by Anita Gray
My throat is sore like it is most mornings but I put the raw sensation down to needing a drink of water.
I get up out of bed and stretch out, moaning because it feels so good as my muscles unwind. Yesterday briefly flashes through my mind, reminding me of that irritating sentiment that I've put down to jealousy, but then I notice a few bags on the chair in the corner of my room. I wander over and rustle through them: shampoo and conditioner, cocoa butter moisturizer and a group of hair ties. I also notice the car key and the laptop are gone. I'm not really bothered about the car key, but I'd like to keep the laptop—I enjoy studying and reading. It helps take my mind off things when I can't meditate.
I search around my room for the laptop, under the bed and under the pillows, but it's definitely gone. Charlie must have taken it when he came back into my room last night with those bags. That's the only plausible explanation.
Giving up on searching, I strip out of my nightclothes and take a shower with my new products, giving my hair a good scrub. I then relish in moisturizing my skin, lathering the cream between both hands before spreading it all over my body. My legs are a bit bristly because I haven't visited a salon in two months.
I pause then, staring blankly at my freckly reflection in the steamed up bathroom mirror.
Two months... It's been two months since Charlie bought me. That means I have four weeks left until I go home.
My heart sinks as I think of this, so I distract myself by getting dressed and going downstairs to find Charlie, leaving my hair down so it can dry naturally.
There's a note in the kitchen by the stove.
Breakfast is in the oven.
X
Smiling to myself about that stupid X/kiss, I take out the plate using a towel and eat scrambled eggs on toast at the kitchen countertop. Charlie wanders in then, dressed in black joggers and trainers, nothing else, his powerful, tanned body contracting in muscles. He's on the phone like he usually is, saying something in Spanish about returning to Mexico soon; that he isn't coming home empty handed.
Our eyes align and he gives me this sly smile—it's sharp and savage because his hair is pulled back.
My stomach fills with this weird fluttering stir and I'm almost sure I'm going to be sick, so I stop eating; put down my fork.
“Yeah, just over a month,” he says, still smiling slyly as he comes up to me.
He stops beside me, leaning against the fridge on his shoulder. I can smell that he's just showered, the fresh, musky scent of his skin clouding my ozone.
Jesus... It's too early for this.
“Morning,” he says in a chirpy manner, hanging up his call. He gives me the once over, leisurely gazing down my body. “You're up late. It's past ten.”
“I've been sleeping in late,” I whisper, trying to control the rage in my stomach.
“You all right?” he asks, gently tapping my arm. “After yesterday, I mean.”
I feel that pang of jealousy again but will it away. “Of course I am.”
He hums like he doesn't believe me, his eyes tapering as they glance between mine. “How was it being here on your own?”
I lift my shoulders. “Fine.”
“Yeah?” He raises his eyebrows.
I nod.
“Did you miss me?” I think he's teasing me. He looks like he is, flicking up his eyebrows.
“Like a hole in the head,” I say playfully, trying not to grin at him. Though he's been gone for a few days, and his—well, that woman showed up, nothing between us has changed. I like that. It cuts through all the bullshit.
Crossing my arms, I rest back against the countertop and ask again, “How was London?”
“Same shit. Different day.” He shrugs, folding his arms over his hard, dusty chest. “You've used the cocoa butter I bought you then?”
I snap my eyebrows together. “How'd you know that?”
Dark desire flashes through his eyes, and he hunches at the neck to come closer. “Because I can smell it on you.”
I glance away from him, reaching for my fork to busy myself.
“You ready to hit the gym?” he says. “Once you've eaten...”
“Actually, Charlie,” I say between bites, “I was going to ask if I could go to a salon today.” I tilt my head back so I can see his face. “I can drive myself but the car key is gone from my room.”
“You! go to a salon?” he says, his expression lighting up with pure amusement. “Why can I not picture that in my head?”
“Believe me, I don't enjoy going,” I say, having another mouthful of eggs.
I know the joke is on me, but this is a ritual Maksim has me indulge in—going to a salon once a month—for he says that he always wants me clean and hair free. I initially hated the idea but I'm used to it now, and as I'll be going home soon, I need to freshen up.
“You know, I think I remember you saying you've been to a salon before... when I first met you.” Charlie is smirking at me, amusement still gleaming in his eyes. “What do you have done?”
“At the salon?”
He nods; looks like he's trying his best not to laugh.
“The usual,” I say, giving him a funny look. I don't get why he finds this so funny—don't most girls go to a salon? “Can I go?”
“Course you can. I'll take you.” He digs into his pocket and pulls out a set of car keys. “I just need to grab a t-shirt. When you've finished with your breakfast, meet me outside.”
He leaves the kitchen then, glancing back at me when he's at the door, smirking.
I shake off his humorous mood and eat the rest of my eggs, then I jog upstairs to grab my leather jacket, double checking to see I've got my gun. I don't like going anywhere without it.
Outside, Charlie is resting against his Range Rover, wearing a black round-neck t-shirt over his black joggers. How is it that even in sportswear he looks exquisite?
No wonder that woman is going nuts over him.
“Do youwant to drive?” he asks, dangling the keys in the air.
I roll my hair around my hand so I can tie it back in a bun. “You can drive if you want. I don't know where we're going.”
Tilting his head, he gives me this look.
“What?” I tug open the passenger door.
“You're not cutting your hair, are you?”
I instinctively touch my bun. “I'll get a trim, but I won't have it all cut off.”
He nods, beginning for the driver's door. “Just keep it long.”
I pull a puzzled face at him, wondering why on earth he cares about whether my hair is long or not.
I jump into the car and pull on my seatbelt, breathing in that strong smell of lemon polish. It reminds me so much of when my car has been cleaned.
My car...
Home...
It all seems so far away now, like my old life could never have happened.
Charlie takes to the driver's seat, fires up the engine, and we drive into a local town, chatting about his stay in London. He says he didn't do anything but eat, work, and sleep. I don't buy that, not for a second. That woman said he was at a gangster's party.
“I thought you said you wanted to go out dancing... or whatever?”
He side-glances me. “Yeah, with you.”
I blink at him all cross eyed. Why the fuck would he want to go dancing with me? The only knowledge I have of dancing is dancing someone around a boxing ring.
We're quiet when his phone pings with a text message, so I flick on the radio and take in the view of Tunbridge Wells—that's where Charlie's house is, just on the outskirts. It's very old English and lush with greenery, the streets lined with trees; the people seeming middle-class in their suits.
“Blaire,” Charlie says my name, rounding a corner, “why don't you wear underwear?”
“What?” I burst out laughing to the point where my stomach aches. “Where'd that come from?”
We glance at each other, but then he looks ahead and pulls into a small car park. He stops in a double space a
nd switches off the purring engine, facing me.
I try to avoid his question but he raises his eyebrows at me.
“I do wear underwear,” I say between laughing, “just not the ones you want me to wear.”
“What underwear do you wear then?” he says coolly, like this topic of conversation is okay and not awkward.
“I wear sports bras and comfortable pants. Not scraps of lace.” I roll my eyes, not getting these weird questions he's asking today. First he's interested in my hair, and now my underwear? “I need some money, Charlie, so I can buy an appointment because I haven't-”
Grabbing my hand, he puts a few hundred in my palm. “The salon is over there.” He nods forward. “I'll wait here for you—unless you want me to come in?” He's dying for me to say 'yes'. I can see the hilarity glowing in his eyes.
“Eh, no,” I say with sarcasm, “I think I'm okay.” I climb out of the car and wander across the car park, into the salon. It reeks of toxic peroxide, I notice as soon as I push open the heavy glass front door. I've always hated this smell.
“Good afternoon,” a blonde greets me, giving me a curt look.
I drop all the cash on the white reception desk and tell her that I need a full body wax, a haircut, and my nails filed down.
“You must be Blaire?” she says, and that curt look is gone.
An iron shield comes up and I step back. “How do you know my name?”
She leans into her desk, her eyes streaming from left to right like she's reading something. “A Mr. Decena called about an hour ago and booked you an appointment.” She peers up at me from whatever she's reading.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, relaxing in my pose, “I'm Blaire.”
“Of course. We have a room ready for you. Please follow me.” Clicking her fingers, she assembles a team of beauticians to accommodate me, and I spend the next few hours trying not to scream my head off because my skin is on fire from being waxed.
The appointment costs me—no, Charlie, a tidy three-hundred and fifty pounds, but it's worth every penny. My hair is trimmed, my nails are filed down and no longer like cat claws, and I'm smooth to the touch.
When I get back in the car, dripping in smooth, dark red hair, Charlie is on the phone, talking about coming to a political agreement. He addresses his caller as, 'Congressman'. The American Congressman?
He gestures over his shoulder with his thumb, so I look in the back seats. There are a few shopping bags. I grab one, pull it open, and my expression drops when I see a whole bunch of lingerie sets—sports bras and normal pants.
The most natural smile spreads across my face as I peer over at Charlie. He winks at me, puts the car in gear, and we head back to the house. He's on the phone the entire time, and I learn it's definitely the American Congressman he's conferring with. I'm not that surprised—he has told me that he deals directly with the American government.
“Blaire, in the glove compartment-” Charlie says, pulling onto his driveway; he's still on the phone, “-there's a small red book. Can you get it out?”
Leaning forward, I click open the glove compartment and rustle through a pile of papers but I can't find a red book.
Charlie leans over and tries to help me find it, saying something to his caller about 'payments'.
“There,” he points out, so I grab the red leather book and give it to him.
As I sit back, my face brushes against his. I freeze, the sensation of my skin touching his surging right through me like a zap of electricity. He looks at me then, still leaning over. We're eye to eye and I can't breathe.
He isn't saying anything on the phone now. He's just staring at me, a million emotions flickering through his blue eyes.
I feel like I want to kiss him or something—I almost do, and I'm sure he's expecting me to because he moves closer to me.
In a fluster I break eye contact and try to get out of the car but Charlie snatches my arm. “Stay put.”
“I was going-” I start to say, but he shakes his head at me.
Shutting my mouth, I sit back and wait patiently for Charlie to end his call, my toes curling in my trainers.
Why does he want me to wait?
———
Five minutes I remain in the car listening to Charlie cut his call short. He's still holding my arm hostage, and I'm sweating bullets.
He finally hangs up the phone and let's go of me, and my heart is roaring in my ears.
“Why do you do that, Blaire?” he says, shifting in his seat to face me.
I blink at him, silent—I just don't know what to tell him.
His eyes widen for an answer.
“Do what?” I say naively, and I'm surprised to hear my voice comes out normal.
“You know what... Don't be coy with me.”
I stare down and pick at my nails, wishing the moment away. Why does he have to make a meal out of everything?
Charlie runs his fingers into my hair and tugs my head back, forcing me to look up at him.
“I’m sorry,” I say in a sudden panic, thinking I’m in trouble, but then his lips are on mine. He pecks me with a brief, full kiss, making my head spin, and the panic I just felt... it evaporates. I melt into him and put my hands on his chest, moaning, wanting more, but he breaks away from me within seconds and smiles. It's a dark devil smile, sending another rush of hunger through me.
“Don’t ever be frightened of me, Blaire,” he says, still holding my head craned back so we’re eye to eye. “I’d never hurt you.”
We stare at each other like this, mere inches apart, his promise lingering in the air. I don’t think he’d ever hurt me but he’s so unpredictable sometimes that it makes me uneasy.
“All right?” he says, his blue eyes flickering back and forth between mine.
I nod, licking my lips. His dazzling gaze follows my tongue, his pupils dilating.
“You like salmon, right?” he says, gently pushing my hair back over my shoulder to fix it in place. “Because I’ve got us some for dinner.”
“Sure,” I say breathlessly, wondering if I just imagined him kissing me.
He reaches into the back seats and grabs the bags. I try to take a few from him but he won’t let me. “I’ve got them.”
“I can manage a few bags, Char-”
He gives me this prompting look, cutting me off, so I climb out of the car, feeling in a bit of a daze.
He did just kiss me, right?
I go in pursuit of the house, my feet crunching against the stony driveway.
“If you don't,” Charlie walks up beside me, “I can make something else.”
I peer up at him. “If I don't, what?”
He laughs with sly amusement—yeah, he did just kiss me, and he knows exactly what he's accomplished by doing that.
“If you don't like salmon, Blaire.”
“Oh. No, honestly, I like salmon.”
His eyes journey down my body, blazing with zeal, and my heart speeds up. It’s so intimate when he looks at me like that.
I pick up the pace to put some distance between us and enter the house, baffled to see the front doors are unlocked. Isn't he worried someone could break in?
Inside, the house smells like lemon and fish and... Is that boiled potatoes?
I head for the kitchen, struck to find the table is already laid, our plates set up side by side. On a huge silver platter, the fish is steaming in the middle of the table, surrounded by an assortment of dishes.
“Who cooked, Charlie?” I also notice a few fancy boxes of chocolate laid out beyond the food.
“I had someone cook for us because we were out.” Wandering in past me, he puts the shopping bags down on the countertops and pulls open the fridge, grabs out a beer, and twists off the lid. He has a deep mouthful, sighing like he's been waiting for that all day long.
“A housekeeper?” I ask, rounding the table to look over everything.
“Something like that.” Charlie crosses the kitchen space and puts his beer down on the table. “Here,
let me get you outa your jacket.” He helps me out of my jacket before shrugging out of his own, laying them both over the back of a chair.
I settle at the table. Charlie sits to my right, having another mouthful of beer.
“I got these for you,” he says, and putting down his beer again, he leans over to grab the chocolate boxes. ‘Dark Sugars’ is written on the sides and the lids are clear, so I can see what’s in them. One is full of colorful looking biscuits—or I think they’re biscuits. The other houses small blocks of chocolate, which I can’t wait to scoff. I’ve had a fancy for chocolate ever since he introduced me to it.
The third box... I’m not sure what that is. It doesn’t look like chocolate.
“These are truffles,” Charlie says, apparently reading my confusion. He opens the lid and shows me the contents. “I bought you an assortment of flavors because I didn’t know what you’d like. These ones,” he focuses on the colorful biscuits for a second, “are macaroons. And that,” he shows me the last box, “is the best cocoa chocolate money can buy.”
I don’t really know what to say—I can’t actually believe he’s bought all this for me—so I just smile at him, my heart going a little faster. He smiles back, puts the boxes over there on the table behind the food, and reaches for my plate.
“Was it all right at the salon?” he asks, filling my plate up with fish, vegetables, and new potatoes.
“It was fine,” I say softly. “I can do that, Charlie.” I try to take my plate from him but it's too late—it is loaded with a healthy portion of everything.
He puts it down in front of me, squeezes a drizzle of lemon on my fish, then he dishes up his own dinner.
We’re eating much earlier than we usually do. It’s just past two thirty in the afternoon.
Maybe it’s because he knows I’m going to pig out on sweets.
“Your hair looks pretty,” Charlie says, glancing at me.
Pretty?
I give him a funny look, noticing there's something crafty glittering in his eyes. I'm not sure, but I feel like he's up to no good. It's the way he's acting today.
Picking up my cutlery, I dig into the salmon. It's lovely. It melts in my mouth and tastes tangy with lemon.