by Hamel, B. B.
“It keeps being true.”
I smile a little bit. “Make sure it stays that way.”
“Of course.” He grins and sips his drink. “How is it in here, boss?”
“The usual,” I say, glancing at the window.
“You think about coming to the staff meeting tomorrow?”
I give him a look. He just shrugs a little. “Gotta try,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “No, you don’t.”
“Anyway, trades are going smoothly. The Chinese guys are coming in a few days, and we’ll discuss further integration with them.”
“Good. Make sure they understand how much I wish this partnership to happen.”
“Of course.” He waves his hand, still grinning.
Declan is a good soldier, if a little too ambitious. He’s my eyes and ears outside of this room, and I rely on him to run the company in ways that I’m unable to. I keep the big picture in mind, building our overall strategy from the ground up, while Declan oversees the day-to-day operations.
I’ve known him for a long time. He was there when I took over Ward Investing from my father, and he’s been with me ever since. He’s a few years older than I am, thinning hair, paunch around the middle, but a solid performer. I know he wants to muscle me out completely, but he’s too useful just to simply remove him.
So far, we’ve struck a balance of power.
“Anything else?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “Heard you got a new girl today.”
“Rogers brought her in.”
“What do you think?”
I shrug, seeing her pretty eyes in my mind, her full lips, her beautiful hips. “She’s like the rest of them.”
He laughs at that. “Come on, boss. You gotta lighten up. Nobody’s gonna be perfect.”
“I need perfection.”
“Nah, you don’t. You just need a pretty girl that only messes up sometimes.”
I sigh, glancing at the window. “Wise as always, Declan.”
“Happy to help.” He knocks back his whiskey and stands. “Call if you need me.”
I nod and he goes to leave, but hesitates at the door.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him.
“Don’t fire this one.”
I raise my eyebrow at him. “What do you care?”
“You’re just so miserable when you fire them. Keep her around, okay?”
For a second, I think Declan might actually care.
But then I remember who I’m dealing with.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He sighs. “And come to the staff meeting.” He leaves my office, the great doors swinging shut behind him.
I stare out the window again, thinking about what he said. Maybe I have been too harsh on my assistants, but I can’t help it. I can’t abide laziness and all their pathetic excuses. Two of them quit on me, just because I’m a little demanding, and the others couldn’t hack it at all.
This one, though, I’m hopeful. I think she might be different, and maybe it’s time to find out.
I buzz Rogers, and he answers immediately. “Send her in,” I say.
Thirty seconds later, the doors open again, and Hazel steps inside. The doors swing shut behind her as she approaches my desk, hands clasped in front of her, big, pretty eyes locked on mine. She bows her head slightly and I feel my pulse thump in my chest.
She’s wearing a cream-colored blouse, tight around the breasts, tucked into tight black slacks. Her heels are short, but they still make her hips and legs look gorgeous. I take her in for a moment, inspecting her body, her makeup, her hair.
“I need you to do something for me,” I say softly.
“Yes, sir?” she asks, the perfect picture of obedience.
Yes… obedience… Let’s see how much you’ll really obey.
“I need you to bow to me.”
She blinks her pretty eyes and doesn’t move a muscle as a smile plays at my lips.
3
Hazel
“Bow to you?” I ask, head ringing with confusion. I bow slightly at the waist. “Like that?”
He laughs softly, shaking his head. “On your knees, forehead on the ground. Bow to me like you worship everything I do.”
I stand there staring at him. I can feel my rage starting to grow.
I’ve been sitting in that waiting room since six in the morning. It’s just after noon, and I haven’t had a damn thing to eat, let alone a cup of coffee. Rogers said I could leave that room only to go to the bathroom, and only if it takes less than five minutes. So not only am I basically a prisoner for this guy, but my bathroom breaks are timed, too.
I’m frustrated, but I’ve had worse. I can handle the boredom. I listened to Rogers at least and brought a novel, a big fat romance with lots of sex and excitement. It’ll keep me occupied, even if I’m starving.
But this…
Bowing to him?
I knew he was intense. I didn’t realize he was insane.
“You’re just going to look down my blouse,” I say to him, the words tumbling out before I realize that I’m saying. I try to say it jokingly, but the expression on his face makes me freeze.
It’s pure shock. Like nobody’s ever made a joke to him before.
Slowly, though, the surprise fades away into a smile. “Maybe I will,” he says. “Would you mind?”
“Only if you promise there aren’t any cameras hidden in here.” I give him an innocent little smile. “I don’t perform on camera.”
He laughs again, shaking his head. “No cameras. I promise. And I’m not interested in looking down your blouse.”
“Your loss then,” I say, grinning.
He laughs and crosses his arms. “Are you going to obey me, Miss Cook?”
“Call me Hazel,” I say. “And yes, I’m going to obey.”
“Good.”
He has a funny smile on his face as I slowly get down on my knees. I hate what I’m doing, but at least I talked back a little bit. Sure, I made a crass joke, but still.
It took him by surprise. I like that, and he seemed to like it, too.
Finally, I get down on my knees. He stands and comes around the desk, sitting down on a corner to watch me.
“Forehead to the floor,” he reminds me. “And try smiling while you do it.”
I let out a breath. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Absolutely.”
“I guess I know why the other girls quit.”
“Oh, no, Hazel. This isn’t why they quit.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Really?”
“We’re just starting.” He smirks at me, and I feel a chill run down my spine.
He’s gorgeous. He’s dangerous.
“Enough stalling,” he says before I can think up something clever to come back with. “Bow for me, Hazel.”
I stare at him, pushing back my anger and embarrassment. I lean forward and bend over in half, forehead to the floor, hands flat down in front of me.
I bow to him. I bow to my new master, the asshole billionaire jerkoff dickhead.
I stay in that position for maybe ten seconds. I don’t hear anything. When I finally raise my head, I suddenly sit bolt upright.
There’s a bucket on the floor next to me, along with rubber gloves and a scrub brush. Mason is back at his desk.
He smiles down at me. “The carpet hasn’t been cleaned in a few weeks. Clean it, please.”
I stare at the bucket. “You want me to…?”
“Scrub the carpet. The whole thing. The bucket is filled with vinegar and water, all you have to do is clean.”
I take a breath and blow it out. Of course, I wore my nicest outfit for my first day, and of course I’m scrubbing the damn floor.
“Yes, sir.” I don’t even try to hide my annoyance.
He laughs anyway as I put on the gloves, grab the brush, and get to work.
It’s actually not that bad. He’s quietly typing at his computer as I move across the room, dipping and scrubbin
g. I don’t soak the carpet, I scrub it just enough to wet it. I can’t really see the dirt I’m getting out, but the water slowly turns a slight brown as I dip and scrub and repeat.
I catch him looking at me as I make progress. His eyes glance over my skin. At one point, I fix my bun and roll up my sleeves, and I catch him staring at my chest, my neck, the skin on my arms.
I let him look. I don’t mind, so long as he keeps his hands to himself.
“How often do you like your floors cleaned?” I ask him as I come closer to his desk.
He glances down at me. “Depends. How much do you hate this?”
“I love it. My forearms are going to be so toned after I’m finished.”
He smiles slightly. “Then once a week. I want your forearms looking perfect.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Besides, you’re a painter, right?”
I nod a little, scrubbing away. “I wonder if my new strong arms are going to affect my technique.”
“I’m sure you’ll adapt.”
“I don’t know. I could be ruining my art for this.”
“I’m sure it’s a huge loss for the world.”
I glare at him. “It really is.”
He grins, cocks his head. “If I ordered you to paint me a picture of this bucket, would you do it?”
“Of course.”
“You’d sell your art out like that?”
I sigh, scrubbing away. “It’s not selling out, and plus, artists have been selling their art to patrons for thousands of years. There’s nothing wrong with making money and art at the same time.”
He nods a little, smile still on his lips. “I agree. All of art history is essentially one long bill of sales.”
“Without money, there’d be no Sistine Chapel. Most of our great works were bought and paid for.”
“Can you be bought and paid for, Hazel?” he asks softly as I get close to his desk.
I look up at him and realize that I’m practically kneeling right at his lap. I look away, blushing. “Probably,” I admit.
“Do you think I have enough?” His words are soft, almost whispered.
“Probably,” I admit again.
He laughs and swivels away from me.
“Get back to work, Hazel.”
I glare at him, but I do what he says. I dip and scrub, dip and scrub, until finally the whole rug is finished.
It took me about an hour. When I’m done, my knees and arms are exhausted. I take off the gloves and get to my feet.
“Finished,” I say.
He glances in my direction like he forgot I was here.
“Not yet,” he says, and stands up. He leaves the room for a second, coming back with another bucket, another set of gloves, and a rag.
“I just did that,” I say.
He stops and cocks his head. “Are you complaining?”
“No, I mean, I’m just saying—”
“Listen to me, Hazel. I won’t tell you to do something unless it’s necessary. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, pushing back my anger and frustration.
“To clean the rug fully, you have to wipe away the excess dirt and vinegar with warm water and a damp rag. This should be easier.” He hands me the bucket and the rag. “Get to work.”
I nod and do what he says. I drop back down and start to scrub.
I’m wet and tired, but I finish the carpet in half the time. I don’t try to talk to him and he doesn’t bother talking to me. He’s engrossed in something on his computer screen, typing every once in a while, but mostly just reading.
I stand up and stretch. My back hurts and my arms are tired. I drop the rag into the bucket.
“Now I’m finished,” I say.
He glances over at me. “Good. Open the windows and leave.”
I hesitate before doing as he asks. A cool fall breeze blows into the room, helping the carpets to dry.
I go to take the buckets but he waves me off. “Leave them. I’ll take care of those.”
I nod once and turn to go.
Before I can leave the room, though, he says my name. A chill runs down my spine. I love the sound of my name on his lips, and that instantly starts to worry me.
I turn back toward him. “Yes, sir.”
“You did well today,” he says, looking at me. “But I won’t always be so easy on you.”
“I look forward to the challenge, sir,” I say, smiling a little.
That makes him grin. “Good. Go home for the day. Tell Rogers I dismissed you.”
I nod, grateful. It’s around two in the afternoon, and I can’t wait to start painting.
I’ve never felt so inspired before in my life. There’s something about being around this man that I find intoxicating, even when he’s silent and commanding me to clean his rug. There’s something erotic and exciting about it. I want to crawl around on the floor for him, let him stare at my ass, let him do whatever he wants with me.
I turn away quickly before I can do something stupid. Before he can see the blush on my cheeks.
I hurry away, wondering how I’m going to resist my new boss, or if I even want to.
4
Mason
I’m running as hard as I can, my chest burning, my legs screaming in protest, but it’s not fast enough.
Up ahead, the plane keeps accelerating. I know they can see me, at least in the dream-logic of this world. I know they could slow down and let me get on the plane.
But they won’t slow down. They’re going to fly off to their deaths and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
“Please!” I scream, running as hard as I can. “Please, let me on! Tracey, stop the damn plane!”
I’m terrified and angry. I know what’s about to happen and I know I can’t change anything about it, but I still try. I run after the plane, screaming as loud as I can until it slowly takes off, wheels coming unglued from the ground, wings flexing in the wind.
I keep running after it, screaming as loud as I can. The plane disappears into the sky, and when I reach the end of the runway, I stumble face-first and smash into the ground, screaming the whole time.
I wake with a start, heart beating fast in my chest.
I stay there in bed, not moving, breathing deep. It takes a second for the dream to fade and for reality to take over. I steady myself after a few moments and slowly sit up.
“Fucking dreams,” I whisper to myself. I’m drenched in sweat, like I am most mornings. It’s still dark outside, although I know I won’t be getting any more sleep tonight.
I never can seem to fall back to sleep after a dream like that. It’s almost as if my brain knows what’s waiting for it, and is trying to spare me the agony.
Tired but resigned, I get out of bed. It’s four-thirty in the morning, and by the time I finish splashing water on my face and brushing my teeth, I’m wide fucking awake.
The dream lingers the whole day, like it always does.
* * *
I step out of the shower and get dressed. I put on my suit, like my fucking coat of armor, and slide my tie up to my throat. I’m tired but feeling better after spending the last two hours lifting weights and running on the treadmill. My body’s exhausted, but this is a good exhaustion.
I check my watch. Just after six, and I’m right on time. I step out of my bedroom and walk down the short hallway to my office. I push open the door and head over to my desk, sitting down with a soft sigh.
I know she’s waiting for me. I turn on my computer and make her wait longer, not looking at her, even though that’s taking more willpower than I thought it would. Ignoring her should be easy, since she’s just my faceless assistant, but Hazel is far from faceless.
I manage to last as long as it takes for my computer to start up and for me to log in. As soon as I pull up my email, though, I glance over at her.
She smiles slightly. I don’t pull my gaze away. I wanted to make her stand there for longer, but I guess I couldn’t help myself.
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My eyes roam her body. Another simple blouse, this one navy blue, with a form-fitting dark skirt.
“Good morning,” I say to her.
“Good morning, sir.”
She’s holding a silver tray with a cup and a pot on it. I bet it’s pretty heavy. I nod at the corner of my desk.
“Put it there,” I say.
She follows my command, putting it down and stepping back. I pour some coffee from the pot into my cup and take a sip, preferring it black.
“Do you know how to curtsy?” I ask her.
She looks surprised. “Uh, curtsy?”
“Yes, like a feminine bow.”
“Like this?” She performs something akin to a curtsy, although awkward. She half bends at the waist, crosses her legs, and dips down.
I make a face and stifle some laughter. “Awful,” I say.
“Well, I’ve never had to do it before.”
“You’d better learn.”
“How?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I assume you’ve heard of the internet.”
She sighs. “Okay, fine. I’ll Google it.”
“Very good. I expect you to curtsy for me every morning from now on.”
Something darkens her face for a moment. “Did you ask all of your assistants to do this?”
I laugh a little, although I shouldn’t. I should be annoyed that she’s speaking out of turn and questioning me, but there’s something about her that I like. A spark, a fire.
“No, I didn’t,” I admit. “But you need to learn proper respect.”
She dips her head, and I suspect she’s hiding annoyance. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” I sip my coffee and watch her for a moment. She looks back up at me, eyes defiant. She’s so fucking pretty, for a second I want to order her down on her knees.
“I have another task,” I say, coming around my desk with my coffee in my hand. I head over to a little sitting area toward the front of my office, to the right of the door. I sit in a chair with my back to the windows and pull a small box from the table to my right.
I place it down at my feet and gesture for her to come over. “Open it,” I say.
She kneels down and I feel a thrill. I guess she’s on her knees anyway, in the end.