by Emerson Rose
Just like the fireplace, the dining room table is massive and easily seats twelve to sixteen people. Smatterings of purple are carried through this room as well in the paintings on the wall and a rug under the table. A breakfront covers the length of one wall, and a mammoth plant monopolizes the corner opposite me.
When I round the corner into the kitchen, Maria and Mr. Black are standing close to each other talking in hushed voices. They stop right away when they see me.
“I’m so sorry about earlier, Mr. Black.” I figure I may as well address the white elephant in the room straight away. His posture straightens for a moment, and I swear he glares at me. Before I can be sure, he replaces it with a fake smile.
“Are you ready for your tour now, Miss Jefferson?” he says, breezing over my apology. Or maybe he doesn’t want to address the fact that he walked in on something he shouldn’t have seen, something that shouldn’t have been happening. That’s fine, less shit for me to deal with.
“Yes, please, I’d appreciate that.” Maria avoids eye contact with me, looking down at the floor, and Mr. Black rudely fails to introduce us. I step forward and offer her my hand, “Nice to meet you. Maria, right? I’m Imani.”
She lifts her head and takes my hand, shaking it gently. Then without a word, she turns her back on me and stirs something she was cooking on the stove.
Everyone I’ve met here so far is a little off. But then again, look at who they’re working for. I wonder what that says about me?
“As you can see, this is the kitchen,” Mr. Black says, gesturing around the impressive chef-worthy kitchen. All of the appliances are stainless steel, oversized, and, I’m guessing, commercial.
The cabinetry is deep cherry wood with glass panes that you can see the contents through. Everything is perfectly lined up and organized behind the glass, some according to size and others color.
I nod, and Mr. Black begins to walk away without me. I hustle to catch up and follow him through the two rooms I’ve already seen.
In the foyer, he points to the office doors.
“Mr. Castillo’s office.”
He’s not much for chitchat. We pass the office and make our way down a long hall peppered with pieces of artwork that are individually lit. Some of them look familiar. If I can recognize them, famous artists must have done them, since I don’t know zip about art.
Mr. Black points out each room along the way. There is a study, a sunroom, a library, and another casual living room with a large television instead of a fireplace.
We circle back to the foyer and climb the staircase taking a right at the top. This must be the ‘East Wing’ of the house.
Down a long hall, there are several bedrooms, bathrooms, and a few spaces used for storage. One is made completely of cedar that smells divine when Mr. Black opens the door.
Why does one man need such a large house? I’ve counted four bedrooms so far including Marcus’s.
As we walk along, I look out a row of windows that face an elaborate garden in the back yard. A long stone path leads through the garden and branches off in different directions that all eventually lead to a dock lined with old-fashioned lamp poles.
Far out in the left corner of the property is a kidney-shaped swimming pool that has been closed and winterized for the upcoming cold weather.
When we have circled back to the stairs, we pass them and make our way to the West Wing of the Castillo castle.
More bedrooms, a study, and a den - don’t ask me what the difference is, they both look the same - occupy this section of the house, along with Mr. Black’s and Maria’s living quarters. The tour ends back in the foyer under the traditional glass chandelier.
“Maybe I should get Marcus something to eat. It’s late, and he hasn’t had anything to eat since lunch,” I say. That’s the most I’ve said since the beginning of the tour, and my words sound stiff and forced.
“Maria is seeing to his meal,” he answers in a cold, monotone voice.
“Ok, then I’ll just check on him and see if he needs any pain medication.”
“Miss Jefferson, wait. I know it’s not my place to say, but you should be careful around Mr. Castillo; he isn’t like most men. I’ll admit he seems different with you, but I have known him all my life, and he can be… challenging and demanding.”
Mr. Black has been rubbing me the wrong way since I met him this afternoon, but he is right when he says it’s not his place to say.
Yes, he lives under the same roof as Marcus, and he has known him for years, and I've only known him for two weeks. Forty-eight hours, if you’re only counting the time he’s been awake.
I feel as if he’s trying to manipulate my feelings for his boss, and his comment irritates me.
“You’re right about one thing, Mr. Black. It’s not your place to say that. I know it didn’t look like it when you walked in on us earlier, but I am trying hard only to be here as his nurse. I want to be here to take care of his injuries, nothing else.”
“Taking care of Marcus's injuries is an impossible job, take my word for it. He's a complicated man with a dark past. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m not trying to keep you away from him. I’m trying to protect you.”
“Well, thank you, but I’ve been doing OK protecting myself for quite a while now. I don’t need you to protect me.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll show you to your room.”
“I told you I wouldn’t need a room.” What’s with this man, doesn’t he listen?
“Mr. Castillo wanted it readied for you, so it has been. I’ll show you where it is, just in in case,” he says, as if he knows something I don’t.
He leads me back through the living room, past the enormous fireplace to a door in a nook behind the living room, right next to Marcus’s. I sigh and roll my eyes at his back.
He opens the door and stands aside, gesturing for me to enter. I don’t feel like playing nice and, out of spite, I don’t enter. Instead, I poke my head into the lovely yet strangely feminine bedroom.
There are more pieces of antique furniture, including a large canopy bed dominating the center of the room. Gauzy white material draped between the canopy posts gives the room a fairy-tale feeling, and the smell of sugar cookies seduces me into a false sense of being at home.
Intrigued by all of the feminine touches in the décor, I pad across the thick, soft carpet and peek into the en-suite bathroom where the light has been left on to lure me in.
It’s a big bathroom, easily as big as my apartment. Just like the bedroom, nothing resembles a bachelor’s guest bathroom.
Over the vanity, there is a tall, gilded mirror that leans forward from the top, and an enormous, beautiful claw-foot tub claims the middle of the room.
Beyond the tub, there is a wooden door with a tiny window. It looks like a sauna, maybe. I cross the room and peek in the window. A small cubical of wooden seats surround a box of hot lava rocks that heat the space to ungodly temperatures. I don’t understand the appeal of sitting in a closet-sized room with only a towel on and sweating until you can’t breathe.
I open the door and dry, hot air blasts my face. It reminds me of how it feels when I walk into the glass blowing studio.
I close it and turn around, catching myself in the gilded mirror. What I see there is a disheveled pale version of myself staring back at me. I look like shit. This day has been too much.
“Is that everything?” I ask Mr. Black, who is still standing on the threshold of the bedroom, waiting patiently.
“Yes, I’ll leave you to him now. If you need anything, Maria and I live in the west wing of the house, and there are intercoms throughout which are simple to use. Just press the button and speak,” he says, pointing at a small speaker on the wall.
“Thanks,” I say as I pass Mr. Black and return to Marcus’s room. He’s still got the game on, and he’s finishing his dinner.
“Almost done?” I ask.
“Yes, you need to eat.”
“Haven’t had time. I�
�ve been out getting the grand tour. It takes forever to see it all.”
“You didn’t see it all, there’s more, he didn’t take you downstairs. There’s a full gym, lap pool, and squash court.”
“How did you know he didn’t show me downstairs?”
“I have a security system in the house. I followed along with you on your tour from here.” He points at the television where the screen is separated into at least fifteen small square boxes. Each of them shows a room in the house for a few seconds before flashing to a different one.
It makes me think of a mix of The Brady Bunch intro and CCTV for a mafia drug dealer.
I snort and step between him and the screen. “Wow, paranoid much?”
He chuckles and switches it off. I like it when he laughs.
“I like to know what is going on under my roof.”
“Well, if you didn’t have such a massive roof, you wouldn’t have to worry about all that,” I say, pointing at the screen.
“I make a lot of money, Miss Jefferson. I can’t take it with me when I die so I spend it. I buy big houses, fast cars, luxury clothing, and expensive antiques. But I also invest, and save, and I give an obscene amount of money to charity.”
Charity, huh? I wouldn’t have pegged him for that.
“Well, Mr. Castillo, you’ve certainly done a good job of spending money. What charities do you give to? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I do not mind you asking. Safe Horizons, Joyful Heart Foundation, shelters for battered women all over the country - a couple specializing in human trafficking, Futures Without Violence, and multiple mental institutions. I can’t remember them all.”
Interesting choices; they make me wonder about his past. Maybe he’s been or knows a victim like me. I’m careful not to push the subject. If he wants to tell me about it, someday I would listen, but right now he needs to rest.
“Are you getting tired? Do you need pain medication yet?”
“No pain meds, but I do need my sleeping pills.”
“Sleeping pills? I don’t remember bringing any sleeping pills with us from the hospital.”
“They aren’t from the hospital; I’ve taken them for years. They’re in the bathroom.” He points at a door on my right.
“Can I take your dishes to the kitchen?”
“Yes, and have Maria see about some dinner for you while you’re there.”
“I’m ok, I can eat when I get home. I’m used to eating late; night shift, you know?”
Marcus looks down at his hands. Like a dropped cell phone call, he falls silent right in the middle of a conversation.
“Marcus, you ok?”
Nothing.
I approach his oversized bed and crouch down next to it so I can look up into his downturned face. There is no recognition on his face. He stares at his hands as if he’s fallen asleep with his eyes open.
He should have had a damn CT done before he left the hospital.
“Marcus, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?” I ask while he continues to stare. I rest my head on my forearms on the edge of the bed where I’m kneeling to think.
“Imani?” he says, confusion thick in his voice.
“Oh, thank God. What’s the last thing you remember?”
His brows draw tight between his eyes when he scowls down at me. “What are you doing down there?”
“You blacked out. You couldn’t answer my questions. I’m really worried about this. Please, let me make you an appointment for a CT scan tomorrow.” He looks at me thoughtfully, tipping his head to the side. He reminds me of a puppy I had when I was little. He used to cock his head when you asked him a question.
“Ok, I’ll go on one condition.”
I glance to the side and sigh, “What’s the condition?”
“I’ll go if you spend the night tonight.”
Manipulator. He knows how much I want him to have that test tomorrow, and now I know how much he wants me to stay the night.
No wonder no one ever tells him no, he doesn’t give them a chance. I drop my chin to my chest and rock back onto my heels, slouching in defeat.
“Yes, okay,” I reply.
“You’ll stay?” He sounds surprised, although I can’t imagine why.
“Yes, Marcus, I’ll stay.” I’m so tired it’s almost a relief to stay and not worry about how I’m getting back to my car at the hospital.
After sleeping in a chair last night with no medication to chase away my nightmares and dealing with Marcus all day, I’m exhausted.
“You are tired; go on to bed. I’ve manipulated enough of your time today.”
Manipulated is right. “And last night?” I ask.
“And last night, yes.” I wait for an apology or a thank you for going above and beyond the call of duty, but it doesn’t come.
“What?” he asks.
“A thank you would be appropriate right now.”
“Mmm, yes… thank you,” he says, as if it causes him physical pain to do so. What is it with this guy and manners?
“I have to get you squared away before I can go to bed. Let me clear your dishes.” I stand and gather his dinner tray from his lap and carry it to the kitchen, where Maria is still cleaning up.
She jumps when she turns around to find me in the doorway, “Oh, Miss Jefferson, I can get that; it’s my job, please.” She’s so skittish I wonder what he does to make her so nervous.
“It’s no problem. I don’t mind at all. He’s going to bed, and I wanted to get them washed and put away,” I say, reassuring her.
“Oh no, no. You go, I’ll wash. He likes things done a certain way.”
“Oh, ok then. If you need any help, just holler.” I’m starting to think Marcus is anal with a capital A.
On my way through the living room, I notice someone started a fire in the fireplace. It’s roaring and crackling, spitting out tiny embers onto the stone floor surrounding the hearth. It smells like a fall bonfire on the beach. In fact, if we were outside that’s what I’d call it, a bonfire.
I wonder who made it so fast. I’ve only been in the kitchen a few minutes.
Back in Marcus’s room, I lay it on the line about the sleeping pills.
“I’m not giving you sleeping pills. You’ve blacked out twice today. Until we know what we’re dealing with, I can’t give you medication like that. You could slip back into a coma and, depending on what’s happening up there, you might never wake up,” I say, pointing at his head.
“I need them, I won’t sleep. I’ve taken them for twenty years.”
“Well, you didn’t have a brain injury for all those years, and you have one now.”
“If I have to get out of this bed and hop to the bathroom dragging my cast behind me to get them myself, believe me, lady, I will. And if you get any smart ideas about hiding them, I have backups stashed away, so don’t even bother.”
Why am I even here? I can’t even keep him from drugging himself back into a coma. My professional opinion means nothing to him.
“How about we start with getting you comfortable and see if you can fall asleep on your own. What do you wear to bed?”
“Nothing.”
Of course, why did I even ask?
“Ok, well, how about boxers? You think you can tolerate that?”
“I don’t like wearing clothes when I sleep, Miss Jefferson.”
I’m tired and frustrated and finished with his argumentative attitude. Nurse Imani to the rescue. I march to his bedside, “Arms up,” I say, and he raises his arms like a child with a mischievous grin. I strip it over his head briskly.
“Jeans.”
“I’ll need a little extra help with that.” He smiles up at me through his long, thick eyelashes feigning innocence. I reach down to unbutton his jeans and think boring thoughts to distract myself from the matter at hand, pun intended.
But my method is far from effective. My hands are trembling as I unfasten the button and pull down the zipper. He watches my every move with
great interest.
“Up.” I motion my hands for him to raise his hips, but he gives me a sexy smile instead of cooperating.
“What?”
“You are quite bossy, Miss Jefferson. I like it. However, commanding me to get up will never be necessary. I’m always up when you’re around.”
Queue the smirk.
I need to get out of this room before I go mauling him like I did this afternoon. I ignore his flirting and start to wiggle his jeans down. I get them past his hips, working the material over his casted leg, and then, with some help from him, we get it off of his good one.
I avert my eyes when I’m finished and fold the clothes neatly. I can feel him watching me, waiting for me to slip up and glance in his direction.
“Those can go in the wash. I won’t wear them again until they’ve been laundered.”
“Where is the laundry?” I say, and fall right into his trap, turning to look at him when I speak.
Shit, why did I look? How am I supposed to resist him, lying there in his larger-than-life bed with his larger-than-life cock straining proudly against his dark purple briefs?
More purple. I’m going to have to find out what the deal is with this man and the color purple.
He lifts one corner of his lips, and I involuntarily sigh. That smirk is my trigger with Marcus. Somehow, he’s known from the beginning that it stops my heart and heats my sex.
And then he winks, and I have to close my eyes to keep myself from crawling back on top of him. How can one simple facial expression be so fucking hot?
An ache low in my belly takes up where it left off earlier this evening and my mind and body for control.
I’m his nurse, I’m his nurse, I keep repeating to myself, be professional, get a grip. He points his finger toward the bathroom, indicating that the laundry should be taken that way, but his eyes say ‘join me in bed.’
I try to move toward the bathroom to put the clothes away like I have to do, but my feet have fallen deaf to reason, and I find myself at the edge of his bed, within his reach, instead.
He reaches for his folded clothes and drops them on the floor, watching my face for signs of rejection. When he finds none, he reaches up and grabs my braid. With lightning speed, he wraps it around his wrist and pulls me down onto the bed. An overpowering need to be closer to him consumes me, and I surrender to it as he tugs harder on my hair until our mouths crash together.
