by Amber Burns
I glanced side to side; everyone was drunk, dizzy in dance and lust. And if they were not, they certainly were not looking at me, the plain, unattractive girl dressed in gray.
You can totally get out now; just sneak out the back of the stage. The thoughts bubbled to life in the dark corners of my mind, and I found myself instantly glancing up at the staircase. Mr. Cartwright was nowhere to be seen. I glanced at the door, it was so close. All I had to do was free my hand from its death grip on the twirling iron banister and run to the door. I glanced at my fingers and willed them to move. They began to twist themselves free of their intense, grounding hold on the banister. Slowly but surely, inch my inch, digit by digit, until I was about to be free from the writhing and gasping and champagne drizzling. Free and able to focus on what I had been doing before Melissa had “helped” me out with the offer of this position, free to continue pursuing a career in accounting. That was it; I urged my anxious fingers to shiver free from their hold. One more inch, just another second and I could run to the door.
Just as I was about to free myself from my anxious grip, a flash of shadow filled the corner of my eye, and the soft thudding sound of a heavy door closing several stories above me met my ears. Before I even had time to register the meaning of the sound, Mr. Cartwright appeared above me, winding his way down the spindly iron wrought staircase. My shoulders fell, and I took a step back from the stairs, suddenly desperate not to appear as if I had been standing next to the stairs the entire time. It was strange; part of me wanted nothing more than to get out of that job at any cost, no matter what it took. And yet another part of me, a deeper part, one that I had never before realized I had, wanted to do anything and everything that was possible in order to impress this man, and perhaps win his adoration. His professional adoration, of course.
I managed to shuffle to the side of the stairs and busy myself with the picking up of shards of glass someone had left in a puddle of sticky alcohol. I was bent over my work, prying at the tiny golden bits of the broken bottle with my pale fingers, when Mr. Cartwright rounded the final twist of the staircase and hopped over the last three iron steps and onto the floor next to me.
“Fuck,” I could hear him muttering under his breath as he ran his hands through his short-cropped dark hair. “Fuck and balls and ass and fuck.”
I flushed at his words and ducked my head closer to the ground, hoping my hair would hide the redness that had filled my cheeks.
Mr. Cartwright sighed and turned about, as if looking around the room, surveying the population of attendees, hoping to find someone in particular. His deep brown eyes swept through the crowd, running slowly over the round asses and heaving breasts of the scantily clad women that populated the dance floor. He seemed to use his eyes to rifle through the crowd as if shopping for a suit pattern that would suit him best. After a long moment of wistful looks and appraising mumbles, he turned towards me and started.
“Oh,” he said, the light that had suddenly jumped into his eyes revealing all too well that he had already forgotten I existed. “Right.”
I decided not to say anything and continued to pick tiny shards of glass out of the corner, careful not to allow the slivers of bottle to pierce my skin as I dropped them into the palm of my hand.
“Well, hello, again,” Mr. Cartwright continued, taking a tentative step towards me. He stuck his hands into his pockets and leaned forward slightly, peering at me as I picked the glass up and off of the floor. “What are you doing down there?”
I felt the heat in my cheeks grow hotter and stared down at the glass, avoiding his eyes.
“I’m… I’m just cleaning, Mr. Cartwright,” I answered quietly, sliding another tiny piece of glass carefully onto my palm.
“Aha…” Mr. Cartwright observed.
He stood for a moment above me, his shadow draping over my back, my heart racing as he watched me so intently. Why was I suddenly so nervous, when he poured his shadow over me like this? Tiny pinpricks of sweat began to crop up across the back of my neck.
“What did you say your name was again?” Mr. Cartwright asked.
I stopped for a moment and dared a glance up at him. He stood peering down at me, one of his perfectly shaped eyebrows curling up his forehead, painting his face into a pleasant image of curiosity. I flushed so deep I swore my face must be nearly purple. I swallowed and cleared my throat.
“I am Molly, Mr. Cartwright, sir,” I responded, my voice shivering as it slid out tentatively from between my pink lips.
Mr. Cartwright smiled and nodded at me, his eyes friendly, and warm.
“Molly,” he repeated, and as his lips carved the shape of my name into the air, I felt instantly certain that no one had ever before made my syllables sing so beautifully.
I nodded awkwardly and then quickly turned my eyes back down towards the floor, busying myself with peering at the ornate tiles and trying to spy any last bits of glass that had evaded my careful gaze.
“It’s a good name,” I heard him say as I squinted at the patterns on the floor tiles. I swallowed and forced myself not to look back up at him as he continued his quiet musing. “Molly,” he said again, this time stretching out my name against his tongue as if tasting it, savoring the way it felt to let the letters dance across the insides of his cheeks.
I felt my heart beat race against my chest, which caused my fingers to shake dangerously, the handful of glass I had so carefully pressed against the inside of my palm threatened to bite into the soft white skin of my shivering hand and send droplets of blood shimmying down my fingertips.
“Yes,” I said in response to the sound of my name, willing my hand to stop its irrational trembling.
Why was I feeling so completely off kilter? It could not possibly be because this dark, tall man was rolling the syllables of my name around his lips. No, that just could not be. I was a smart woman. A reserved woman. A woman who had control of herself and her emotions. There was no way that I was trembling and shivering just because some dark haired, fire-eyed man was flicking at my name with this velvet tongue. I blinked several times and cleared my throat.
“Yes,” I said again, this time louder, more solidly, my voice stronger and my fingers no longer trembling.
I felt the heat ebb away from my face and finally was able to again stand to my full height. I did, my fingers carefully curling up to protect the shards of glass from tumbling away to the floor again. I turned to face my new employer, using my free hand to tuck my straight hair securely behind my ear.
He grinned at me, shaking his head boyishly. I noticed that he seemed more sober than he had earlier in the evening. Then, he had been all juiced up charm, his hands fluttering dangerously over the naked shoulders of every woman that walked up to him, his eyebrows wiggling persuasively, his lips curling open in an endless supply of seductive half smiles. Since meeting with his boss, the owner of the company to which he was CEO, Mr. Cartwright had become considerably more sober. His face looked less lively now, more tired, though the lusty light of alcohol still hung faintly in the corners of his eyes. His eyebrows twitched, ever so slightly, teasing me as he spoke.
“Thank you for picking up that glass, Molly,” he said, nodding to my palm. I nodded curtly and crossed the room, emptying my hand into the small recycling bin that stood against the wall. “People can just be so clumsy, can’t they?” Mr. Cartwright said, watching me as I walked back towards him.
I nodded awkwardly, feeling uncomfortable under his gaze. He was very attractive, all muscled body and chiseled jaw and suave, smooth words. I swallowed and kept my gaze trained upon the discarded bits of glass.
“I suppose so, sir,” I said carefully. “But it is my job to look after these things, isn’t it, so I really do not mind.”
Mr. Cartwright seemed to consider this as he ran a hand thoughtfully over the light outcropping of facial hair that pricked his ruddy cheeks and then nodded.
“Nothing wrong with a woman who does not blink at the idea of some good honest
work,” he said, grinning that playful grin at me again.
I stared back at him, not exactly sure how to respond. Was he trying to make conversation with me? Or was he just being polite? I glanced away quickly, my cheeks flushing pink. To think that a person as attractive and successful as Mr. Cartwright would endeavor to make flirty conversation with me was just plain wishful thinking. Focus, Molly, focus, I thought, biting down on my lip, trying to will the embarrassment away. I had never before in my life felt this way around a man; I was not about to turn all silly and girlish now, when it mattered the most that I maintain my cool.
“Sure, sir,” I said, remembering myself, and then, for extra measure, I forced a quick smile across my face. “Now, if you will excuse me,” I began, “I think I had best check on your boss, and make sure that he is properly seen out.”
Mr. Cartwright waved a hand through the air and rolled his eyes.
“Oh, no, no, don’t you even bother with him,” he said, rolling his eyes up towards the Red Lounge. “He owns this place,” he continued, fixing me with a knowing stare. “He knows how to come and go however he pleases.”
“Alright, Mr. Cartwright, sir,” I said.
I glanced around the room, desperate to find something I could busy myself with. I did not want to risk looking like a waste of paycheck on my very first day of the job. I also did not really want to spend any more time in such close proximity to Mr. Cartwright; we were so close right now that I could smell the cologne he wore, could feel the heat of his breath lightly grazing the back of my neck. It was beyond distracting to stay so close to someone so impossibly attractive. I needed to find something to busy my mind, some excuse to get away. My eyes landed on the small bar that sat in the corner and an idea formed in my head.
“In that case, I will get to work polishing the bottles,” I said, and I began to walk towards the bar.
“Now there is an idea!” Mr. Cartwright called out, and to my surprise, he fell into step alongside me. I flushed slightly, wondering if he was perhaps testing me, trying to see if I was worth keeping around.
“It just so happens that I am something of a professional,” he said, grabbing a bottle of expensive scotch from the bar. “When it comes to polishing off bottles.”
He twisted the stopper free from the glass and tilted the bottle back. The dark liquid poured down the neck of the bottle and past his lips, and I could not help but watch as he emptied the glass in one large gulp.
“Well,” I said, watching as Mr. Cartwright pulled the emptied bottle away from his lips and sighed in satisfaction. “Well, that was not exactly the type of polishing bottles that I had in mind.”
Mr. Cartwright glanced at me and burst out laughing. He slammed the emptied scotch bottle back down on the very edge counter and ran his hands over his flushed face.
“Oh, Molly,” he said, shaking his head. “You are a very funny girl, now, aren’t you? Miranda told me a lot about your very many skills and qualities, but I must admit that she neglected to inform me of your superior sense of humor.”
“It’s Melissa,” I corrected, glancing at the emptied bottle as it teetered on the edge of the bar counter top. I edged it away from its precarious position and then turned my attention back to my employer. “And, um, regarding my humor, um… thank you, I guess,” I added hesitantly.
“Ah, yes, you really are some sort of a treat to have around, aren’t you Molly,” Mr. Cartwright continued, appearing to not have heard a thing I had said. “I am sure we will get on splendidly. But now!” He suddenly clapped his hands together and turned to directly face me. “Do you mind indulging me in some quick questions?”
I glanced around. There seemed to be nothing else to do.
“Um, sure. Of course,” I replied.
Mr. Cartwright smiled beautifully. God, he had an incredible smile. He was the type of man who could smile and instantly light up an entire room. His smile was all large lips, beautiful copper eyes, leaping cheekbones and rugged, square-jawed bliss. When he dropped those dark eyes onto my face and poured that smile towards me, I felt, for an instant, that everything was alright, that I actually did have a purpose and that somehow, in some way, I was doing something to truly better the world. It was the kind of smile that poets write about, that love songs build their choruses around, that people carve onto statues of gold. When he smiled at me like that, it was impossible not to oblige him.
“Alright then!” He said again, his voice sliding out like honey from between those perfectly parted lips. “Let the questions begin.”
He placed a gentle hand upon my shoulder and looked me straight in the eyes. I felt my stomach roll over at his touch, and my cheeks instantly transitioned to a bright pink. Why did my body react like this whenever he poured his attention onto me?! I was never like this at all. I swallowed and fixed my gaze upon the crisply pressed collar of his shirt, trying to remain the cool and collected woman I usually was.
“So, question number one,” Mr. Cartwright began, his voice suddenly taking on a quieter, more serious tone. “You and Melinda are good friends, yes?”
I blinked once and fought the urge to cry out in frustration.
“Her name is Melissa, Mr. Cartwright,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Ah, yes, Melissa, that’s right,” he said. He tapped his fingers lightly on my shoulder. “Thank you for that, Molly, you gem! So, Melissa, then. Are you and Melissa good friends?”
I nodded without even thinking.
“Yes,” I said. “Of course. Melissa is the closest friend I have.”
Mr. Cartwright nodded slowly back, staring at me carefully. Although his eyes were fixed upon my face, he seemed to be looking off somewhere inside of his mind.
“Very good,” he said slowly, still nodding his head slowly up and down. “That is very good, Molly, thank you.” He slipped his hand from my shoulder to the small of my back and began to very gently guide me across the room. “Now let us move on to question number two.”
“Alright,” I said, trying to keep in time with his steps and trying to ignore the butterflies that had taken up a sudden and unwelcome residence in the pits of my stomach the very second his fingers had grazed my back.
“Great,” he smiled. “Question number two is this: what kind of activities would you say your good friend Melissa likes to involve herself with?”
I glanced sideways at Mr. Cartwright as he led me slowly across the floor. What activities? What was that supposed to mean? Was he trying to get a read on me, testing me to see if I might bad talk the woman who had won me this position? Or was Mr. Cartwright perhaps trying to understand if Melissa would be a good fit for his company? I decided that, whatever he was trying to do, I would answer his questions with honesty.
“Melissa likes to go out,” I began. “When she has some free time, which is not all too often, mind you,” I added. “Because she is one of the hardest working people I have ever had the privilege of knowing.”
The answer seemed to please him, because Mr. Cartwright’s face erupted into a sudden, genuine smile and he tapped me lightly on my back, as if in praise.
“Well that is very good, Molly,” he said, grinning at me as we continued our slow walk across the room. “That is very, very good indeed. But now,” he said, turning us towards the dance floor packed with people. “Do tell me a bit more about what Miss Melissa likes to get up to on these nights out that you mentioned? Would you say that these are quiet nights out? Perhaps nights spent… oh… I don’t know….”
His brow furrowed and he glanced upwards as if searching the ceiling for some sort of an idea as to what a quiet night might involve. It was all I could do not to break down laughing, for he certainly had no idea what a quiet night was. He was infamous for frequenting the Playboy mansion, after all. After a number of steps taken in silence, he seemed to come up with some sort of idea and turned his eyes back towards me.
“...maybe a quiet walk with friends, or a cup of tea and a nice ladies’ magazine?”
<
br /> I could not help it that time. I burst out laughing at the absurdity of his assumptions. So loud, in fact, that several of the guests who stood flirting nearby halted their conversations to stare in disgust at my guffaws. Mr. Cartwright also looked genuinely caught off guard. He half smiled at me, his face a mask of unreadable confusion, his eyes glancing around the room as if worried about what his guests might think.
“I’m sorry,” I gasped after I had regained a bit of composure. I wiped at the tears that had formed in the corners of my eyes. “It’s just… oh, if you knew Melissa, you’d know how funny that sounded.”
Mr. Cartwright wrapped an arm around me and pulled me off the dance floor and out of the eye line of the over-curious guests. His eyes darted anxiously back and forth as he hurried me into the small lounge that was tucked just behind the stage. He pressed his hand against my lower back. It was a gentle touch, but one that was firm enough to allow me to understand the urgency in his nudging. I shuffled into the lounge, and Mr. Cartwright slipped in behind me, looking both to the left and to the right before securing the door tightly, twisting the golden lock and then slamming the chain lock, too.