by Daisy Jane
“Oh, oh my God,” his eyes stole away from mine for the first time in what seemed like a century but must’ve been more like a few seconds.
“You’re cut,” he said, wrapping both of his hands around mine, putting his finger and thumb around my wrist, his other palm flat against the cut. We stood and he guided me back to the sink, where I flicked on the water with my other hand. He held me under the slow, stream, us both silently watching the water turn pink against the cream porcelain. I couldn’t feel the gash; I could only feel the way he delicately held me under the water, his skin warm against mine.
Finally, I looked up at him. I’d gone too long without seeing him now that I’d laid eyes on him. God, he was so freaking handsome. Tall, too, and not just compared to me because I’m only “half past five” as my grandpa used to say. No, he was actually tall, probably over six feet if I had to guess. And the way his hair had body but was so neatly combed back, maturity poking through in shades of silver and white. His smile was neat and controlled, almost like he was holding something back, looking down at me over the sink in his kitchen.
“I’m very sorry about your glass,” my voice was too quiet so I cleared my throat. His eyes swayed slowly between mine, as if he were studying me for the truth.
“I really am,” I continued, unsure what else to say. Then I realized, he’d asked me what I’d said. My eyes went wide. I tried as hard as I could to control my reaction, so he wouldn’t see that I remembered what got us here—I’d been caught.
I looked up at him again and his face had gone stoic, straight brow and even keel eyes. He held his jaw tight, mouth forced closed, chin up, shoulders back. He was so sexy but while I shifted uneasily on my feet, it occurred to me that he seemed…. angry. And that everything I’d dreamt about him in my mind was one-sided, false. I’d been the one romanticizing him, the one who’d read something I wasn’t supposed to, the one who’d broke the glass. He was just trying to figure out why’d I’d read it, nothing more. His amber and teakwood scent had made me heady, temporarily delusional.
“I’m sorry,” I said, turning off the water and reaching for the towels, where I grabbed one and immediately wrapped it tightly around my hand, tucking the free end under perfectly.
“Please don’t get me fired. If you don’t want me here anymore, I’d understand, but please, I need this job.” I was ashamed that it came out as a whisper, but I was so embarrassed that I’d allowed myself to build this fantasy then project it onto him just because he was what, extremely fucking good looking? He’d written a poem that was no business of mine? He was extremely fucking good looking? Wait, I mentioned that. I needed to get the hell out of there, before I made things worse.
“You tied that really well,” he spoke again, his tone husky and unemotional. Nodding to my hand, he crouched down, throwing his necktie over his shoulder, and scooped the last of the glass into a dust pan that I’d been using earlier.
“I’m a pro at tourniquets,” I said quietly, grabbing the other hand broom from the counter, kneeling down next to him.
“Yeah? Are you in school to be a nurse?” his eyes were on mine as he swept, unhurriedly.
I smiled. I wished I was in school to be anything, even if it was a nurse and not a baker.
“No, my mom was a drunk and I wasn’t old enough to drive so I learned how to tie tourniquets and apply butterfly bandages and make compresses. A lot.” I could feel the embarrassment take its hold of me, my cheeks going red and my chest getting flush, too. Why did I just tell him that? Though I’d yearned to be around this man for months, I was overwhelmed with the urge to go. Go before I embarrass myself further and lose my job.
You need this job so you can pay off that debt, Britta. Quit playing around!
I hopped to my feet and grabbed the remaining items from the counter and held them to my chest, stepping behind him towards the butler’s pantry, which was where he kept our supplies.
“I will pay you for the glass and the towel. Tell the agency how much and they’ll take it out of my check. Again, I’m really, really sorry that I broke that glass. Thank you for helping me clean it up and letting me use this,” I held up my wrapped hand and, seeing the blood was soaking through, I put it back down to my side immediately. “Okay I think I should go. Again, I am so, so sorry,” and I rushed out of the kitchen, through the back pantry, into the service driveway. I was in the passenger side of Mel’s car quicker than I’d done anything in my life.
“You gonna help with these?” she shouted through the window; a step ladder tucked under one arm, an adjustable cob web sweeper under the other. She had just come out of the house and was loading the trunk with the stuff we brought. I usually helped.
I shook my head no as fast as I could, making my eyes wide, I leered at her with my head tilted. She turned and looked back at the door, where Mr. House on Top of the Hill was now standing, watching us. My heart raced, my thighs instinctively drew tightly closed and thank God Melody wasn’t in the car yet because I swear, I made a little noise seeing him again. A cross between a heated moan and an exhale, it was just between the car and I, how bad I wanted this silver fox. He was better looking, more handsome, taller, sexier—he was more than I’d ever imagined.
Melody put her hand up to acknowledge him and he waved to her, too. Then she slammed the trunk shut, jumped into the car and started backing out.
“What did he do to you? Did he do something to you?” she nearly shouted through clenched teeth, a fake smile still on her face as she began driving to the road that would take us down the hill, away from him.
As soon as we made it around the corner, I sighed and cradled my face with my hands.
“Did he? Oh my god, if he did, we will call the police!” Melody was screaming now that we were out of eye line of the house and I immediately stopped her.
“No, no! no! no!” I repeated. “Okay, first of all, I need stitches so please take me to the hospital, and then second of all,” I took a moment to catch my breath, Melody waiting silently. “Don’t judge me, okay?” I held up the bloodied-kitchen towel-wrapped hand for sympathy and she nodded, glancing between me and the road, her eyes wide.
“Jesus, Britta, I can’t keep looking at that hand! It’s making me dizzy. Tell the story already,” she said, taking one last glance, her skin going pale.
“Okay, when I first started this job with you, when I was cleaning the office here at the house,” I nodded over my shoulder to where the house was behind us now. “There was a piece of paper on the ground, near the bin, and it was face up. A little poem or something was written on it. And I didn’t want to read it, but it’s like, impossible to have your brain not just automatically read a couple of sentences. I mean, I knew I shouldn’t have read it and I didn’t want to be nosey. But I read it.”
Her eyebrows dipped between her eyes and she shook her head, slowly, her mouth moving silently.
“What did it say?” she looks to me quickly twice, panic rising up her throat. “Oh my god did you read some weird thing he wrote after he murdered someone?” Though we were alone, she whispered those last few words.
“What?! No! Why do you think he molested me or murdered someone?!” I don’t know why, but suddenly I’m defensive about Mr. House on Top of the Hill.
“Because you’re being really weird and your hand is all bloody,” she said, and when she spoke it so plainly, it actually seemed fairly reasonable.
“Okay,” I took a breath, “I can see where that makes sense. But no. No, okay back to the paper,” I said, taking another deep breath, holding my hand tight between my knees. “I remember my first vacation, I remember my first heartbreak, I remember my first drink, I don’t remember my first kiss, I remember everything,” and I went silent, and so did Melody. We stayed quiet for a few minutes and just when I wondered if she’d followed the story, she spoke.
“Okay,” she was pensive and spoke slowly. “Now what does that have to do with whatever happened today?”
“I made h
is bed and got his whiskey glass off the nightstand. Then when I was washing it in the kitchen, I said aloud ‘I remember everything’ and I guess he’d come in through the back and was standing behind me. And he heard me. And, and he said something like, what did you say, and then I freaked out and dropped the glass.” I took another deep breath. “Then I begged for him to not fire me because I need the job. And somehow, I also told him my mom was an alcoholic.” I shook my head profusely before letting it fall against the head rest, forcing my eyes to shut. I was too humiliated to even look at the world.
“I’m so embarrassed. He’s, he’s going to think I’m some crazy girl that reads his papers or, or, oh I don’t know. But I’m so going to get fired for this!” I cried, and knowing it was my fault only made me feel worse.
Melody snorted. “You’re not going to get fired. He’s probably going to avoid us forever now, but you won’t get fired. Consider it a lesson learned.” She was shaking her head, a small smile at her lips. I’d wondered then, had Melody ever had any inappropriate interactions with any of the clients in the past? But still, whatever the reason, her certainty that I wouldn’t be fired reassured me.
“It’s interesting, though, what you read. Think he’s a writer?” she wondered aloud, and I knew that she’d see the romanticism of the poem after my poor choice had been properly scorned. In this case, the gashed-up hand was working well to do that for her.
“I don’t know,” I said, not admitting the part where I had a mental list of possible jobs for my previously faceless, dream man.
“Can I tell you the bad part now?” I cringed that I was about to come clean, but I also hated that I’d felt strange lately because I hadn’t told her. She was like my sister. And crushes were always better when someone else knew. That’s a fact.
“Hit me with the bad part,” she said, pulling off the freeway, the hospital coming into eye sight.
“Ever since I read that poem, I’ve been fantasizing about him. And today I finally saw him. I mean, obviously.”
Silence fell between us because she was a woman with eyes and therefore she knew what I finally saw him meant. He’s utterly, totally, dangerously handsome, and to have already been wanting him before I saw him? She knew I was sunk.
She found a spot and put the car in park, exhaling, sending a worry up my core.
“Britta, these people are like, billionaires,” her voice was quiet, to let me down gently, as if I didn’t already know this man was completely out of my league. But still, she was right, and it was the reminder I needed.
“I know,” I said, facing forward, looking at the red pillar directly in front of me with the word Emergency running vertically down the side of it.
“Okay, I won’t mention it again. Thank you for the ride,” I said, leaning forward, kissing her cheek. “I’ll pop by after they stitch me up so you know I’m okay. And please, don’t mention this stuff again, okay? I’m seriously mortified that I even had a thought,” I shook my head and grimaced, and she smiled softly, knowingly before saying her goodbyes and driving off.
She was right. I’m a twenty-year-old maid living in a studio apartment that smells like won tons, with nearly $250,000 in debt, no skills and no family, besides my cousin. What was I thinking?
4
Brooks
For the past three months, there’s been this smell all around my house. I’m not a guy who knows the notes in his cologne, so I sure as shit don’t know exactly what I’m smelling. But it reminds me of cake and body heat, something faint enough as to not overwhelm me but so indistinct that it drives me crazy, wreaking havoc on my cock. When I catch the scent, I want more, I turn around, and I’m unable to find it again. It’s fucking aggravating as hell and I have no idea where it is coming from and why it just started three months ago. No one comes over to my house. The last person to come to the house that wasn’t part of my service staff was my ex-girlfriend, if you could call her that, and that was over four months ago.
This morning I woke up a few minutes late, I hit snooze too many times. I was going to be slightly behind schedule today, and it was my fault, which made me even more irritated when I finally got out of bed. Then as soon as I dried off after my shower, I smelled that fucking smell again. That one that makes my cock stiff and my chest tight. It was kind of starting to piss me off a little, having something so intoxicating be invisible and impossible to trace. I knew I was going to be an extra special slice of asshole today, and as I got dressed, I tried to take deep breaths to relax.
I nodded and smiled my way through an entirely awful investors meeting that I attended only because I made a promise to a friend. It was a complete waste of time. And to make matters worse? There was a massive pothole in their parking garage and I ruined my shoe. Instead of my normal lunch meeting with my partner, I went home, not wanting to walk around in a wet shoe and sock a single moment longer.
It’d been a long time since I’d been at my house in the middle of the day on a Tuesday. Because I’m a fucking grown man with a job. But I was already grouchy and it would be a cold day in hell before I sat in a wet shoe through a work lunch. We didn’t have a lot of new stuff on our plates right now, since most of our work provided plenty of residual income.
I parked in the service driveway, next to a little shitty silver car who belonged to someone who worked for me, though I couldn’t be sure exactly who. I think I’d seen it once or twice over the last few years, but I couldn’t remember. I trusted all the services I used to hire people to take care of my place, so I never felt the need to worry or question anyone at my home for anything. I trusted the processes.
Walking in through the back door of the butler’s pantry, which was directly off the kitchen, I could hear the sink was running. Fuck, I’d hoped the maids that were here today would not be downstairs, so I’d be spared the small talk. I hated to sound like a prick, and it wasn’t the fact that they were service people. It was just small talk in general. It was so painful and such a waste. I kicked off my shoes and socks, dropping the socks in the washer, setting the shoes onto the drying rack. Walking through the pantry, I came into the kitchen just as a gentle voice crept out in front of me, my head turning to see the back of her as she spoke out some familiar words: “I don’t remember my first kiss. I remember everything.”
My mind fogged. Those simple words sent a thrill tearing through my stomach. I couldn’t stop myself.
“What did you say?”
She turned and my god, she was fucking beautiful. Her skin was so soft it looked like it was angelic, and I could see the faintest of freckles melting into her, everywhere. Green eyes, bright and expressive as she dropped to her knees, trying desperately to salvage the glass she’d accidentally broken. I didn’t care about the glass. I wanted to see the way her eyes looked through those full lashes, I wanted to pull that long braid over her shoulder, wrap it around my knuckles before freeing it, letting the mane of honey colored hair flood her face. Her chest heaved nervously as she apologized, and I couldn’t help but notice her generous breasts, nipples piercing through the white collared work shirt. I watched her lips move and noticed the exquisite shade of pink they took on, like the dahlias my mother grew in our garden when I was a child. Her beauty stopped me, it stopped time in my kitchen, I swear it did.
Then, before I could say anything else, I saw the blood running down her arm. Her hand was cut, and I took her to the sink. She was talking, doesn’t want to lose her job, mom was an alcoholic. I was trying to focus. I wanted to listen but my cock was so hard, my stiff flesh pressing up against my zipper in heated agony.
Fuck, usually I had better control. Why was I so hard? Standing this close, I realized, she was the smell I’d been smelling, it was her. It was her shampoo or her lotion, something, but it was her. Sweet like cake. My cock twitched, threatening still against my zipper, so I squatted down and began to clean up the rest of the shattered glass.
She was so fucking beautiful. Made by God just to torture men, make them
drool and pant.
The kind of pure beauty that definitely has a boyfriend. Definitely wants nothing to do with the lonely forty-something man who sneaks up on his workers.
But this fucking fox, this vixen. She’s so plainly gorgeous and yet she moves so self-consciously, as if she hasn’t the slightest clue. Even with her cut hand I want to hold her against the fridge and slant my mouth over hers, pin her with my hips and feel the smooth curves of her perky young tits under my palms.
Stand down, old man, I told myself.
Even though I didn’t feel old and I certainly didn’t look old, as I’d never had a problem with meeting women of any age, I was still nearing fifty and the years for me to fuck a twenty something were probably all long behind me.
But as she nearly ran out of my house and flew out of the driveway with the other girl, I knew I didn’t just want to fuck her. I wanted to know her. Something about her pure loveliness and real disposition had me deeply interested. I hadn’t been interested in anyone in… years.
See, it was never meeting the women that was the hard part. It was the staying interested in them that never quite panned out for me.
After less than five minutes around this fucking creature, I was hooked. I needed more. Even though I knew she was way too young, I couldn’t help myself.
