stand hand in hand outside.
"I'll e-mail you the list tomorrow," and with that, he kisses me on the cheek, and hails a fortuitously positioned black car outside; a private driver, I later learn. "Goodbye Miss Everett."
Miss Everett. As I tell the driver my address - who complies wordlessly, speeding into gear - I can't help but toss those words over in my head. Miss Everett. He knows my first name; hell, he knows everything about my acting history, my past education, my cup size and what I look like naked. My phone number, my e-mail address, my pictorial range and countless other things I put on my resume. Yet he still calls me Miss Everett. And, don't get me wrong, I understand why; I'm an employee. From tonight, I am the girl who can't say no. But, this cold, impersonal professionalism can only go so far. Maybe I'm being naive, but I can't stop my cynical, nervous mind wondering; will I ever be anything but Miss Everett?
Chapter Seven
The past few hours have been agonizing. I've done little more than perch myself on the end of my bed, undecided whether to watch TV, read a book, or finally clean the flat, ultimately opting just to sit here in indecisive limbo. Finally, when his e-mail does come through to my smartphone, I can't help but experience that old familiar feeling; the wrenching depths of anxiety, like a freezing cold dagger in my heart.
Glancing down it with curious eyes, I couldn't imagine a more disparate, unrelated set of items if I tried. If anything, it reads more like a DIY list than something I'd expect to come from his kinky mind:
Six feet in string cords, a tangerine, duct tape, a sprig of ginger, a plastic curtain rod, steel clamps, paint: red and black.
And of course, any direction for me to spend five hundred dollars or so on clothes is conspicuously absent. I grab the bus to Los Angeles central, and immediately hit the streets. The days are getting hotter now; the Sun riding high in that smog-choked sky above. The entire city is a humid mess, but a little bit of sweat won't stop me from satisfying my new boss.
I manage to pick up the string cords from a simple camping store on the outskirts of town: the sort used primarily for affixing tents to the ground, I gather. As for the curtain rod and duct tape, a DIY store close by serves me well. I should know better than to question Daniel Grant at this point, but what the hell does he want with a curtain rod and duct tape? You surely can't mean to tell me he does all his own DIY, I think to myself. Whatever. I have orders.
Steel clamps, and the paint can easily be found elsewhere. I pick them up one by one, and lumber around the city streets with a multitude of bags in each hand, feeling the abrasive plastic handles of the paint cans cutting into my soft skin. Finally, a farmer's market gives me all the opportunity I need to pick up one tangerine, and one sprig of ginger. Out of everything, I guess these are the two that confuse me the most. I'm doing his food shopping now? Maybe this is part of some diet - the secret to everlasting youth - shared only by billionaires and Hollywood actors. Or maybe he's just playing with me, making me run around town looking for an arbitrary list of trivial items.
When I climb off the bus, and make the short distance home, Carissa is already waiting for me, fresh from whatever bar she was delighting with her presence the night before.
"Chlo, where've you been?"
"Oh, you know," I reply, staring my twin sister directly in her bothersome face, planting each bag down next to me with an audible thud. The curtain rod briefly springs from its position in its tiny bag, panging against my face, and eliciting a giggle from Carissa. "Shopping. Getting the stuff I need."
"Curtain rail?"
"I'm sick of blinds."
She raises one eyebrow in disbelief, but it doesn't stay there for long. Her cynicism is soon displaced by the swelling, throbbing desire to extract every bit of billionaire gossip from me that she can. I can almost see it in her eyes - the fizzing, bouncy energy just waiting to be set free - and as soon as she opens her mouth, I try to prepare a story.
"So come on, tell me everything! You met him last night? What happened? Did you get the job? What is it!?"
She bounces up and down on the spot, childishly exhibiting all the energy I wish I had. I replay the night in my mind, using this one brief moment to relive the deliriously dreamlike events that unfolded. The restaurant, the chat, the sex. But in the end, something happens; I can't explain it, but I almost lose track of what comes from my mouth:
"I didn't meet with him. It was another casting agent. And I didn't get the part."
Did I just lie? Lie to my twin sister? Her face contorts into a picture of over-emphasized sympathy, and she wraps me in a gentle hug, forcing my head onto her shoulder, and letting me ponder the implications of what I just did. Am I lying to protect him? I mean, Carissa's my sister, but she does have a big mouth. Or, maybe I'm lying to protect myself; I don't want the whole neighborhood - or even the person closest to me – to know that I gave myself away to a man I hardly know last night. I don't know, but for the tiniest moment, it hurts.
I thank her for her sympathy, before picking up my 'groceries' and pacing to my room, shutting off the world and its troublesome politics. I'll guess I'll have to tell her sometime. But, why right now? I'm having fun, and for the first time in my life, I feel content in my employment. I shut the blinds, and try to count on one hand just how many times I've lied to my sister this past year.
Chapter Eight
I'm still asleep when the call comes through; 7 AM sharp. Thankfully, my cell phone this time rings five or six times before I gather the presence of mind to answer it. An unknown number. Could it be him?
"Miss Everett." Those words immediately arouse me from my slumber, shaking out of me every last desire to put my head back to the pillow.
"Oh, Daniel!"
"Did you I wake you?" He sounds both concerned, and monotonally unbothered at the same time. I consider lying once more, but then I think better of it. Who's going to really believe I wake up before 7 AM? In the brief pause I take to process his question, I hear my heart thumping a tempered, nervous chorus in my ears.
"Yes, but it's okay."
"Right. It's day one for you. New job, new responsibilities!" He sounds almost excited, never raising his voice an octav
e. I do love that businessman-like enthusiasm. "Come to the Dervishire building before nine. You'll find it on your cell phone. Bring your shopping, and something easy on the eyes to wear. And don't be late."
And with those terse, bellowed directions, he hangs up, before giving me the chance to profess my undying excitement and enthusiasm for this new 'job'. I haven't even signed anything yet, but I don't suppose it matters. I spring out of bed - six-hours' worth of idle, dreamless sleep long behind me - going immediately to my wardrobe, throwing something tawdry over my shoulder to the bed, and head to the shower.
***
Sure enough, the building is easy enough to find; a hundred meters of radiant, glowing glass that stretches far into the cloudy Hollywood sky like a ladder to the stars. There must be fifty floors in this place; come to think of it, I don't think I've ever even been in a skyscraper before. Even my auditions were mostly held at hotels and drama schools. This is something new.
"Hi, I mean morning," I say to the rather bored-looking receptionist behind the ornate, glassy entrance desk. She stops fiddling with her platted blonde hair for a moment to give me the privilege of eye contact, before going back to the magazine she's undoubtedly got hidden in front of her.
"Do you have an appointment?" Why do I always get treated like shit by reception staff? Is it the way I look? The crummy lives they've had to live, or the fact I'm obviously working a job much more important than them? Jesus, listen to myself Chlo! I'm already letting skyscraper living get to me.
"Daniel Grant," I confidently announce, resting one arm on the counter, and leaning upon it with a smug grin. She ferrets around with a mouse and keyboard for a moment, before letting me see her blue, resentful eyes once again.
"I'm sorry, Daniel Grant has a meeting this morning."
"Wait, what?"
I scratch my head, wondering just where to go with this next, as I feel a soft fabric brushing against my arm. I turn my head quickly enough to see a head of jet-black hair, just as soon as he tightens his grip on me, pushing the palm of his hand into my back and jolting me into a brisk walking pace. I barely remember to pick my bags of bizarre shopping up from the floor before I'm spirited away
"This way, Miss Everett." Daniel says, gritting his teeth loud enough for me to hear. I follow his command, walking with him to the nearest elevator - mirrored from all sides, and lit by a reminiscently bright florescent bulb - before watching him jab a button with a large, thick finger, closing the doors and taking us upwards.
"I'm so glad you could make it."
Those small, expressive blue eyes. I've missed them so much. He peers into me warmly, and I have to fight the overwhelmingly unprofessional urge to wrap my arms around him. Our figures standing side by side are reflected around the elevator - his six feet against my five four - and all of a sudden it seems so real. Seeing myself stood beside him, the gorgeous billionaire producer, in the corner of my eye. I'm still dreaming.
"I'm glad I could make it too," I humbly say, before finding a sizeable frog in my throat, and having nothing else to offer. Before I begin to lose myself to the silence that unfolds, the elevator very conveniently pings, and the doors swing open, enveloping us in a cool, air-conditioned breeze.
"Come, see my uhm, other office."
I hop along beside him, distracted momentarily by the sight of the city below us. We might only be on the 11th floor or so, but we're still too high for me to make out the ant-sized people dotted around, going about their hideously mundane duties; walking to work, ticketing cars, sweeping the streets. Walking by the wall-length window like this makes me feel like I'm flying.
This particular 'office' of his is so much more impressive than the other one I've already seen. Rows of computers - some staffed by secretaries, some not - punctuate the floor, and the gentle hum of a nearby air-conditioning unit brings the only sound, besides the gentle tapping of keystrokes from time to time. There are offices, separated by glass partitions, bearing several names that I can barely make out in stenciled letters across the doors. Everything is carefully color-matched; blue desks, blue monitors, blue keyboards and blue carpets. Somehow everything seems so tranquil.
He leads me by the hand across the floor, passing on our way various ornaments and decorations I could have sworn I've seen before; wasn't that the golden suit of armor from that big Samurai movie I didn't bother seeing last year? Before I can answer myself, we've made it to a large set of tinted-glass double doors, pushed aside with ease to reveal the splendidly flamboyant boardroom within.
"Wow," I sigh to myself, hopefully silent enough for him to mistake it for a deep breath. The wall-length windows are polished to a shiny, beaming finery, so clear that I can surely make out the individual rays of sunshine that emerge from the clouds outside. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, bearing maybe a hundred candle-shaped light bulbs - identical to those dotted around the other night's restaurant, in fact - and the corners are littered with various movie paraphernalia; the leather jacket worn by James Dean, the boxing gloves from Rocky. Ordinarily I wouldn't be taken in by this sort of stuff, but I guess I'm just surprised by Daniel's obvious desire to impress his guests.
"You've got some nice collections," I say, pointing to each corner giddily, like a kiddy in a sweet shop. He grunts drearily, and I finally look back to his face to see an expression I haven't seen from him up until now; disgust.
"You know what they say, in order to be successful, project an image of success."
"You don't sound like you believe that," I reply, noting the deeply cynical and sarcastic tone of his voice.
"I don't."
I quietly place each bag upon the floor, before he turns to face me, and instead points me under the large, oblong desk in the centre of the room; a dark marble color, and undoubtedly very expensive.
"Under there" he tersely commands. I follow his instruction wordlessly, picking my bags up, before pushing them beneath the table, one by one. Suddenly, I feel a hand on my shoulder, willing me to join them. I don't even have the chance to register my surprise, before he forces me beneath the desk too, one palm across my back, and the other upon my head. I do as he wishes, crouching beneath it, bathing myself in darkness. What the fuck is this?
"Uhm, Daniel?"
"Sorry sweetheart," he replies, stamping around the room anxiously, all of a sudden overwhelmed by an unusual force of vigor. Ordinarily I'd hate a guy calling me 'sweetheart'. This time, the word sails past me without nuisance. "I guess you want to know why you're hiding under my table huh?"
It would be nice. I poke my head out from underneath, and nod to him graciously.
"A meeting," he says, glancing at his watch - a rather modest, leather-strapped black-faced artifact I hadn't seen before - and pacing back to sit at the desk above me. "I hope you don't mind, I'm meeting a few executives here in a matter of minutes. Of course, you're not invited."
What the hell!? Why am I stationed beneath the boardroom's table, trying my hardest to remain quiet and motionless, while my billionaire boss wines and dines the cream of Hollywood executives above? I should stop trying to make sense of Daniel's various eccentricities. I'll only make my head hurt. A brisk knock at the door startles me from my contemplation, and I jump upwards, hitting the back of my head on the marble surface above. I quickly retreat deeper beneath the table, unwilling to see the sly grin undoubtedly upon his face, and take the softly rustling plastic bags with me, somehow managing to fit the curtain rail beside me.
"Daniel, Hi," I hear a quietly timid vice say, followed by a slightly more assertive one, deeper-pitched than even my boss' "Good morning Mr. Grant"
"Good morning gentlemen."
They exchange pleasantries, as I try to calm myself down, occupying the darkness like the filthy stowaway I am. Slowly, one set of legs appears in the dimly lit space between the table surface and floor, followed by another, and finally, Daniel's immaculately dapper pants. They’re soon seated across from each other, maybe six feet apart. I've got plen
ty of room under here; so long as I don't bang my head again, lose my mind to anxiety, or suffer the heart attack my rambunctiously noisy heart has been threatening all this time, I'll be fine. Surely.
That is, until I see Daniel motioning beneath the table; an outstretched finger, gesturing for me to approach, like you might allure a dog. I watch him for a moment, before his motioning becomes faster, and more impatient. Overhead they're talking nonsense - finances, location costs, merchandising values - and rightly, nothing could be further from my mind right now.
I inch towards him, propelling myself on my hands and knees, taking every precaution not to jolt anyone's foot, or make even the tiniest sound. When I arrive before him, kneeling in front of him subserviently on my hands and knees, still comfortably seated in darkness, I begin to see what this is all about. It's dark; the only light being that which streams from the windows, piercing through the short space between the floor and the bottom of the table, but I can definitely make out two fingers surreptitiously unfastening the button on his black pants, revealing to me the familiar contents within. Daniel Grant, you horny, manipulative bastard!
I gasp, before covering my mouth with my palm in dread, as I watch his semi-erect member come into view beneath the table. What does he want me to do?! As I ponder that question with wide eyes and shocked sensibilities he very kindly answers it for me, reaching beneath the table with his hand and finding an errant lock of my hair, before violently pulling me towards him. I have to stop myself yelping in pain, but now the sordid realities of his impulses become clear; he wants to make this meeting a little more interesting.
Compelled to the will of my master, I do as he desires, seizing his rod within my hand, and stroking it up and down several times, all while he continues his meeting above, speaking confidently and assertively, providing no clue as to the heady delights occurring below. I feel him harden to a rigid excitement in my hand - the bulging veins along the surface of his dick standing out impetuously - and increase my pace, quickly jerking him as any good mistress should.
Forbidden To Say No - The Billionaire's Plaything (An Erotic Romance Novel) Page 6
