by Cynthia Sax
I tilt my head back and study him, not knowing what I said wrong. “You should uphold the contract and feed me.” My stomach rumbles, emphasizing my point, and I laugh. “I’m starving. You might want to hurry our lunch order.”
Chapter Five
* * *
“LUNCHTIME APPOINTMENTS ARE the best.” I sit in one of Nate’s guest chairs, clad in my corset and heels, my legs hooked over the armrests, my body open to his gaze. We spent the hour eating and talking. To be more accurate, I talked and Nate listened, my executive growing more and more cold and withdrawn.
“Tomorrow we could have a picnic.” I nibble on a piece of naan, enjoying the flatbread, undaunted by his silence. Nate surprised me with spicy Indian food, dishes I doubt he would order for himself. This must mean he cares for me, at least a little bit. “There’s a park close to the office.”
He stacks the takeout containers. “I doubt it’s a clothing-optional park.” The office smells of curry and sex, an appealing combination. “And if you plan to set up our appointments, you should put that in our agreement.”
I frown. “I thought it was in our agreement.” I straighten, lowering my feet to the carpet. “You said I control our appointments.”
“You do control our appointments,” Nate reassures me. “I propose the times. You have the option to turn down those times.”
I relax. “Then propose the time for tomorrow at noon.” I wave my hands. “What’s the big freakin’ deal?”
Nate’s lips flatten. “The big freakin’ deal is we have an agreement. If we follow that agreement we’ll both know what to expect.” He taps on his keyboard. “I’m busy tomorrow at noon.”
“Then I guess I can expect to eat alone tomorrow.” I can’t suppress my sarcasm.
“And I have a meeting in five minutes.” Nate ignores me, his focus on his screen, his expression cool and detached. “You should get dressed.”
He’s kicking me out of his office. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I jump to my feet and gather my clothes, feeling very much like the hooker he’s hired me to be. “You need to work on your pillow talk, Romeo.”
“The women I pay don’t expect pillow talk.” Nate doesn’t look at me, my executive now in business mode.
“Then what do you talk about after you fuck?” I yank on my skirt and the frayed fabric rips.
“We talk about payment and the next appointment.” He shrugs. “They leave quickly.”
“I’m not surprised,” I mutter. Especially if he’s as snitty with them as he is with me. “Well, I won’t be leaving quickly.” I button my blazer. “We’re living together so you’ll need to master pillow talk.”
“You’ll leave.” The printer behind Nate hums, spewing out papers. “After we’re done you’ll return to your bedroom and I’ll stay in mine.”
I stare at him. “We have separate bedrooms?”
“Of course.” Nate spreads out the papers on his desk. “That was outlined in the contract.”
“You said we’d be living together,” I remind him. “Sleeping in separate bedrooms isn’t living together.”
“I thought you wanted your freedom, Miss Trent.” Nate circles a number on one of the pages. I’m now Miss Trent, a business associate, someone he doesn’t want, doesn’t need, doesn’t care about. “Separate bedrooms will give you freedom.”
I gaze at him, confused. I thought I wanted my freedom also. “But—”
“No buts.” He interrupts my protest. “I’ve sent a copy of the contract to your private e-mail address. Read it. That’s what you can expect from me. Nothing more.”
He’s dismissing me. No one dismisses me. I glare at him. “You can take your contract and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”
“That’s very mature,” Nate drawls, his cold tone escalating my anger.
“If you wanted mature you should have found yourself another hooker, preferably one sporting her natural hair color.” I stomp around the office, slamming my heels down on the thick plush carpet, not ready to leave him, not yet.
“The exit is that way.” He points at the door, his blond head remaining bowed over the printouts.
“I’m going,” I huff. “Take a good look at this ass, Iceman.” I smack my rear. “Because this could be the last time you’ll ever see it.” I blast though the door, my head held high.
Nate doesn’t stop me, doesn’t say anything, because he and I both know I’m bluffing. I will see him again. The damn man has me wound up so tight, I’m a bit crazy.
Okay, I’m a whole lot of crazy. I double-time it down the hallway, irritated with him, with myself, with the entire world.
“Miss Trent,” a man calls. “About your expense reports—”
“What do you want?” I yell, throwing my hands upward. The tallest corporate clone gulps and sits down.
At least someone responds to my pain. I move even faster, whipping through the reception area, and I jab the down elevator button ten times.
“It only needs to be pressed once,” Gladys, the gatekeeper, advises.
I don’t acknowledge her presence. If I talk to her what I say won’t be nice, and she’s close to a thousand years old. She might have a heart attack. Then I’ll have a death on my hands and no one will take me seriously when I say I’m all about peace and love.
The elevator doors open and the space is thankfully empty. It’s one o’clock. I should return to the legal floor and give Miss Yen at least one more hour of work before I mentally check out for the day.
I never do what I should. I press the button for the ground floor and drum my heels into the tile. My arrangement with Nate is proof of that. The true me never would have agreed to that contract. I signed it to make him happy, and when I did that I promised to follow his rules, to change, to become someone I’m not.
The elevator goes express, descending without stopping once. He’ll try to hold me to that promise and our fighting will escalate until our relationship finally ends. As all of my relationships have ended. With disaster, disappointment, pain.
The elevator doors open and I hightail it through the lobby. Jerome, the evil security guard, isn’t at his post, and the afternoon security guard isn’t giving anyone a rough time. He’s slouched in his chair, his head bowed and his arms crossed, his hat tilted over his closed eyes.
I exit through the revolving doors, step into the sunshine, and release a sigh of relief. I’m free. There are no walls, no rules, no uptight CFOs I’m destined to disappoint.
I play hooky from work for an hour and a half, hiding in the park in which Nate is too busy to have lunch. A hedge divides this natural space from the rest of the world. Rows of yellow, white, and blue flowers nod in the warm summer breeze. I sit on a wooden bench under a tree, slip off my shoes and bury my toes in the green grass, savoring the connection to Mother Earth, to my hippie roots.
I need this connection. Even in my studio apartment there are herbs growing in pots along my windowsill. Will Nate allow me to keep my plants? He said he’d bring over all of the contents of my apartment. Are plants considered contents?
I shouldn’t have signed that contract. I put on my shoes and trudge back to Blaine Technologies. Nate will try to enforce each and every clause in his monster contract and I’ll fight him. That’s my nature.
I have to find a way to sever our agreement. The sleeping security guard doesn’t stir as I walk past him. My friend Kat says there are loopholes in every document. There must be a loophole in Nate’s contract.
I return to the legal floor to do my remaining time. The pinch-faced lady is huffing about a phone ringing. I roll my eyes. She works in an office building. Phones ring in office buildings. Get over it, lady.
“Green,” Miss Yen hollers as I near my desk.
What is it now? I smother my shriek. I can’t handle any more problems today. “Yeah?” I blow into her office and plunk my ass down in the guest chair, not having the energy to be civil.
Miss Yen gives me a dirty look. “Mr. Lawford wants
to speak with you. Did you resubmit the expense reports?”
Mr. Lawford can suck my big toe. “Yes, I’ve resubmitted the expense reports.” I cross my arms. There must be a way to terminate our contract.
Miss Yen is known for negotiating contracts. That’s how she landed her dragon lady nickname. She draws blood at the bargaining table.
“I made a mistake and signed a contract I shouldn’t have signed,” I swallow my pride and confess to my boss. “What do I do?”
She presses her lips together. “What is this contract for?”
“It’s for . . . ummm . . .” Hot sex. Multiple orgasms. Hand jobs in the shredding room. “Services.”
Miss Yen narrows her eyes. “If these services aren’t legal the contract isn’t worth the paper it is written on. Pursuing any breach of contract issues will likely result in charges being laid for all parties involved.”
I chew on my bottom lip. Nate is a smart guy. He knows that. “Then why would you draft a contract you couldn’t enforce?”
“This is something illegal.” Miss Yen rubs her hands over her face. “Of course it is. Why would I expect anything else?” She gazes upward for a couple of seconds, as though seeking divine guidance from the ceiling tiles. “Some parties draft contracts to set expectations. There are no surprises with a contract. Everything is in writing.”
This sounds plausible. Nate doesn’t like surprises and he’s always yammering about expectations. “But if they can’t enforce the contract what good is it?” I ask.
“They’re trusting the other party to uphold the contract.”
He’s trusting me to uphold the contract. All hope I have of wiggling out of this deal vanishes. I can’t break Nate’s trust, can’t betray him. “Thank you, Miss Yen. I’ll speak with Nate.” I stand and smooth down my torn skirt. “Eventually.”
“He prefers to be called Mr. Lawford,” my boss advises. “And get a new suit, Green.”
“Clothing is the least of my worries,” I mutter as I return to my desk. My phone is ringing. I glance at the screen. It’s Nate’s number. I turn the ringer off and clip my phone to my skirt. I’ll talk to him, but not now. I have to think about what I will say, about how we can save our relationship. We can’t continue to fight, not for the entire month.
The wall of shredding behind me has grown, the cardboard boxes blocking the windows. I grab one box and heft it to the shredding room. The shredding has to be done and it’s brain-dead work. I can think about my issues with Nate while I labor.
The machine growls as I feed it pieces of paper. I shred all of the files, flatten the box, add the cardboard to the stack, and retrieve another box.
My phone buzzes and Nate’s number displays on the small screen. I admire his persistence and ignore his call, not yet ready to talk to him, having no solution for our relationship mess.
I stuff a thick file into the shredder. There might not be a solution. Nate and I might be doomed. The machine jams, grinding to a stop. I yank on the papers, peel them apart, feed them separately, my mood somber.
My phone’s screen flashes red. Someone has accessed my apartment, breaking my electronic locks. I rush to my desk, type in my surveillance address, and examine the video feed on the larger monitor.
A huge rough-looking man is frantically pulling on the alarm wires. Three men stand behind him, waving their gloved hands, their mouths moving. I zoom in with the camera lens. Lawford Relocation Services is written across their navy-blue shirts in white block letters.
Lawford Relocation Services is one of the many companies owned by Nate’s dad, a prominent LA real-estate developer and tough-as-nails billionaire. Nate isn’t waiting for my keys or my security codes. I suck air through my front teeth. He’s moving me now.
I can’t truly be angry with him. He said he’d move me today, and he isn’t the type of man to wait for anyone’s permission. I remotely disarm the alarms and the men stop ripping at the wires.
Should I go home and supervise their efforts? I hover over the computer, undecided. My apartment isn’t large and the men are working quickly, placing everything in boxes, stuffing packing popcorn around my potted plants, disconnecting my computer equipment. The bus I take to and from work doesn’t run very often. The movers will be gone before I arrive.
Nate appears on the screen, looking out of place in his suit and tie. I know his schedule. He has meetings booked for the entire afternoon. What is he doing at my place? I sit down and watch him.
A mover holds up the battered pot in which I cook rice. Nate nods and the man carefully places the pot into a box. I move the view from camera to camera as Nate walks around my studio apartment. He touches my parents’ framed first summer solstice photo, the rainbow-colored crocheted bedspread my mom made for me, my collection of fine leather corsets.
“Have you added breaking and entering to your long list of crimes?” I text him.
Nate reaches inside his jacket, removes his phone, glances down at the screen, and then around him. He locates the camera and types into his phone. “I agreed to move the contents of your apartment.”
He’s keeping his promise, potential jail time be damned. I grin, impressed. “I didn’t think that meant you’d be personally involved. Don’t you have meetings you should be attending?”
“You didn’t answer your phone.” Nate sits on my tiny bed, the mattress dipping beneath him. “Someone has to supervise the movers. Do you wish to join me?”
Yes, I wish to join him . . . on my bed. I move the camera lens, scanning my one-room apartment. The movers have stripped it bare, taking everything, including the curtains. “Nah,” I type. “You appear to have everything under control. I trust you.”
Nate stares down at his phone. Minutes pass. He pockets the phone and stands, his expression solemn. He opens my nightstand, the nightstand that holds my collection of black panties.
I turn off my screen, unable to watch Nate snoop through my things. He’ll know all of my secrets before the move is completed. I grab a random stack of papers and take the elevator to the finance floor. If he can snoop I can also.
As I exit the elevator Gladys, Nate’s gatekeeper, frowns, worry lines feathering her round face. “I’ve been expecting you.” She dangles a set of keys from her index finger. “Return the keys to Mr. Lawford when you’re done with them.”
Nate is giving me permission to snoop, granting me access to his office, his filing cabinets, everything. I swallow my wonder and take the keys from Gladys, my fingers trembling. “I will. Thank you.”
“He’s a good man, Miss Trent, and he trusts you.” She pushes her glasses upward until they are snug against the bridge of her button nose. “Don’t betray his trust.”
“I’ll keep his secrets safe, Gladys,” I vow, touched by Nate’s faith in me. He won’t regret this, ever. I pass over the threshold and tramp along the hallway, entering the finance department.
Today I’ll open more of Nate’s locked doors. I twirl his keys around one of my fingers, the clinking of metal against metal musical. I’ll uncover his secrets, learn more about the man I care for.
I stride into his private space and glance around the office. Where should I start? Although the filing cabinets tempt me they’re situated far away from Nate’s desk. In my vast experience of snooping people keep their juicy secrets close to them.
I sit in Nate’s captain’s chair, the black leather smelling of his cologne, light and fresh and unmistakably masculine. My pussy moistens, my mons bare under my torn skirt. I hike up the garment and swivel my hips, grinding my scent into his seat. He’ll smell me for days.
Humming happily, I unlock Nate’s desk and slide open the top drawer. His fountain pen collection is impressive. All seventeen pens are black yet each one is unique and beautiful. I glide my fingertips over their smooth sleek barrels, the same barrels Nate holds in his big hands.
There’s an empty space in his custom-made drawer insert. I unclip the pen from my corset and place it where it belongs, its
gold nib gleaming against the black velvet. The pens clearly mean something to Nate. I can’t take one away from him.
I open drawer after drawer, systematically searching his desk. All of his office supplies are the best, items not found in the main supplier’s catalogue. His sticky notes are crafted from fine linen paper. His stapler is a work of art, engraved with flowing swirls. The tins holding his mints are black enamel, trimmed with gold.
He buys the best and he has bought me, quirky strange Camille Trent. I flip through the printed checks waiting for his signature. It would be easy to take one of these checks, change the name, and cash it at one of those fast money places. I frown. Nate should store them more securely.
I walk my fingers across the file folders hanging in the bottom drawer. Boring. Boring. Boring. I don’t care about vendor agreements or board meeting minutes. I skip over our contract. I’m looking for something new, something juicy, something . . . like this.
I remove a massive file neatly labeled CHILD SUPPORT PAYMENTS in block type. My heart squeezes. Does Nate have a child? I glance at the painting of the mother and child. No. I never discovered a child in all of my research and Nate, Mr. I-Need-Sole-Custody, wouldn’t be an absentee dad.
I place the file on the leather desktop. The papers are yellow and brittle, the font faded. Nate’s full name is printed on the header of a spreadsheet, the columns titled with Date, Description, Original Estimate, and Final Cost.
The dates start nine months before Nate was born, and every conceivable child-related cost is listed: taxi rides to doctor appointments, late-night gourmet food cravings, a pack of gum to disguise the smell of his mom’s morning sickness. No item is too small, too insignificant, too overpriced.
The original estimates are outrageous and the final costs double or triple those estimates. I shake my head. Rich folks have some crazy ideas about what a child needs. Growing up on a commune, I never wore thousand-dollar baby booties. I stare at the prices, disbelieving my eyes. But somehow I survived.
I lean back in Nate’s chair and continue to read, the multipage spreadsheet telling the story of his life from his conception to his eighteenth birthday. Any event, any change that requires money is detailed, including five paternity tests.