The Takeover (The Miles High Club)

by T L Swan

  “Where is he?” I frown. “Is he missing?”

  “There he is,” he whispers as he gestures to the lounger. I look over to see Samuel curled up with his teddy in the diluted light of the room. My mouth falls open. “Oh no, what’s wrong?” I whisper. Did he need me and I slept through the whole thing?

  “Nothing,” Mr. Masters murmurs as he picks Samuel up and rests his son’s head on his strong shoulder. “He’s a sleepwalker. Sorry to disturb you. I’ve got this now.” He leaves the room with his small son safely asleep in his arms. The door gently clicks closed behind them.

  I lie back down and stare at the ceiling in the silence. That poor little boy. He came in here to see me, and I didn’t even wake up. I was probably snoring, for fuck’s sake. What if he was scared? Oh, I feel like shit now.

  I blow out a deep breath, lift myself up to sit on the edge of the bed, and put my head into my hands. I need to up my game. If I’m in charge of looking after this kid, I can’t have him wandering around at night on his own. Is he that lonely that he was looking for company from me—a complete stranger?

  Unexplained sadness rolls over me, and I suddenly feel like the weight of the world is on my shoulders. I look around my room for a moment as I think.

  Eventually, I get up and go to the bathroom, and then I walk to the window to pull the heavy drapes back. It’s just getting light, and a white mist hangs over the paddocks.

  Something catches my eye, and I look down to see Mr. Masters walking out to the garage.

  Wearing a dark suit and carrying a briefcase, he disappears, and moments later I see his Porsche pull out and disappear up the driveway. I watch as the garage door slowly closes behind him. He’s gone to work for the day.

  What the hell?

  His son was just found asleep on my lounger, and he just plops him back into his own bed and leaves for the day. Who does that? Well, screw this, I’m going to go and check on him. He’s probably upstairs crying, scared out of his brain. Stupid men. Why don’t they have an inch of fucking empathy for anyone but themselves? He’s eight, for Christ’s sake!

  I walk up into the main house. The lamp is still on in the living room, and I can smell the eggs that Mr. Masters cooked himself for breakfast. I look around and then go up the grand staircase. Honestly, what the hell have I gotten myself into here? I’m in some stupid rich twat’s house, worried about his child who he clearly doesn’t give a fuck about.

  I storm up the stairs, taking two at a time. I get to the top, and the change of scenery suddenly makes me feel nervous. It’s luxurious up here. The corridor is wide, and the cream carpet feels lush beneath my feet. A huge mirror hangs in the hall on the wall. I catch a glimpse of myself and cringe.

  God, no wonder he was looking at my boobs. They are hanging out everywhere, and my hair is wild. I readjust my nightgown over my breasts and continue up the hall. I pass a living area that seems to be for the children, with big comfy loungers inside it. I pass a bedroom, and then I get to a door that is closed. I open it carefully and allow myself to peer in. Willow is fast asleep—still scowling, though. I smirk and slowly shut her door to continue down the hall. Eventually, I get to a door that is slightly ajar. I peer around it and see Samuel sound asleep, tucked in nice and tight. I walk into his room and sit on the side of the bed. He’s wearing bright-blue-and-green dinosaur pajamas, and his little glasses are on his side table, beside his lamp. I find myself smiling as I watch him. Unable to help it, I put my hand out and push the dark hair from his forehead. His bedroom is neat and tidy, filled with expensive furniture. It kind of looks like you would imagine a child’s bedroom set out in a perfect family movie. Everything in this house is the absolute best of the best. Just how much money does Mr. Masters have? There’s a bookcase, a desk, a wingback chair in the corner, and a toy box. The window has a bench seat running underneath it, and there are a few books sitting in a pile on the cushion, as if Samuel reads there a lot. I glance over to the armchair in the corner to his school clothes all laid out for him. Everything is there, folded neatly, right down to his socks and shiny, polished shoes. His school bag is packed, too.

  I stand and walk over to look at his things. Mr. Masters must do this before he goes to bed. What must it be like to bring children up alone?

  My mind goes to his wife and how much she is missing out on. Samuel is so young. With one last look at Samuel, I creep out of the room and head back down the hall, until something catches my eye.

  A light is on in the en suite bathroom of the main bedroom. That must be Mr. Masters’s bedroom. I look left and then right; nobody is awake. I wonder what his room is like, and I can’t stop myself from tiptoeing closer to inspect it. Wow.

  The bed is clearly king size, and the room is grand, decorated in all different shades of coffee, complimented with dark antique furniture. A huge, expensive gold-and-magenta embroidered rug sits on the floor beneath the bed. The light in the wardrobe is on. I peer inside and see business shirts all lined up, neatly in a row. Super neatly, actually. I’m going to have to make sure I keep my room tidy or he’ll think I’m a pig. I smirk, because I am one according to his standards of living.

  I turn to see his bed has already been made, and my eyes linger over the velvet quilt and lush pillows there. Did he really touch himself in there last night as he thought of me, or am I completely delusional? I glance around for the photo of me, but I don’t see it. He must have taken it back downstairs.

  An unexpected thrill runs through me. I may return the favor tonight in my own bed.

  I walk into the bathroom. It’s all black and gray, and very modern. Once again, I notice that everything is very neat. There is a large mirror, and I can see that a slender cabinet sits behind it. I push the mirror, and the door pops open. My eyes roam over the shelves. You can tell a lot about people by their bathroom cabinet. Deodorant. Razors. Talcum powder. Condoms. I wonder how long ago his wife died. Does he have a new girlfriend?

  It wouldn’t surprise me. He is kind of hot, in an old way. I see a bottle of aftershave, and I pick it up, removing the lid before I lift it up to my nose.

  Heaven in a bottle.

  I inhale deeply again, and Mr. Masters’s face suddenly appears in the mirror behind me.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growls.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A psychologist in her former life, T L Swan is now seriously addicted to the thrill of writing and can’t imagine a time when she never did.

  She resides in Sydney, Australia, with her husband and their three children, where she is living out her own happily ever after with her first true love.