SIR

by R. J. Lewis

  Like now, when I have just showed up to the office a few minutes late.

  “You know, Miss Montcalm,” he says, staring down at his work as I enter, “I have a feeling if one of my employees’ car broke down in the middle of traffic, and they had to then ride a unicycle to get to my home, proceeded to get hit by a semi along the way and then crawled at a snail’s pace through broken glass with two broken legs, they would still have made it here before you.”

  I collapse in the chair next to him. “That employee does not room with Philotes, Mr West.”

  He looks up. “Philotes?”

  “My suite has a spider problem, and the leader is named Philotes. He is out to get me.”

  “A spider is out to get you?”

  I nod, solemnly. “He is genuinely concerning. He builds webs across my door every day, and every day they’re getting thicker. Last night I thought I’d outsmart him. I bent down and crawled under the web, and you know something, Mr West? Fucking Philotos had built a web there too, like a booby trap, like he’s some Indiana Jones of the insect world, and I fell straight into it. I am still coughing up that web, by the way. I think he loaded it with flies, too. There is an itch in my throat I just cannot get to.”

  When I look at him next, looking all serious and shit, I see something that steals my breath.

  West is grinning. It’s breathtaking.

  I resist smiling in return because I really do have a serious spider problem in that suite. I bite the inside of my cheek, but it’s a losing battle.

  I laugh, and then he’s laughing.

  Fuck my life.

  “We have to do something about this,” I force out through my fit of giggles. “Honestly, Mr West—”

  “Because you have a spider problem—”

  “I do, I have a spider problem in my suite, that’s right.”

  West nods, his eyes lingering on my face for a beat longer. “You are something else, aren’t you?”

  I don’t respond. Heat rushes to my cheeks. I look down, splaying my hair over my face so he doesn’t see the crimson glow.

  “Time to make some calls,” I say on a sigh.

  “To whom?”

  “Mr Ronald Greer.”

  “What did he do again?”

  “He invented some sort of window opening contraption.”

  West laughs again, and it’s music to my ears. Wow. “Fucking hell.”

  “Yeah.”

  These are the stupidest companies I have ever seen, but whatever. I have a feeling this is therapy for Aidan.

  Truth be told, we might be getting on each other’s nerves, but we’re stubborn, neither of us willing to give up on this disastrous pairing.

  After almost a day’s work, I stare at West now, sitting beside me, and he doesn’t know a thing. He’ll never know the brief history we had, how passionate we felt for one another. He’ll never know what I meant to him. It’s hard not to think about these things when the reminder is sitting next to me every single day. I don’t know what I’m doing here anymore because if it’s to naturally remind him of us, it’s not working. At all. Nor am I able to get through to him in a way that has him opening up to me.

  The Aidan next to me now does not appear to want help. He probably doesn’t think he needs it, and I question a lot of the time if he even does, too. If he were to go about his life being cold and private and empty, is that really so bad?

  I think Steven has it all wrong. I think he sent me here thinking he was back to snorting drugs and going wild.

  I don’t see him doing any of that.

  What he’s doing, I realize, is hiding from the world, maybe even from himself.

  Seventeen

  Ivy

  I’ve officially lost the plot.

  There’s another party, and this one is less crowded than the norm. Maybe the estate is losing its charm—whatever, I don’t care. Point is, I’ve lost the plot. Why? Because I’ve joined the upper-level poker match with these rich boys, all to have direct view of the hallway leading to Aidan’s bedroom. My impulsive nature is growing worse. My need to know what is happening up here with him is at its all-time high.

  Is this unhealthy?

  Probably.

  Do I need help?

  No, no, I promise. I mean, I’ve just admitted this is probably unhealthy, and one of the steps to overcoming a problem is admitting it out loud. See, I’m grand. I’ve got this—

  “Where do you think you’re going?” I snap, looking up from my cards as my eyes narrow on the latest girl eyeing his bedroom.

  She scowls at me. “That’s none of your business—”

  “I live here,” I cut in. “In fact, I monitor the comings and goings of Mr West’s estate, therefore it is my business, and you need to back away.” I raise my brows expectantly.

  Nothing good is going to come of this, I know it. I’m strutting around my questionable authority, and all these girls need to do is be stubborn enough to challenge it. Then my house of cards will come crashing down and no one will take me seriously again.

  I can’t let that happen.

  So, I puff out my chest, look at her like I’m ready to duel, and wait for her to fuck off. This one does fuck off, but boy does she give me the look of looks. Like, I am on this chick’s hitlist, no doubt.

  “Alright, Eddie,” I say, slamming a hand on the table. “Let’s see what you got!”

  “A Royal Flush,” Eddie tells me from across the coffee table, laying the cards down. “And please stop calling me Eddie. My name is Dave.”

  “I’m Eddie,” the man next to him says, raising a hand.

  I’ve lost another hand, and I grumble a curse behind my beer bottle—okay, so I’m also drinking just a teensy bit. Listen, it’s not that bad. I’m still all there. I may yell a little, demand another hand, might even tell the DJ who keeps telling me he isn’t a DJ to throw on a better song—and yeah, I growl at a woman who is simply standing next to the hallway, but I—Am—All—There.

  The guy next to me—Matt?—is sitting really close now, and he laughs at all my jokes, so I’m also developing bonds. It’s working out well. I should have tried mingling a long time ago. It’s nice to bury your hurt behind a few bottles of beer and a bunch of poker matches.

  “I saw you downstairs,” Matt says, grinning. “You came out of a cupboard like a creature from Narnia.”

  “I saw that!” another guy says, laughing as he plays with his poker chips. “That was some Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe shit.”

  “That is my oubliette,” I explain. “It’s a work in progress, a diamond in the rough.”

  The guys laugh, but they would probably sob if they actually saw it.

  “West hires the most beautiful women,” Matt says then, leaning into me. He rests a warm hand on my knee, murmuring, “I wouldn’t have you locked away in a cupboard if I was sleeping right above you.”

  I plaster on a fake smile. “Great.”

  Then I attempt to slide his hand off my knee. When it falls, he just brings it up again and places it back. It’s pretty bold, this dude is trying to seduce me—

  “You will remove your hand,” a deep voice says.

  I look up, tensing for a brief moment as West stands in the room coming from…just where exactly? He stands before us, disapproving brown eyes flickering briefly at mine before returning to my new friend Matt.

  Matt drops his hand, playing it cool. We play another round, and West doesn’t say a word as he continues to linger, eyeing everyone—eyeing me.

  I take a nervous sip of my beer, glancing at him intermittently. He…is all there. All present. I can tell he’s sober from a mile away, and I don’t quite expect that. He roams the room, watching the game, watching me lose time and time again. My chips are dwindling but it’s because I’m watching him more than I am my cards.

  He eventually takes a seat on the armchair straight across from us. He seems to have his focus on Matt more than anyone else. Matt hasn’t touched my knee, but he’s scooted
closer to me, the scent of his cologne clouding all around me. It’s a nice scent, not as unique as West’s, but still very pleasant, and Matt is nice to look at, too, so it’s not like I’m suffering, but West doesn’t seem to agree. His jaw is tight as he glares at him.

  When Matt wins a round, his voice booms all around us. He jumps, arrogantly says a few words to us ‘losers’ before he plops back down and wraps an arm around my shoulders, telling me, “I need you next to me. You’re my good luck charm.”

  West…doesn’t like this development. He’s jealous. I can see it in his face. His expression is a storm as leans forward, elbows on his knees now as he gapes at Matt, parting his lips to say, “You will remove your arm.”

  Matt’s body tightens before his grip around my shoulders loosens. “Am I doing something wrong?”

  West’s lips thin. “My assistant does not want to be touched.”

  My body tingles as I let out a grateful breath. I try to be casual now, hoping we can resume our game because I’m in desperate need of a distraction otherwise I’ll just wind up staring at West.

  The room is tense. The music is blasting some wicked tunes, but I can barely hear it over the whoosh of blood in my ears. I’m feeling equally awkward. Matt has scooted as far away from me as he can get. He’s practically hanging off the edge of the couch, and no one is talking to me anymore.

  “Come on, guys,” I urge them. “We’re still having fun, right?”

  They don’t seem to agree.

  I am now bad juju.

  I can’t blame West, though. I appreciate his intervention—

  My body suddenly stills when I see the migration of women all around him now. One is sitting on the arm of his chair, whispering in his ear. My pulse picks up, and tension coils inside me, that impulse impossible to ignore.

  “You will get off that chair,” I hiss, staring at the brunette with the long ass legs. When she looks at me, that smug look clouding her features, I add, “It’s antique and your fake ass is going to dent it. Get. Off.”

  When she doesn’t, I leap to my feet and suddenly she’s jumping off the armchair and stumbling away in her heels. West immediately stands up, grabbing at my arm as I come close enough to swing at this smug smiling wench—

  “I think we’ve had enough fun for tonight,” he says to me tightly. “No more alcohol, Ivy. Come on.”

  He ushers me out of the room, and I’m still pent-up with rage at the thought of that woman all over him, touching his ear with her mouth.

  “You shouldn’t have let her do that,” I growl at him, vision dizzy as he guides me down a dark hallway. “That chair was antique, Aidan.”

  “You care very much about the chair, I get it.”

  “I do,” I say as he opens a door, his arm around me, clutching me to his chest. “I care very much about your furniture. They are an extension of the house, Aidan.” Just like your ear is an extension of your body.

  His chest rumbles with his amusement. His mouth skirts along my ear. “I like when you call me my name.”

  “Aidan.” I shut my eyes, savouring it.

  “Mmm.”

  I’m vaguely aware we’re in his bedroom. He takes me to his bed and sits me down on the edge of his mattress, and then he drops down to tug my heels off. It’s more work with all the straps. I’m still in my work dress, and I need a shower but…I’m too dizzy right now. I stare down at him as he undoes one heel and slips it off, setting it neatly in front of the nightstand. I gaze at him, at his stunning face and concentrated lips. My emotions are clogging my throat again.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper, confused by his doting behavior.

  “You took care of me when I was drugged out of my mind,” he says, looking up at me. “I’m doing the very same thing in return. You need to stay in this room, away from all those people.”

  “Why?”

  His gaze lingers. “You just do.”

  He begins on my other heel.

  My chest swells with tenderness. “I keep thinking about you…” my drunken words come out in a rush. “Do you…do you think about me?”

  His hands pause, and this time he doesn’t look at me. “More than I like.”

  “What is happening?” I don’t need to ask what I mean. I know he understands. What is happening between us?

  “I…don’t know,” he admits.

  I swallow, breaths ragged as I continue to stare at him. “Where do you go at night?”

  He resumes undoing the straps and slides the second heel off, not responding. His touch on my foot lingers, though. He runs his palm up my calf and pauses, brows coming together. “I walk.”

  “You walk?”

  “I walk and I think…and I come back, and I see everyone and I…wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  I can see the sadness in his face, even in the darkness. “I don’t know. I…can’t remember, but I know I’m waiting for something.”

  Before I can respond, he stands up. “Lay back. Get under the covers, Ivy.”

  I lay back and he helps me under the blanket. It’s warm out, so it’s not necessary, but I like him touching me. I…want to touch him too. As he drags the covers up, I lay my hand over his as it reaches my chest. His eyes flash to mine, and we look at each other for some time, saying nothing.

  “Go to sleep,” he quietly demands, finally pulling away.

  I watch him as he disappears into the bathroom, and the shower pipes come on.

  *

  I know he’s in bed next to me. I can feel him, even though the bed is so big and he’s not touching me. I can sense him, can smell his shower wash, can hear his quiet breaths.

  My brain is foggy. I’m still drunk. The alcohol is sloshing around in my stomach, and I’m not feeling the very best as I turn to my side, seeking him out.

  “Aidan,” I whisper, voice scratchy.

  His head turns in my direction. “What is it?”

  “I’m not feeling the best.”

  I can hear the frown in his voice. “Sleep it off.”

  I groan, burying my face in the pillow. “I’m sick.” When he doesn’t respond straightaway, I urge him to, “Do something about this.”

  I hear him shuffle down the bed to me. My body jolts when his fingers run along my hair, pushing the strands out of my face. “Are you going to vomit?”

  I shake my head. “No, I just feel…sick.”

  “Do you need a pill?”

  “Just…stay. Get my mind off it. Talk to me.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  I groan again, frustrated. “Anything, goddammit. Just talk.”

  I may vomit, to be honest. It’s the strangest feeling in the pit of my stomach, and it’s climbing up my chest. His fingers slide down to my shoulders. He runs it under the collar of my dress, and digs his fingertips along my muscles, massaging me.

  “I think I’m finished with the parties,” he says. “It’s time I put that behind me.”

  I relax under his fingers, moaning at the pleasure. I don’t speak. I let him talk, let him say whatever he wants to say—it’s helping.

  “I also think…I think you’re incredibly beautiful.” His voice grows lower. “I liked seeing you have fun. I didn’t like you had your guard down around those rich pricks, but…I imagine you’re like that often. Fun.”

  He shuffles closer, his fingers working my neck muscles now. I feel his breaths against the side of my face. I can feel his eyes on me, even though mine are shut.

  “I think we had fun together before I lost my mind,” he mutters then. “Maybe you were my friend after all.”

  I make a humming sound in the back of my throat. “Maybe.”

  He massages me for so long, I nearly drift to sleep. I’m in a peaceful state. I don’t want his hand to stop touching me. So, when it does, I grumble a sound of protest. He rests his palm flat against my back, the heat penetrating through my dress, warming me on the inside.

  “Do you think there’s such thing as a sou
l, Ivy?” He lets out a trembling breath. “How can we have one if we can forget everything? It’s like…our brain is just a processor and nothing else. We’re just computers that can feel and then we get switched off when it’s all over.”

  I open my eyes, meeting his thoughtful gaze. “I think your soul is a collection of everything you are, Aidan. It can be rewritten, even if you don’t forget.”

  The silence falls between us as he continues to touch me, running his hand up and down my back, trying to make me feel better.

  Come Monday, when he’s back to being cool and impenetrable, I’ll remember this moment. I’ll carry it with me in the office as a reminder that he can be sweet, he can be soft, he can be the way he was when I knew him.

  I pass out quickly under his touch, and I don’t wake up once.

  *

  The next morning, I wake up to an empty bed and a migraine that feels like a thousand knives have been stabbed into my head.

  I wearily stumble out of bed and pad to his bathroom. I don’t take in its splendor as I splash water over my face and tell myself to breathe.

  Last night was fuzzy.

  I remember big chunks of it, but there are gaps in between those memories. God, if this is how I feel after just one drunken night, I can’t imagine losing three years of my life. My heart tugs in my chest for West—for Aidan.

  I wonder where he is now. Maybe his office. I feel this deep gratitude over what he did last night. He stroked me until I fell asleep. My gratitude runs deep. So much so, I have this urge to repay him somehow.

  I leave the bathroom and return to my suite briefly to bathe and change. Then I make myself a giant mug of coffee and stumble out of the house and to the river. I need some peace and quiet. I need to dip my feet in the stream and work this hangover off.

  As I make my way down the hill, my steps pause briefly as I make out Aidan’s figure in the water. I can’t—I fucking can’t with these West boys. My heart is hammering in my chest as I make my way to the bottom. I place the mug down on the rocks and throw my top off. I wade into the water after him in my shorts and bra, and if he sees me, he doesn’t react or say a word.