by Ash Krafton
A short while later I was neck-deep in hot water. For once, it was the pleasant kind that had a sunken tub to hold it. Sometimes good things came in deep, green marble packages.
Lounging in water so hot it stifled my breath, I was determined to endure the tub as long as it took for the tension in my neck and shoulders and mind to melt away. Marek assured me he'd pull me out before I cooked. I wanted to stay in as long past al dente as I could tolerate.
Much of the basement level was devoted to Marek's personal work-out space. I'd been in gyms before, having embarked on many a New Year's resolution down at the local spa. I'd also seen photos of home gyms, the kinds regular people set up in basements or spare bedrooms. This room was unlike either.
The hot tub was the most comfortable-looking thing in the room and even this thing breathed menacing steam. The rest of the gym was filled with what I imagined were torture devices for sick people who obviously liked to abuse themselves. I wasn't anti-exercise but these machines were intimidating.
I'd long suspected Marek's muscles weren't of the CGI-variety but for the first time I watched what he did to grow them. Right now he hung from a horizontal rack doing upside-down push-ups. Pull-ups. Well, whatever. They looked strenuous.
His workout kept him from chatting but I didn't mind; I was content watching him. No words existed for how nice he looked, right down to the bulge of vein in his forearms and the sheen of perspiration glazing his skin.
As a writer, I should have been at the top of my game when it came to descriptive phrases. Moments like this made me glad I didn't keep a journal. Right now I had trouble getting past words like luscious and hunk and a couple others that were equally embarrassing.
But oh, so appropriate, I thought with a salacious grin. God help me but I'd even shamelessly entertained a few clichés.
A contented noise escaped me as I sank further down into the big vat of Sophie soup. I hadn't anticipated when he'd said "pack for the cottage" he'd meant "prepare to stay at a spa resort." A bathing suit wasn't the first thing I tossed into my overnight bag.
I wore a tee shirt he'd cleverly sliced up in the back and tied more snugly behind me. At least it wasn't billowing out around me like a big wet parachute. Thank goodness I'd worn bikini panties. I thought the ensemble looked cute. He thought so too, if the frequency with which he looked me over was any indication.
With sounds of exertion he finished his set, dangling from the rack a few moments to stretch before dropping to the ground. He grabbed a towel and dried his face and neck, then stretched again.
Although he'd said we came here to relax, he now seemed to be pushing himself through exercises with a determination bordering on ferocity. I mean, Toto, I don't think we're at Curves anymore!
Did he always try to kill himself like this? Was he trying to distract himself from the horrors of the day? Was he preparing for something that lay ahead? Either way, he wasn't relaxing, even by his standards. I sighed and dragged my limp self out of the tub. Truthfully, I wasn't relaxing, either.
"We can hit the pool, if you like." Marek nodded at a frosted glass door at the far end of the gym. "I'll just shower off first."
The air seemed cool now in comparison to the hot water. A regular pool sounded more shocking than refreshing. "I'm kind of water-logged."
"I noticed." A pleasant leer curled his mouth and he lifted his towel toward me. "I like the wet shirt look. You have pretty goose bumps."
I made a face and grabbed his towel, holding it in front of me with belated modesty. "You go in. I'll sit on the side."
"Fair enough." He ducked into a side room and I soon heard the sounds of more water.
I toweled off while he finished and soon followed him through the glass door to the swimming pool. I could count the number of times I'd used an indoor pool on one hand. Okay, on one finger. How many people had a pool in their house? I didn't mean a big yucky rectangle like down at the YMCA, spackled on the bottom with lumps sharp enough to shred toes.
Oh, no. This was a sleek resort pool, kidney-shaped curves full of water the color of the ocean in the Bahamas—bluish-green and perfectly clear. The marble tiles had been seamlessly jointed together; it appeared the pool was carved out of a single piece of stone and polished to a smoothness of a soap bar.
Track lights in the water and around the edge of the deck area cast gentle light on stone and water. Elegant lounge chairs and full-size palm trees ringed the room. All it needed was a hammock and a waiter wearing Bermuda shorts and I'd swear I'd walked into Club Med.
I selected a spot at the edge while Marek walked over to a wall box in the corner. Flipping it open, he hit a couple switches. "What time do you want?"
That made no sense, so I responded with eloquence. "Huh?"
"What time of day do you want in here? I can adjust the lighting. You could pick the time of year, too, if you wanted but I generally let the control run on real time."
"No time like the present, right?" I joked. "Or is it too late?"
"Never too late," he replied. "How's this?"
A loud click sounded, followed by an electrical hum that faded as light panels in the walls and ceiling warmed up. The room glowed with the pinks, oranges and violets of sunset. Even the shadows slanted realistically as light shimmered through the trees to float across the surface of the water.
The light, where it reached me through the shadow of the leaves, cast a gentle glow upon my skin. "Wow," I said, my voice breathy. "I can feel it."
"That's because it's UV. You could tan in here if you wanted."
Marek turned a dial and the sounds of twilight rose around us. Evening birds and crickets called from the trees. Delighted by this enchantment, I kicked playfully in the water and watched the sunset dance across its surface. "That's what makes it feel real?"
"Part of it. I keep the light company in business with the amount of electricity I pull when I turn on the lights." Marek stepped to the edge and dropped like a blade into the water, sending up a fizz of tiny bubbles before resurfacing. "What can I say? I like my illusions complete."
"Really? I figured you were spoiled for luxury."
"That too," he agreed.
"This place is amazing." I leaned back on my arms, admiring the scenery. "I mean, I like the townhouse in Chaucer's Square but it doesn't compare to this. Why not live here full time?"
He treaded the water so smoothly his head didn't bob. "It's more convenient to live in the city. Closer to work, closer to other things."
"Humanity?"
He agreed with a short nod. "All this is nice, but I don't need it all the time. I've spent most of my life living on much less. In Europe, I lived primitively, compared to this."
"Honey, I live primitively compared to this."
"True. Your bathroom is too small to call a closet. It's shameful." He slid sideways in the water to avoid the splash I aimed at him. "I don't need this every day. I keep staff here year round so I can come and go as I want."
He ducked under, swimming like a dart to the far edge of the pool. Kicking off at the edge, he returned with swift economical strokes that barely broke the water.
Marek drifted back and wrapped his hands around my calves. His sudden touch goose-bumped me again. "As nice as it is, it's not a place to be alone. It looks like a resort, and who goes on vacation alone?"
"Hmm. Good question. I can't even think of the last time I went on vacation. Spring break in college, maybe?" I winced. "Pathetic, isn't it?"
He tilted his head. "What does that make me? I haven't been on holiday since the forties."
The thought made me dizzy and I lowered my gaze. "Don't say such things. There are some truths I can't handle."
"Sophie, I don't get it. You don't cringe when someone mentions blood thirst..."
"It's a simple fact of life. Blood is food." I interrupted with my now-familiar litany.
"...but the mention of my age disturbs you?"
"I like older men," I replied. "But you're practically
a mummy. I don't want to be reminded you are really, really, really old."
"Do I need to convince you?"
I wrinkled my nose. "That you're a mummy? Yuck. No thanks."
"No, girl. That I am anything but." His hands tightened and he yanked me into the water. I yelped in surprise, sputtering protests and streaming water from my hair. He pulled me around him and I obligingly entwined my arms and legs around him.
The air was faintly perfumed with the scents of flowers and chlorine, a true oasis. I closed my eyes and hummed my delight, feeling secure in his embrace. Being in the water made it feel as if he caressed me everywhere at once.
"Now what do you think?" His voice rumbled through his chest into mine.
"Mmm," I said lazily. "That you don't feel a day over a hundred and twenty?"
I got a nose full when he tossed me up and under. I was so surprised I forgot to swim. Good thing he rescued me before I sank. I spit a mouthful of pool water at his smirk.
"You okay?" His apologetic expression was completely phony, and I saw the laughter lurking beneath the surface. How mature of him to suppress his insincerity.
"I'm fine. But you're lucky, mister. If I drowned, your whole race would be screwed."
"Mmm," he agreed, and pulled me back around him. "Can't let that happen, can we?" He swam toward the center of the pool, holding me while keeping us both afloat. I listened to the sound of water lapping the sides of the pool, admired the beads of moisture clinging to his skin, and played with his silky hair floating in the water behind him.
"You know," he said absently. "My brother is about a hundred and twenty."
"I know." He couldn't see my dimpled grin so I loaded extra sweetness into my voice.
He pulled back to see my face and his eyes searched mine, trying to decipher my response. "You know?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Okay."
Splash.
By the time I broke the surface, he'd gotten out of the pool. Between coughs, I called to him, trying not to laugh. "C'mon, don't be a baby. You know you feel way older than he does."
His response was to hit the power switch, returning the lights to dim pool glow. The birds and crickets vanished and the only sound left was the door banging shut behind him.
Sheesh. Men. And their egos. Looked like I'd be spending a lot of time making it up to him tonight.
The thought made me smile wickedly. I scrambled onto the deck and, grabbing a towel from the rack by the door, I hurried after him, eager to begin my apology.
I couldn't imagine a more shameful waste of a beautiful Saturday evening than having to work at The Annual Balaton Business Expo. It wasn't that I had better things to do; with Marek out of town on his awful business, I had nothing else I wanted to do, anyway.
Technically, I was supposed to remain at Wayne Manor or whatever Marek called the place. He'd forbidden me to leave the grounds until he came back from his negotiations with the territorial Master's representatives. He said that I shouldn't worry about him, that everything would go exactly as he planned; I should enjoy the facilities and think about how I would welcome him home. He encouraged me to think creatively before kissing me like a savage. Very inspirational, indeed.
He'd given me plenty of fond memories to peruse in his absence, despite my piteous farewell; I knew he had to go but I couldn't bear the thought of being left alone in the big house. Besides, as much as I would have liked to force myself to lounge at his pool, I'd catch hell if I didn't show up for work.
Work I wasn't paid to do. No words could describe my loathing for this damnable Expo.
I knew there'd be no point in arguing with him so I waited until he left, scrawled a brief note, and left it on a countertop in his suite before I sneaked out. I'd be back in less than four hours, no sweat. I took a cab to my place to change and get my car, planning on driving back when I finished at the Expo. That way I'd only have to sell one of my kidneys to pay for cab fare. Sure, he'd notice the Cavalier upon his return and give me a thorough yelling but this was definitely the occasion to say sorry rather than please.
At home, I had trouble finding a respectable business suit to wear. Working at The Mag meant a casual wardrobe for me, falling somewhere between Sunday Morning Church and Monday Night Football. I found a dark blue suit at the back of my closet, one I'd bought several years ago. Finding it still fit, I dug out navy pumps to match. Spaghetti-strap camisole, knee-length skirt, matching blazer. I looked nice but who was I trying to impress? Donna?
Ugh. This was all her fault.
I had to pay special event rates to park in the garage of the hotel where the Expo had been booked. I'd hoped for discount parking for vendors but no, of course not. My validation ticket promised I'd be charged in twenty minute increments. Gritting my teeth, I calculated I'd have to sell plasma for a year and a half to pay for it.
Great. Blood and a kidney. Non-reimbursable business expenses. Gotta love them.
I found our table and checked the assignment sheet as Donna and a person from Marketing spoke with another vendor. The poor man tried to focus on what Marketing Guy said but Donna kept butting in with her annoying attitude of know-it-all. Eventually, the two men exchanged business cards and promises to talk at a more convenient time, all the time shooting daggered looks at Donna. She was utterly oblivious.
Instead, she turned back to the table, wearing a satisfied expression as if she'd single handedly altered the course of publishing for years to come. Triumphant jubilation practically split her face in two when she saw me frowning at the clipboard. "Well. You're actually on time. I figured you'd skip out."
At this point, I couldn't even pretend to want to be here. "What does this mean? Swag bags, entrance five?"
"You take this box." She produced a carton from under the table and shoved it at me. I wasn't prepared for the weight and nearly collapsed into the backdrop of The Mag's banner. "You give out one bag to everyone who comes in."
As I looked down at the box, I noticed a huge smear of dirt on the front of my white camisole. I opened my mouth to protest as she pointedly scrutinized the damage.
An apology forthcoming? Could it be? Nah.
"Where's your name tag?" Her eyes were slitted. "Everyone else wore theirs."
"Name tag?" I echoed.
"I handed them out Friday at work. Oh." She sneered at me with flair. "That's right. You took the day off. I bet it's still lying on your desk."
Rummaging under the table again, she took out a sheet of labels and uncapped a Sharpie.
"This will have to do." She scrawled on the sheet, peeled a label, and slapped it onto my lapel. Crooked. I sighed. Her outburst generated a lot of unwanted attention from people in the aisle, and I wanted to evaporate.
"Entrance five is that way." Donna pointed toward the far end of the conference room. Turning away, she ignored me completely. I'd been dismissed.
Heels weren't meant to be worn while carrying thirty-five pound boxes, especially if walking on carpet. I got several odd looks from other vendors as I passed them, but salvaged the remnants of my dignity and suppressed my temper. By the time I reached the door I had a semblance of control.
And a dirty blouse that would have to go to the cleaners. And a name tag reading "HELLO MY NAME IS SOPHY" in big block letters. Not even the name of my company, let alone my feature. Hell, not even my name.
I thought about Donna's name tag and the gold lettering spelling out EXECUTIVE RESOURCE MANAGEMENT. I supposed Stapler Nazi wasn't classy enough for the occasion.
Smile, I scolded myself. Hostile was a bad first impression. Bad for business.
I opened the box and dug out a handful of plastic bags decorated with The Mag's logo and loaded with fliers and, oh look, a copy of the summer bonus issue. Far away from the hubbub of The Expo, I stood like a leper at the least populated entrance. Pretty much the only people using it were hotel staff and people looking for the bathroom or a quiet place to use their cell phone.
Determinedly, I stood
my ground, handing out my vehicle trash bags to anyone with an empty hand. It might be a lousy job but I wouldn't give anyone named Donna the satisfaction of seeing me aggravated. One hour and twenty minutes until I could leave. Plenty of time to inspect my manicure, recall a particularly enjoyable moment or two from the night before, and plot my dastardly revenge.
She had an upcoming vacation. I'd acquisition everything in that damn supply closet of hers. I'd fill the cushion of her desk chair with petroleum jelly. I'd write her number on the wall of the men's bathroom in the fast food joint downstairs, as if half the city didn't already know it.
She'd pay, I promised myself, feeling much better. At least being the Sophia didn't mean abandoning my refined sense of spite.
Halfway through my shift, a gentleman in a nondescript suit approached me. Nice name badge, though, I noticed sullenly. Mr. Carey of Guest Relations had a nice name badge. Mine was still crooked and had started to curl at one corner. When he cleared his throat like a stutter, I surmised he was a tad uncomfortable. "Miss? From the magazine?"
I nodded as if I had an important reason to be standing near the least traveled door at the entire conference.
"There's a slight problem with your order for the presentation. I need someone to sign for the projector request."
I hadn't the foggiest idea what he talked about. "Our table is at C21. Ask for the office manager. She's probably the one who ordered it."
He rubbed his hands together and nodded. "Ah, she is the one I needed, actually. Donna Slate? I've checked the table. She is, ah, indisposed at the moment."
Leaning close, he whispered. "The bathroom."
As if anyone would overhear him in our little corner of Pluto. "Good luck with that. Once she goes in, it's anybody's guess when she'll come out. Enjoy the wait."
"That's the problem. I've been waiting for her. The deliveryman is getting angry. He said we put him off his route. If someone doesn't come down right now, he's leaving."
Hoo boy. If the guy left, I'd catch hell for not getting whatever Donna ordered.
"Fine," I said. "But you better vouch for me that I wasn't slacking off. This is a very important job I'm doing." He didn't deserve my sarcasm but mine wouldn't be the first war to incur a civilian casualty.