D. K. SUTTON
Copyright © 2023 by D. K. Sutton
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design: Cate Ashwood Designs
Editor: Abbie Nicole
Created with Vellum
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Acknowledgments About the Author
Also by D.
K. Sutton
CONTENTS
Content warning:
This book contains mention of grief due to loss of loved ones and a character with childhood cancer. It also has light D/s with doll role play.
AS ROAN DRONED ON ABOUT THE TIME, I COUNTED THE KNIVES ARRANGED according to height on the magnetic strip in my kitchen. I envied their simplicity. Sharp. Useful. Inanimate. They couldn’t feel anything, disappoint anyone, or be late for work.
Calling my brother had been a mistake.
I checked my watch for the tenth time in the last five minutes, hoping time had magically slowed. It hadn’t. I grabbed my lunch and work bag—packed the night before because I didn’t leave anything to chance—and interrupted my brother’s groggy rant about it being too early.
“I’m not arguing with you, Roan. I have to go.” In my rush through the living room, I bumped into the floral accent chair that had been Gran’s favorite. I ignored the pain in my hip and the memory of my ex telling me I should get rid of it. More things I didn’t have time for.
“Dude. You called me.”
“You called me first. At two in the morning. Did you really think I’d answer?”
“No. That was the point.”
I stopped at the door, clutching my keys, and gave him my full attention. “Roan, talk to me. What’s going on?”
“Jesus, Ben. Did you listen to the voicemail? That’s why I left you a message so we wouldn’t be having this conversation while I’m trying to sleep and you’re trying to make it to work—what? Twenty minutes early?”
I ignored his jab. “I listened to the voicemail.” Idon’tknowwhat to do, Benny. I’m in over my head. “That’s why I’m calling.” I hesitated, but the words were automatic. Unstoppable. “How much do you need?”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Roan—”
“You always do this.” I heard rustling and his muffled scream of frustration. I hated not being there for him. But a glance at my watch confirmed I really didn’t have time for this. The new recruits started today. And my boss would be watching—waiting for me to mess up. Again. “I don’t need money,” Roan said with a huff. “Or for you to fix this.”
“Then why did you call?”
“I enjoy torturing myself? I had a mental relapse? I forgot how you get?”
It was probably a good thing he was in Arizona. I took a deep breath. “I’m your brother—”
“I’m not seventeen anymore. I can handle my own shit.”
Since when? But those words would result in Roan hanging up, which might have helped me get to work on time, but it wouldn’t get me the answers I needed. “Roan, your voicemail told me nothing. What’s going on?”
“You’re using your Big Brother Ben voice. I’ll call you later when you’re not stressed about getting off schedule.”
“I’m not stressed.” The jab shouldn’t have bothered me, but it was too close to certain words used by my ex-boyfriend. Rigid. Controlling. You suck the fun out of everything, Ben. “And, just for the record,” I said, focusing back on my brother. “You always need me to fix it.”
The call clicked off, and I knew this would be a thing I’d have to deal with later.
Roan had been drinking when he called me. That was the part we both avoided saying. Would he have reached out otherwise? Gran had trusted me to take care of him, and I was failing. I shut those thoughts down.
Self-recrimination didn’t make the schedule today. Try again tomorrow.
I twisted my watchband, and the feel of the leather against my skin calmed me. I had this. The coffee shop was close to the office. I wouldn’t be as early as I wanted, but at this point, sticking to my schedule and being caffeinated was the priority.
One last glance around my living room reassured me nothing was out of place—except Gran’s armchair.
Easily fixed. Not easily ignored.
Then I was out the door and almost to the car. Almost.
I’d like to blame my neighbor, but the truth was that ever since the crap with my ex went down six months ago, my ability to ignore things—never high to begin with—had plummeted.
Besides, I’d rather blame him. And not the sweet woman chasing her golden retriever.
“Mr. Pierce?” She stopped to catch her breath. “Can you help me?”
I wanted to say no. My schedule wanted me to say no. But I couldn’t do that. When her husband passed away a year ago, Mrs. Williams practically adopted me. Now we helped each other out.
And her dog loved me, without any encouragement from me.
“Come on, Goldie.” I whistled, and she turned. Hoping to calm her down, I held out my hands in greeting. She ignored my gesture and barreled into me. Which, honestly, I should have expected. I grabbed her—I’d learned the hard way that she’d take off again, given a chance—and spoke to her in a calm but firm voice. “You need to learn some boundaries, Goldie, and to listen—”
She licked my face, and that ended our conversation.
Mrs. Williams grabbed Goldie, cooing to her the whole time. “That’s my baby.”
She thanked me with a fond smile—at least someone liked me. Someone and their dog—that was something, right?
Of course, Goldie had also loved my ex.
Once Mrs. Williams was back inside, I headed for my car and stopped when I noticed the mud on my sleeve. I felt like throwing myself to the ground and having a Roan-sized hissy fit. But time— and the dirty ground—kept me on my feet and headed toward my goal: fresh-brewed coffee and making it to work on time.
THE MORNING MUG COULDN’T CONTAIN THE HORDES OF PEOPLE TRYING TO get caffeinated at seven forty-one on a Monday morning and the line stretched out the door. Uneasiness pitted in my stomach. By this time, I was usually in and out and at the office before everyone else filed in. The possibility that I could actually be late had me eyeing the exit. But I was in now, and the air conditioning cooled my neck, alleviating the press of the humid July air. The smell of fresh coffee and warm pastry kept me from walking back out.
According to my watch, I had fifteen minutes to get through the line and to the office, which was half a block away. If I took the stairs and avoided the morning elevator traffic—Someone bumped into me, jarring me back to the coffee shop and the crowd. The woman in front of me glared, and I quickly apologized. Was coffee worth this torture?
“Sweetie, I saved you a spot.”
A cute guy with messy blond hair motioned in my direction. His smile was bright and cheerful, and when he waved his hand, the light caught the glitter on his nails.
Was he talking to me? I turned, looking behind me, and he sighed. His green eyes crinkled in amusement as he gave me an exasperated smile. “I’m sure these kind people won’t mind.” He held out his hand, and with his fond gaze on me, I momentarily wanted to grab hold and not let go. Which wasn’t like me at all.
I didn’t believe in love at first sight. Or romance. Or happily-everafter.
He turned to the lady behind him. “We somehow got separated, but my sweetie has the money.” His gaze returned to me. “Come on, babe. Get your cute little butt up here.”
A flush of warmth crawled up my neck. The familiarity in his tone and this whole situation—had me feeling off.
He stepped out of line and reached for me again, wiggling his fingers. I gave in, placing my hand in his and letting him pull me forward. My skin tingled from his touch, and I was strangely disappointed when he released me. Then his hand moved to my wrist, and I couldn’t think at all. His grip was light but somehow possessive and my senses went haywire. My pulse jumped all over the place and my breath caught in my throat.
But it was the feeling of rightness that threw me off the most. What was wrong with me?
I watched the baristas as they made coffee and tended to customers. It was safer than looking at him. What if he felt it too? Or worse. What if he didn’t?
Honestly, that was way more likely. Cute, charming guys didn’t like uptight guys who scheduled their freakouts—only ten minutes to vent about the copier breaking. Again.
When the line moved forward, he tugged on my wrist—his hold strong and firm—and I bit back the needy sounds threatening to escape. I hadn’t dated anyone in the last six months. Was that the reason for my reaction?
When he slipped his arm through mine, which increased our contact but somehow felt safer, I let out a relieved breath. “Stay close, babe,” he said, grinning at me. “Don’t want you getting lost again.”
“I’m sorry, do we—”
“Have time for coffee?” He raised an amused brow. How did he convey so much with one look? “I know. We’re cutting it close, and you hate being late. But, sweetie, you get grumpy without your two shots of espresso to start your day.”
We reached the counter, saving me from responding, and the guy ordered a White Chocolate Mocha with plenty of whipped cream. Then he winked at me. Actually winked.
What was going on? Was I still asleep and dreaming up this cute guy who’d made me feel more in the last five minutes than I’d ever felt with my ex?
“I wasn’t kidding about the money, sweetie. Order and then pay the man.”
And just like that, the spell was broken.
I stared at him. His eyes were innocent. And beautiful. The green reminded me of something…the sea?
The barista looked at the crowd and then at me. “You’re holding up the line.”
I heard grumbling from behind us, so I quickly ordered and paid. What else could I do? The guy had saved me a lot of time. Surprisingly, no one seemed to care. Except for an older guy in the back, but he usually arrived when I was leaving, and I suspected his scowl was permanent.
We moved off to the side to wait for our coffee.
I sucked in a breath, glad everyone’s focus was finally off me. “Why did you do that?”
“You’re welcome.” The guy rolled his eyes, sounding a bit less flirty.
“We cut the line.”
“Seriously?” The fondness in his voice evaporated. “We didn’t. I was in line. You cut.”
My mouth dropped open and I snapped it shut. “Because of you.”
Crossing his arms, he squinted at me. “You’re one of those bythe-book types, aren’t you?”
I bristled at that. It was too close to those other words I’d heard too often. “Rules are important.”
“Rules, huh?” He turned his attention to his manicure. His nails were pink and sparkly, and although they contrasted with his business attire—did he work in an office?—they fit him. “Honey, rules are the difference between the haves and have-nots. Those having fun and those…not.”
“Are you calling me boring?”
He bit his lip and his eyes twinkled. “Are you saying you’re not?”
I turned away, trying to hide the flush on my face. I was wrong. This guy wasn’t cute. He was just like my ex.
Tugging my tie, he brought my attention back to him. “I mean, there are times when rules are necessary. When punishments need to be given.”
I had no idea what he was talking about, but my pulse spiked anyway. Was it his words or the way he almost purred them? My face felt hot, and I had to look away.
“Hey, sweetie,” he said, tugging my tie again. “Can we kiss and make up? I hate when we fight.”
My gaze flickered to his mouth and back up before I could stop myself. He raised a brow and a smile tugged at his lips. “No,” I said, my voice not as sure as I’d like. “No need.”
He leaned closer. “Look, I’m not interested in being mauled by a caffeine-deprived mob, so pretend you like me until we get our coffee. And a thank you would be nice.” He straightened my tie, brushing his knuckles against my chest, and for a moment, I thought about his words—punishments need to begiven—and imagined his hand sliding under my shirt, his skin touching mine as his spicy scent wrapped around me. A flash of him wrapped around me had me backing up a step.
“Thank you,” I said, trying to put some physical and emotional distance between us, “for helping me. How did you know I hate being late?” That wasn’t what I wanted to ask, but it seemed safer than any of my other thoughts.
“We have five minutes together before we never see each other again. Is that really the question you’re going with?”
I had other questions, but they weren’t ones I’d ask. I didn’t pick up guys at coffee shops. Especially cute blonds who barely looked old enough to drink coffee. And that had me wondering. “How old are you?”
“Seriously? Fine. I see I’ll have to take charge. What’s your name, gorgeous?”
As cute as the guy was with his pouty lips and sea-green eyes, I couldn’t lead him on. Even if I wanted to date again—and I didn’t—it wouldn’t be with another rule-breaking impulsive guy who’d drive me crazy—or get frustrated with me after five minutes and leave. “Not interested.”
“Hmm. Different. Can I call you Not?”
“Look, I don’t mean to be rude…”
“Uh-huh. Sure.” He smoothed out my tie and cocked his head. Why was he still touching me?
“I don’t pick up guys in coffee shops,” I blurted.
“See, here’s the thing, tall-dark-and-predictable, I’m just making conversation until our coffee is done. You looked stressed waiting in line, and I thought I’d help you. No need to let me down gently. I have a type…and you’re not it. You’re a little too buttoned up for my taste.” He leaned in closer, and for some reason, I mimicked his move. It was loud in the shop, with people talking over each other. That had to be the reason. I tried not to stare at his lips. “Not that I’d say no to undoing some of those buttons and helping you release that built-up tension.” His eyes traveled over me and then back up to my face. He bit his lip as he seemed to consider it.
Consider me.
I felt hot all over as I tried not to consider it and failed. The smoldering look in his eyes, his sexy confidence, and the way he worked his bottom lip. What would it be like to kiss him—letting him take over—
He made a growly sound, and my eyes jumped back to his face. “Maybe you should change your name from Not to Very.”
“Xavier?” the barista called out.
“Oh, that’s me.” He sashayed to the counter and grabbed his drink.
“Ben?”
I followed him and tried not to stare at his ass. It was a nice ass. I could admit that.
As I grabbed my drink, the blond was already walking away. My heart pounded faster. I would probably never see this guy again. And while I wasn’t really interested, there was something about him.
“Xavier?” His name didn’t seem to fit him, but he turned around. Now what? “Thanks for…” Breaking the rules? Shaking up my world? “Just, thanks.”
His eyes crinkled as if he knew some great secret and couldn’t wait to tell me. Then he winked again. “See ya around, Ben.”
“ARE YOU SICK?”
I dropped into my desk chair with a groan. This morning had been terrible from start to finish. But it wasn’t over, and I already felt defeated.
“Or drunk?”
“What?” I narrowed my eyes at my office assistant, Matthew. “Does that sound like me? At all?”
“No,” he said, taking a tentative step forward. “But to be fair, arriving late—okay on time, which is late for you, not saying a word about the others not yet here, and spilling your coffee isn’t like you either.”
A small puddle of coffee surrounded the bottom of my cup, and I bit back a curse. When had I done that? Matthew handed me a tissue, and I swiped at the spot. My thoughts returned to Xavier and the look in his eyes as I took another sip. For a moment, he’d been interested, right? And his hand on my wrist had me wanting… something.
“Boss?”
“Hm?” I glanced up at my assistant, realizing I still had the tissue in my hand. Shaking my head, I tossed it in the small trash can beside my desk. “I’m fine. A phone call threw me off schedule this morning.”
“Roan?”
Matthew had been my office assistant for several years and my brother’s friend before that. Two years ago, Roan moved to Phoenix because he disliked Missouri winters. Or was it because he disliked me? “Yes. And before you ask, he’s fine.”
“You still had time to get coffee, I see.” He grinned, nodding at my cup with the MorningMuglogo clearly visible above the sleeve.
“Go away.”
Matthew laughed. “Need another minute with your coffee? The newbies are in the conference room, but it won’t hurt for them to sit for a while.” He placed the files he was holding on my desk.
I didn’t have to open them to know they were the personnel files of my six new recruits. Fifteen minutes to get myself together and enjoy my coffee sounded wonderful. But I wasn’t one to shirk my responsibilities. I’d call Roan back tonight and make sure he was really doing okay. And I’d forget about the blond cutie who’d all but hijacked my day. “No, it’s fine, Matthew. But thanks,” I said, giving him a reassuring smile.
Matthew narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure you’re not sick?”
Once he was gone, I glanced through the files. I’d reviewed them several times, so at this point, I was just stalling. I took another long sip of coffee, letting the espresso do its job. The day had started out shaky, but now I was back on track.
Or so I thought.
Matthew was on the phone when I stepped out of my office. He glanced up at me and shook his head as he finished the call. Great. My schedule was about to take another hit.
“The newbies are going to have to wait, boss.”
“What now?”
“Mr. Odell wants to see you.”
“But he knows—” I stopped. Criticizing my boss in front of the employees wasn’t something I did. Ever.
But I didn’t need to say it. The same concern was on Matthew’s face. No way would my boss delay my meeting with the new recruits unless it was something important. And that couldn’t be anything good.
“Keep them from rioting or leaving,” I said, nodding at Matthew before heading toward the elevator. I was only partially kidding.
Mr. Odell’s office was on the fifth floor, and my gut churned the entire elevator ride. I hadn’t been late. Just not early for a change.
Was that the reason he wanted to see me? Or was it something else? I pulled on my cuff and noticed Goldie’s paw prints. Perfect.
The fifth-floor office setup was meant to intimidate. Instead of the busy activity happening on the floors below—typing, chattering to customers, and at times, the smattering of laughter—this floor was completely still, as if no one dared to move or breathe. The silence felt like a hand squeezing me. I focused on making it to Mr. Odell’s office without tripping or losing the contents of my hastily eaten breakfast.
The scent of lavender greeted me as I approached the desk of his receptionist, Lorna. She was in her late fifties—if I had to guess —and she oozed class and elegance. Her smile calmed me. The last time I’d been here was after the breakup with my ex. Mr. Odell had told me to stop snapping at the employees and working myself to death. After the meeting, Lorna smiled at me with understanding. Which made no sense. How could she understand something she knew nothing about?
Now she motioned me over.
“Good morning, Lorna,” I said, smiling despite my nerves. “What’s the temperature like today?”
“Balmy. Not scorching yet, but the heat is rising.” She stood and walked over, straightening my tie and pulling my cuff so the spots didn’t show. “Take a breath, Ben. Cool. Collected.” She squeezed my arm and stepped back. “You’ve got this.”
“Thank you.”
Her smile was quick, and then she pushed the button. “Mr. Pierce is here.”
I could hear his growl through the speaker. “Then why is he standing out there wasting my time?”
“I’ll send him in, sir.” She gave me an apologetic look. “Go on in. And if you need any burn cream after, I have aloe vera.”
Mr. Odell and his desk squatted in front of an impressive view of the city below. He waved for me to sit in the straight-back chair that I knew from experience was extremely uncomfortable.
“Good morning, sir.”
“No time for that, Pierce. New recruits waiting. Time is money and all that crap.”
“Yes, sir.” I settled in the chair, the churning in my gut making me want to hurl. My boss had always been fair but gruff. And I’d been one of his favorites. At least, that was what he’d said on several occasions. Though not that many in the last six months.
His office was like the man. Set up to be stern but with an edge of humanity. A picture of his family sat on his desk. Another frame held a drawing of that same family as depicted by his grandson. In the drawing, Mr. Odell was taller than the rest of the stick figures. Bigger than life. And that was a fair depiction of the man. There was a cat…or was it a dog? I couldn’t see the whole drawing from this angle. But it reminded me that my boss was a grandfather and a person.
There were three pictures on one side of this desk and only one on the other. My fingers itched to move one so they were even. Two and two. Did Mr. Odell know how much his setup bothered me? Was this his way of torturing me? I tried to ignore it.
“So, Pierce…”
I glanced up and realized he’d been waiting for me. Had I spaced out? “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll get right to the point. You’ve always been good at keeping on top of your employees. Not letting them get sloppy or lazy.”
“Thank you, sir?” Was I in trouble? Or not…
He put his arms on his desk and leaned forward. “But there’s a point at which keeping on top of things turns into micromanaging, and you reached that point months ago.”
There it was. “Yes, sir.”
“It’s been six months since we first had this talk…” He left the sentence hanging.
“I only had three quit this last round.”
“That’s half.”
It wasn’t entirely my fault. Some people weren’t made to work in a call center. It was a difficult and usually thankless job. But I knew better than to say any of that.
He raked a hand through his gray hair and his equally graying beard. No pretending to be younger for this guy. He was unapologetic with everything he did. I wanted to be more like that.
“You were late today.”
Anger flared in me. I wasn’t late, late. Just later than normal. “Isn’t Joel late every day?”
Mr. Odell raised a brow. And I felt like a kindergartener being reprimanded by the principal. “You’re not here in my office because you’re not living up to my standards, Ben.”
Wait. That didn’t make any sense. “Then why am I here?”
“You’re not living up to your standards. This isn’t about your productivity. You get the job done. And it’s always right. But you’re losing employees in the process, and that does affect productivity. Hiring and training new workers is time-consuming and expensive.” He held up his hand, stopping my words before I could get them out. “Keeping staff has been a problem for everyone lately, not just you. But right this moment, you’re the one I’m concerned with. I’m worried you’re still struggling to get back—”
He shook his head, and his disappointment made me want to curl up in a ball. I’d rather have the yelling. Be reprimanded. When I’d first started at Coxx Comm, Mr. Odell had taken a chance on me. I’d worked my way up to being a supervisor. Was he regretting that now? “Damn it, Ben. Is this about a woman?”
“A woman?”
“I know it isn’t any of my business, but it affects my business, so I’m asking.”
And then I got it. I felt the heat creep up my skin. How had I gotten to this point? I wasn’t out at work. Unlike some people, I liked to keep my work life and private life separate. Joel didn’t mind everyone knowing his business. “No. I mean…I did break up with someone…or rather, they broke up with me, but that’s old news.”
“How long ago was this?”
I swallowed, wishing I had a glass of water. Anything to wash away the humiliation. I didn’t want to answer, but my boss awaited my response. “Six months ago.”
Mr. Odell leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You’re not over her?”
I didn’t—couldn’t—correct him. “It’s completely over, and I’m fine with it.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
God, I hated talking about this stuff. “I struggle with change. And…it changed a lot of things.”
He wagged his finger at me with a knowing look. “Your confidence took a hit. That’s what I see. These new recruits are the challenge you need to get it back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d like to see the majority of these new workers…hell, all of them, if you can manage it, still working here in six months. Think that’s doable?”
“Yes, sir. I’m ready. I swear.”
“Good.” His face softened. “You’re untethered, Ben. And your workers can feel it.”
I nodded. He wasn’t wrong. Matthew had told me as much. “I won’t let you down, Mr. Odell.”
“Good. I’m counting on you.” He stood, a signal that this meeting was over.
I followed his lead, and from this angle, I could see the drawing clearly. It was definitely a dog.
He smiled, and it lit up his face. “Ev drew this for me when he was six.” He chuckled. “And then gave me a talking-to when his picture wasn’t displayed on my office wall. This was a compromise. And it brings me joy. That’s what’s lacking, Ben. All the joy you had for your work seems to be gone.”
Speaking was difficult, so I nodded. When was the last time I’d had any joy in my life? Gran had raised Roan and me when our parents died, and then she’d passed away right after I graduated from high school. Then Roan left too, saying I was driving him up the wall. My relationship with my ex had moments of joy, but those hadn’t lasted. And neither had the relationship. After barely six months, it fell apart. And now my employees. Was I driving everyone in my life away?
I started to leave—breaking down in front of my boss was not an option—when Mr. Odell spoke again. “You’ll do fine, Ben. Just get with Joel and work out a plan.”
My head snapped up. “Joel?”
“You’re both losing more employees than any of the other supervisors. And you complement each other well. He keeps you from being too detailed, and you keep his feet on the ground.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you have a problem working with him?”
Joel was the reason I was struggling in the first place, but I wouldn’t mention that. “No, of course not.”
“You’re terrible at lying, my boy. But you don’t have to like him, just work with him. I want this fixed. Got it?”
“Yes, sir. No problem.” I almost made it to the door.
“And, Ben? You might want to keep a few pressed shirts at work in case you spill your coffee and your dog jumps on you again.”
As I headed for the conference room, frustrated that I hadn’t changed my shirt—I did keep a few in my office just for that reason I tried to exude as much confidence as I could, especially after my talk with Mr. Odell. I needed to show him I could do this. There was no room for making mistakes or feeling sorry for myself.
I heard Matthew as soon as I opened the door.
“Look over these forms carefully. We don’t want to have to redo them because of careless mistakes. Mr. Pierce—”
“Good morning. I’m glad you’re all here today. Thank you, Matthew.”
He nodded, giving the newbies a stern look as he took a seat in the back of the room.
The small conference room was more inviting than the larger one. Matthew had added plants and pictures of various buildings in the city. I relaxed as I made my way to the head of the table, and a jolt of confidence surged through me. This was what I was good at. I’d made this speech a hundred times before.
“Welcome to Coxx Communications. Matthew can help you with any questions about your new employee packet. Right now, I’d like to tell you more about Coxx Communications and get to know all of you better. I’m your supervisor, Ben Pierce. Over the next six weeks,
you’ll have training that will test your skills and stamina. After the probation period, some of you will show you have what it takes to make it here, and some of you…won’t.” I stumbled a bit. I didn’t like to sugarcoat it. Not everyone could do this job. If they couldn’t, it was better if they left sooner rather than later. But Mr. Odell’s words about not losing any employees had me second-guessing myself.
I shook those thoughts off. I couldn’t change my presentation now at the last minute. After careful consideration, I could plan a different approach for next time.
My gaze stopped on each new hire. Most of them tried to sink into their chairs. Sometimes an employee would stare back at me. Challenge me. Those employees usually didn’t work out. I didn’t put up with cocky assholes right out of college who thought they knew everything. As I glanced around the room, one person stood out. He wasn’t cowering or trying to challenge me. Instead, he seemed to be holding his breath. Waiting for me to notice him.
The pounding in my ears swallowed up the other sounds in the room. I took a gulp of the water Matthew had set out.
The guy from the coffee shop.
Xavier.
But I knew from the files I’d memorized that Xavier wasn’t his actual name.
As our eyes met, he raised an eyebrow, a smirk on his lips. Was he laughing at me? Daring me to do or say something? Irritation rushed through me, and I clenched my hands to hold it in. He’d caught me off guard before. But now he was on my turf.
And I was his boss.
FUCK MY LIFE.
This job was my new start at being a responsible adult—which I hated with every fiber of my being. But Brock—and Angel—needed me to succeed. To not fuck this up. So I had to be good and keep this job. Which wasn’t easy because Mr. Pierce Me Now was trying very hard to ignore me, and I wanted to do everything in my power to get his attention.
I’ve been told I’m dramatic—mostly by my father. Whatever. I just didn’t do boring. Although I made exceptions when necessary. And one exception was the man at the coffee shop. He’d practically screamed uptight, by-the-books boring. But I’d sensed something brewing underneath that buttoned-up exterior. And now that uptight guy needed so badly to unwind—and yes, I imagined being the one to unwind him. Preferably when I was showing him who was boss. Two months ago, I would have taken this as a delightful challenge. But things were different now. I’d had this job for exactly one hour, and I needed to keep it.
And that meant paying attention.
“There are rules you need to follow,” Mr. Pierce continued, and I tried to focus on his words and not his sexy voice. Why was I
attracted to the straitlaced guys? I knew why. Because they had the farthest to fall. And thinking about that would only land me in trouble. “We have a dress code.” He pointed to a guy in the back. “Today, you get a free pass. Tomorrow, if you wear jeans, you’re out. Got it?” The kid nodded his head vigorously. “I also expect every employee to be on time. That’s one of my main pet peeves. I hate when people are late.”
I’d nailed that one at the coffee shop—and probably saved his ass. But instead of being grateful, he’d resented my help.
God, this man pushed all my buttons. He had dark-brown eyes, a short beard neatly trimmed on the sides, and carefully styled dark hair that needed to be mussed. And I wanted to be the one to do it. I was in so much trouble. When he looked my way again, I smirked, just as a reminder that he’d made it on time today only because of me.
He glanced away quickly. “If that’s going to be a problem for you,” he said, his eyes returning to the idiot who wore jeans his first day, “you might want to leave now.”
I raised my hand, wanting his attention back on me.
A smidgeon of worry crossed his face, and I liked that I had him guessing. Maybe a little too much. Or a lot too much. But my job was the most important thing. Not taking my hot boss down a peg or two. “How long are we on probation?”
His eyes widened in surprise, but the expression lasted only a second before he was back in boss mode. Had he expected me to ask something inappropriate? Like begging for his number? Or commenting on the cute way his forehead scrunched?
“What’s your name?” His question startled me. Not the question itself but the way he asked it. Like he needed to know. I was sure everyone’s names were in his little folder. I was also sure Xavier was not one of them.
At the coffee shop, he’d refused to give me his name. Now his smile reeked of satisfaction, which irritated me. I was better at giving orders than taking them. Of course that was also why I was starting over at a fucking call center.
I wasn’t surprised he gave his real name to the barista. He didn’t seem like the type to fake anything. And that threatened to lead me down another rabbit hole. This guy was my boss. I needed to get used to the idea.
Mr. Pierce raised his eyebrows, reminding me he was waiting for an answer.
“Sean,” I said, sitting straighter and holding his gaze. He didn’t intimidate me. “Sean Miller.”
“That’s a good question, Sean. Probation lasts ninety days. During that time, you will not have any paid time off. If you’re sick and miss training, you’ll have to make it up. There is also an eight hundred-dollar bonus if you make it through without missing any time at all.”
My name on his lips sounded deliberate. Sinful. And…totally professional. My brain was the one twisting his controlled words into something they weren’t. And that had to stop.
“Let’s go ahead and do introductions. Tell me your name and your experience working in telecommunications, Sean.”
“What?” I heard the words, but his voice had dropped just a milli-decibel—was that a thing?—and my stupid brain short-circuited. And it wasn’t the only body part reacting inappropriately. He opened his mouth to say something—probably something scathing about my need to pay attention—but I beat him to it. “I don’t have any formal experience in call centers, but I’ve had several jobs in the service industry”—which made Dairy Queen and Arby’s sound more impressive than they were—“and I have four siblings between both parents. So, years of experience in de-escalation tactics, charming people, and fixing things.” Everyone laughed, which earned me a tight smile from Mr . Pierce. Not Ben. Ben made him…approachable. Possible.
“The training we provide will help hone those life-learned skills. And while having experience at a call center is a plus, if you come in without, we don’t have to train out any bad habits. We are not like our competitors. Customer service is number one. Quality is just as important as quantity.”
He moved on to the person next to me, and my body relaxed. I was relieved and somehow disappointed that his attention was elsewhere.
“Your name?” The woman next to me glanced up and away when he addressed her. She sank down into her chair. How had she made it through the interview process?
“Jazmine Roberts.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I have two…”
“Could you speak up, please?”
Her eyes widened, and she froze. Clearing her throat, she continued slightly louder, “I have two years of experience working at Mass Communications.”
“You need confidence to succeed in this job, Miss Roberts. I can barely hear you—”
“I heard her just fine,” I said, my voice way too aggressive for the situation, but he’d pissed me off. He hadn’t spoken unkindly, but calling her out in front of everyone was a dick move. It reminded me of my dad, but that wasn’t why I’d spoken up. “She said she worked for two years at your biggest competitor, so I’d say she’s been doing something right.”
The room went silent, and I realized I was fucked. This was the moment I was going to lose my job. Get tossed out on my ass. And I probably deserved it. Mr. Pierce’s mouth had dropped open, but he quickly shut it. “Our biggest competitor, Mr. Miller. Since you work here now.”
His emphasis on the last word landed perfectly. My employment here wasn’t guaranteed, and I needed to remember that. “Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Jazmine—” I wondered if using her first name was meant to soften his earlier words.
“Jaz. Sorry. Most people call me Jaz.”
“Jaz,” he repeated with a smile. “Welcome aboard.”
Wait. She warranted a smile and a welcome? I shook my head at the weird feeling swirling in my stomach. I didn’t need this guy to be nice to me. Interested in me. I’d just called him out in front of a roomful of new employees. I needed to be thankful he hadn’t fired me on the spot.
Besides, he’d made it perfectly clear in the coffee shop that he wasn’t interested. His attraction to me was harder to hide. But that was just biological. He didn’t like me as a person. Not that it mattered. I wasn’t interested in him either. Sure, I’d love to unbutton him just a bit, but more than that? No fucking way. Even if he wasn’t my boss. Going for straitlaced squeeze-the-fun-out-of-everythingand-go-by-the-rules guys had burned me in the past. No thanks.
As Mr. Pierce continued introductions, I tried to focus on my new coworkers. The guy wearing jeans was Delaney. But my body betrayed me as my eyes strayed back to Mr. Pierce, watching his face and those expressive reactions he couldn’t always hide.
After he finished explaining the rules, his eyes landed on me, and his jaw tightened. He turned to the man now standing beside him. “Matthew, can you give the new workers a tour of the office?”
His assistant nodded, motioning for us to stand. Yum. With his dark hair and sweet baby face, I’d follow this cutie anywhere. He was still off-limits, but he seemed safer than daydreaming about the boss.
“Mr. Miller? Please stay for a few minutes. You can catch up after.”
Matthew frowned. So, not normal then. Great. Was I about to get fired? Calling out the boss within the first sixty minutes of employment was probably a Coxx Communications record. I prepared myself for his words: Get out. Do not pass Go. Do not collect theeight hundred-dollar bonus. Do not get to see your hot bosseveryday.
I stood as the rest of the group filed out. I didn’t want him towering over me. Mr. Pierce motioned for me to join him at the front of the room. His eyes narrowed as I took my time, delaying the inevitable.
“Mr. Miller…Sean…” His fingers combed through his short beard. He was being careful with his words, and I couldn’t tell if that was a good sign or a bad one, but I suddenly wanted it over with. If I was getting canned, I needed that Band-Aid ripped right off.
“Yes, Mr. Pierce?”
“You can call me Ben.” Then he shook his head. Had he not meant to say that?
“I can? Progress.” Okay, so snark probably wasn’t my best play, but if I was getting fired, I might as well go out on my own terms.
He shuffled the papers into a neat pile. “We need to talk about today.” Then his eyes rushed to my face. “In the meeting, I mean… not—” He pressed his lips together. Interesting. Maybe he wasn’t totally immune. “I will not tolerate insubordination. The way you spoke to me in the meeting—”
“You were being unnecessarily mean.”
He crossed his arms and glared. What the fuck was I doing? I needed to beg him not to fire me instead of sassing him, But I couldn’t help myself. “While I appreciate your compassion for your fellow employee, Jazmine can take care of herself. It’s not your job to speak up for anyone else. If you have a concern about how I’m handling something, you’re welcome to voice it. Just not in front of everyone.”
“So…I’m not getting fired?”
His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Then he shook his head, and I felt a moment of panic. Should I commence begging? Maybedroptomyknees?And that led me to thinking about him. On his knees. Begging me. Which I wanted way too much. “You’re not getting fired. This is just a warning. It can’t happen again.”
I let out a relieved breath, realizing at that moment that not only did I need this job, I wanted this job. Huh. That was different. “Thank you…Ben.”
His eyes flared with something. Desire? Interest? It was gone before I could name it, and I wanted to say something…anything…to get it back. He smiled, and that genuinesmile directed at me for the first time jolted my pulse into overdrive. This man was dangerous. More so than I’d given him credit for. “Don’t make me regret that decision.”
I nodded—not speaking seemed to be the safest choice—and turned to leave.
“Sean? I have one other thing—” He sounded unsure, and it piqued my interest.
His face turned a lovely pink color, and he kept his eyes on the papers in his hand. I tried to ignore my libido. It wondered what shade of pink my handprint would be on his ass. “Yes?”
“I want to apologize for this morning,” he said, surprising the hell out of me. “I’m not used to being in that situation…”
“Having a guy hit on you?”
His eyes finally reached mine. Dark. Infinite. He shook his head. “No—”
Then I got it. “Not being the one in control.”
Mr. Pierce—no, Ben—studied me. “Did you know?”
“That you like being in control? Hello. You wear it like a neon sign blinking I LOVE RULES.”
He crossed his arms and frowned, deepening the lines on his forehead. “Did you know I was your boss?”
Oh. Seriously? “At seven forty-five this morning, you weren’t my boss.” I focused on the whiteboard behind him, where the most important rules were listed. Rule number three: BE PROFESSIONAL. I mentally added—in parentheses—don’t scream atyour bossor do anything else to him—anything that involves less clothes and punishing him. I willed away my inappropriate thoughts. Angel and Brock were depending on me. “No,” I finally said when I thought I could follow that third rule. “I didn’t know you were my boss until you stormed in here—taking charge and looking hot as hell doing it.” Oops. So much for rule number three.
His dark eyes flared with something intense. “Sean…” He tried to sound strict, but his eyes—straying downward just for a second— gave him away. Maybe he was interested. But that just made it worse.
“Geesh, Ben. Don’t get your button-up in a twist. I get it. We need to be professional. I can’t call you Mr. Boss Man McHottiepants, and you can’t continue staring at my mouth.”
That damn blush that had faded slightly flared brighter on his skin. Oh,lordy. “I’m not…” He shook his head and glanced past me to the door. Was he trying to figure out the best way to get out of this conversation? Or how to handle one sassy employee? And why was that last thought so delicious? “Mr. Miller—”
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know. Just have a little with me; I'm old enough to be your mother, and we won't give Max a drop—just to punish him.—Cassie!"
She had run through the speech with a rapidity that had left the girl no chance for reply, and now, before Mary could move her lips, she had, with amazing agility, leaped to a back door, opened it, called an order into the darkness beyond, and as quickly returned to her former position on the sofa.
"It will be the best thing in the world for you," she said. "The doctor orders it for me, and so I always have it ready on ice."
As she concluded speaking, the door through which she had called was reopened and there entered a tall, raw-boned, glum, colored girl, whose shining ebony skin was darkened by the white apron that she wore. She bore a tray on which was a gilt-topped bottle and two narrow glasses.
"Put it there, Cassie," said Mrs. Légère, pointing to the table.
The girl obeyed and left the room. Max seized the bottle, ripped off the gilding and, wrapping his purple-bordered handkerchief about the neck, with one dexterous twist, drew out the resounding cork.
A living foam gushed from the neck as the self-appointed butler poured into the two glasses a pale gold fluid, which creamed angrily to their edges, and then subsided until first one addition and then another set them boiling again.
Mrs. Légère took a glass in each hand and pressed the foremost into the passive palm of the girl.
"Well," said she, in a phrase new to Mary, "here we are."
Mary hesitated, the glass to her lips. She could hear the liquid whispering to her, and particles seemed to jump from it and sting her eyes.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Vine," said Max.
"But what kind of wine?" she weakly delayed.
"My dear," her entertainer informed her, "there is only one kind of wine in New York."
"It's tchampagne," hissed Max, as if the name were something too sacred to be spoken in the tone of ordinary conversation. "Un' this kind costs eighd dollars a bottle."
The words and the connotation had their lure. Champagne—she had heard of it as the beverage of the rich; and eight dollars for one bottle—the price of two winter dresses!
"Come on," smiled Mrs. Légère.
The girl still hesitated.
"Here's to the wedding!" prompted the hostess, and drank the entire contents of her glass.
Mary took a mouthful and swallowed it. At first she nearly choked. Then the fiery liquid brought fresh tears to her blue eyes, still smarting from the gas that had, a moment before, assailed them. But finally, there began to spread through her weary body a grateful glow, and, half in apology for what she feared had been a clownish exhibition, she looked up with red lips pleasantly parted.
"Now, wasn't I right?" inquired Mrs. Légère. "Don't you feel better already?"
"I—I believe I do, thank you," Mary admitted. "Anyhow, it is pretty good, I guess—when you get used to it."
She took, bravely and with an ease now gained by experience, a second drink, and, as she held the glass before her, Max gallantly replenished it.
A bell rang and the glum, ebony maid passed through the room, closing both doors behind her.
Mary, alarmed at this nocturnal interruption, started a little, but neither of her companions seemed to regard the incident as unusual.
"You look much better," Mrs. Légère asseverated. "Finish that glass, dearie, and you'll be all to the good again."
"Do you think I'd better take so much?"
Both Max and Mrs. Légère laughed unaffectedly.
"Vhy, there ain't enough here to hurt a baby," declared the former.
Mary accepted the assurance. She did not like the taste of the champagne, but she knew now that she had been very tired, and the wine sent fresh life and energy through her sleepy limbs. She emptied the glass and felt, joyfully, all her fears and regrets slipping for her. Doubt and difficulty were resolved into a shimmering mist, were overcome, were forgotten.
The black maid thrust her head in at the hall-doorway.
Mrs. Légère rose.
"Excuse me," she said, leaving the room. "I'll be right back."
Max, the instant she was gone, rose in his turn.
"I'm going to fool her," he said. "I'm going to graft her drink!"
He took the glass that his hostess had placed upon the table, poured more of the wine into it, replenished the glass of his now unresisting companion and sat down by her side, his arm stretched behind her.
Mary, with refreshed courage, broke the silence. She was feeling like a naughty child triumphantly successful in her naughtiness.
"Do you know, Max," she said, "I gave a jump when that bell rang? I thought for a minute they might be after us."
"Nix on that," chuckled Max. "They couldn't catch us if they tried. Here's to the runavays!"
They clinked glasses and drank.
"I guess," the young man pursued, "it was chust von of Rosie's boarders."
"Her boarders? Does she run a boarding-house?" There was a note of dignified scorn in Mary's climbing voice.
"Sure she keeps boarders."
"But I——" Mary hesitated. She was tasting wine for the first time in her life, she had been tired and nerve-wracked, and now, though thoughts danced through her mind with unfamiliar rapidity, utterance seemed to her suddenly, and somewhat amusingly, to have become too clumsy to keep pace with them. "I thought," she elaborately persisted, "that—you—said— she—was rich."
"She is," said Max; "only she's got a big house she can't all use herself. Lots of people fill their houses that vay in N'York."
Mary started to formulate a reply that came glistening along the dim horizon of her mind; but just then there was a light tap at the door.
"Come in!" called Max, and Mrs. Légère re-entered.
The precaution of her hostess forced a smile from Mary.
"Why did you knock?" she asked.
But Mrs. Légère shook her corn-colored locks wisely.
"I don't ever disturb lovers," she said.
She sat down opposite the pair she was addressing and, without noticing that Max had appropriated her glass, discovered a fresh one on the
mantelpiece, poured herself a mouthful of the wine and then decanted the rest for Mary.
She had just put down the empty bottle when the bell rang a second time.
"Good Lord," she sighed, "there it goes again! These people will be the death of me, losing their keys and coming in at all hours. Never mind, Cassie," she called through the rear door, "I'll go myself!" And then, to Mary, she concluded: "I'll attend to this and then I'll come right back and send Max home and show you to your room."
She left them seated on the sofa, Max's dark hand encircling the soft, young fingers of the girl as gently as if he had been a rustic wooer.
"Shall I go graft another bottle from the kitchen?" he asked, grinning impishly.
Mary shook her russet head.
"Not for me," she said; "I guess I've had enough."
Max again refrained from insistence. Instead, he remained beside her, and fell once more into the story that she had learned best to like,—the beautiful pictures of the wonderful city, of the work-free life that she should lead there, and of their marriage on the fast approaching morning.
Gradually, as his voice ran smoothly on, the words he was then saying became confused in her brain with other words that he had said earlier in the evening. Her eyelids grew heavy. The mood of exhilaration passed, and a weariness far more compelling than that from which she had previously suffered stole upon her. Mrs. Légère was absent for an unconscionable time. The girl yawned.
"I wonder when she's comin' back," said Mary, "I'm—I'm awful tired."
Max's hand slipped to her unresisting head and pressed it down upon his shoulder. He had not yet so much as kissed her, and he did not kiss her now.
"Don't vorry about her," he said softly. "You're tired out. Chust close your eyes for a minute, Mary, un' I'll vake you vhen she comes."
His shoulder was very comfortable. She closed her blue eyes.
"You will wake me?" she murmured.
"Sure I vill," said Max. "I'll have you clean avake before she's through knockin'."
But he must have forgotten that promise, for when Mrs. Légère at last returned, he was still sitting there among the pillows, Mary's hair fallen over his green coat, her cheeks pinker than ever, and her girlish breast rising and falling rhythmically in sleep.
IV
AWAKENING
Clinging to a gigantic pendulum, Mary was swept through a mighty curve of roaring darkness, up from the black chasm of insensibility, and tossed, swaying over that frightful cliff, to the precipitous crag of consciousness. For what seemed many minutes, she tottered on the verge, dizzy, afraid. Then white knives, swift and sharp, slashed at her eyes and forced up the lids.
Defying closed blinds and drawn chintz curtains, the sunlight of noonday beat upon her face. She pulled something between her cheek and the leaping rays. Her hand trembled.
At first she could neither think nor recollect. The blows of an ax, regular, tremendous, were splitting her head. Her throat was hot and dry and choking. Her stomach crawled and leaped with nausea. From head to foot
she was shaking with recurrent nervous chills that wracked a body of which every muscle was strained and sore.
Realization of the present came slowly, but it preceded all memory of the past. She found that the thing with which she had instinctively shaded her eyes was a sheet, and, as she lowered it, she saw, in a glance where the employment of sight was a separate pain, that she was lying among large pillows in a big brass bed, heavily mattressed. Beyond the foot of the bed her survey could not extend, because the foot was high and hung with a pink and green down quilt; but between two windows against the wall to her right, she saw a bureau, bearing a few scant toilet articles, and opposite, on the left, there was a washstand with a basin on the floor before it and, on its top, a pitcher, a soap-tray, a small brown bottle, and a little blue box bursting with white cotton.
This was not the room in which she had first fallen asleep.
With that isolated fact flashing like a message of disaster through her brain, she sat suddenly upright in the bed; but the room pitched before her like a boat in the trough of a storm on the river at home. A wave of sickness hissed over her, and she sank back among pillows repellantly scented.
Vaguely she realized that she must be in a room somewhere above the ground floor. Dimly she began to wonder how she had got up the stairs. What would the kindly Mrs. Légère think of her condition? And that which had happened—had it lasted for an hour or a night?
That which had happened—there memory, in a blinding blast, reasserted itself. What had been but half-wittingly accepted was now wholly known. Hot irons were branding upon her brain the full history of all that had occurred: the deeds for which she had at last learned the name, and the deeds that, even in her own frightened soul, were nameless. There was nothing—nothing of her, hand and foot, and mouth and eye and soul—that was not defiled.
For herself, for Max, but most of all for the hideous facts of life, she shook in physical disgust. Before the face of such things, what must birth and marriage mean? She opened her eyes, but she could not look at her
silent witnesses; she shut her lids, but she saw, behind them, the hairy arms of a gorilla closing on her, to break her and bear her away. For one moment, all that she had loved she hated, and for the next, seizing his smiling reassurance as the one vow that could legalize what nothing could refine, all that she had come to hate she tried to force herself to love.
She understood now so much that she had never understood before: the whispered words of town gossip, the stray glimpses of lovers in the summer lanes, the cautions and the commands that had once so galled her in her home.
At the word, her mind swung back to far-away yesterday. She was sorry that she had been the cause—for she had been the cause—of the spilling of the stew. She was sorry that she had been so sharp with Sallie. She wished that she had washed the dishes less unwillingly. She still feared—she more than ever feared—the swaying bulk of masculinity that had been her father, but she began to see in him the logical result of forces that were themselves, as yet, beyond her ken; and she looked with a new and pitying vision upon the picture of her little, work-worn and care-marked mother stooping over the polished kitchen-stove.
Her breast tossed and her throat throbbed; but she was beyond tears. Painfully, slowly, yet with resolution, she struggled back to her sittingposture in the bed.
In this position she found herself facing a long mirror hung against the opposite wall, and in the mirror she saw what was herself. With a low cry, she pulled loose the sheet and covered her nakedness.
That done, she looked again at the strange face that fronted her: a face the more strange because it was the intimate become alien, a ruin, an accusation. Framed in a tangle of dank hair, the cheeks, once pink, were chalky now, and splotched with red, the mouth that she had known only as full and firm, was loose and twisted; the eyes that had been blue, now circled with black, burned in blood-shot fields like coals of angry fire.
One impulse alone directed her: to find her clothes; to put them on; to return, as far as the mask of appearances would take her, to the self that she
had been. In spite of aching head and quivering hands, she wrapped the sheet about her and, with infinite care, got from the bed. The floor seemed to sweep up to meet her, but she steadied herself against the wall and, each timid stride a separate agony, began to stumble about the room.
She looked for a clothes-closet or wardrobe, but there was neither. The only door was the door of exit, and the nearest chair was empty. In a corner she saw a pile of linen: laboriously she stooped and picked it up, unrolled a portion, and then, gasping in horror, tossed it away. On the other chair there lay a long kimona of crimson. She lifted it and found, neatly arranged below, a sheer cambric garment edged with coarse lace, two black silk stockings slashed with red, and a pair of slippers, high-heeled, with buckles of brass—for no reason that she could have formulated, the sight sickened her. She went to the bureau and tugged at its drawers, but all that she found was a single brown bottle, like that she had first observed on the washstand, filled with white tablets and labeled "Poison." Obviously, her clothes had been taken from the room.
In a panic of shame, she groped blindly for the door: she must call for Mrs. Légère. She grasped the knob and turned it—the door was locked.
Fear, mad and unreasoning, drove its spurs into her sides. Forgetting her nausea, heedless of her pain, she ran first to one window and then to the other, but the bowed shutters, though they admitted the light, would open for nothing beside: they were fastened with riveted loops of brass, and, looking through the small space between them, she could catch only a glimpse of the street far below. She tried to argue that the key might have fallen from the lock within the room, but she could not find it, and, the sheet dropping from her shoulders, she began to rattle at the knob, and then to pound upon the panels, her voice rising swiftly from a low call to a high, hysterical, frantic cry for help.
"Mrs. Légère! Mrs. Légère! Mrs. Légère!" she cried, and then as suddenly ceased, tilted against the door, and collapsed into a naked heap upon the floor.
All power of movement seemed to have slipped from her, but when there came a heavy footfall on the stair, a swish of skirts outside and the
loud rasping of a key inserted in the lock, Mary leaped galvanically to her feet, gathered the sheet about her body, and flung herself upon the bed.
The door opened and closed behind Rose Légère, who promptly relocked it and slipped the key into the swelling bosom but half concealed by her dragon-spotted, baby-blue negligé.
"What in hell's the matter with you?" she demanded.
A little more rotund of figure, a little looser in the cheeks, and more patently crayoned and powdered about the eyes, a little more obviously painted and a little older, she was still the woman of the brewery's advertisement. But her forehead was knotted in deep, angry wrinkles; her under jaw was thrust so far forward that the roll of fat beneath it was invisible, and her eyes snapped with malice.
Mary shrank back among the pillows.
"Weren't you yellin'?" persisted Rose. "Did you lose your voice doin' it? What in the hell's the matter with you, I say?"
With a sweep of her stout arm, she seized the girl's bare shoulder and shook it till Mary's teeth clicked like castanets.
"I'm not goin' to have any such racket in my house!" the woman asseverated, as she plied her punishment. "You've got to learn first-off to keep your mouth to yourself, and be dead sure if you don't I'll give you a real beatin'."
She tossed Mary from her, as if her victim had been a bundle of straw, and stood up again, arms akimbo, breathing scarcely beyond her normal speed.
Mary was half mad and wholly sick with dread. She wanted to cry out for rescue and dared not. She wanted to rise and try to force the door or break open the shutters, but she could not move. She could only lie there panting for breath, with her mouth gasping and her heart hammering at her breast. She had closed her eyes. She opened them just in time to see Rose,
whose slippered foot had touched something on the floor, stoop, pick up, and place beside the key in her bosom, a crumpled purple-bordered handkerchief.
"Now then," said the woman in a tone that, if still hard, was at least less intense than its predecessor, "try to tell me what's the trouble, like somebody this side of Matteawan."
With a supreme lunge at courage, Mary got her voice.
"I want my clothes," she said dully. "And where's Max?"
"Your clothes ain't fit to wear," said Rose; "an' I don't know where Max is. What you need is breakfast."
"I want my clothes," monotonously repeated Mary. "I couldn't eat to save my life. Hasn't Max come back?"
But Rose did not seem to hear the question.
"Nonsense, honey," she said, her anger seeming now entirely passed. "Of course you must eat. I got up on purpose for it, and I've set that nigger cooking a perfect peach of a breakfast."
"I want
my clothes."
Rose leaned over the bed and put a soothing hand upon her questioner's fevered forehead.
"Now don't lose your nerve, dearie," she advised. "I'm your friend— honest, I am. You rest awhile and eat a little, and then maybe we'll talk things over."
"He hasn't come yet?"
"No, he hasn't. But why are you lettin' that jar you? Perhaps he's sick, too. Perhaps he's had some kind of a scrap with his old man. How do I know what's hit him? He'll show up all right in the end and, till he does
show up, you just make yourself at home here and don't bother. I'll take care of you."
Something in the woman's solicitude—or it may have been the quick and unexplained change from violence to tenderness—frightened Mary even more than the initial outburst had frightened her.
"I want to go home," she quavered.
"Sure you want to go home," Rose acquiesced, without moving a muscle. "But how can you go? Max told me you'd sent your people a note saying you'd hiked out with him to be married, and how can you go home until he gets back here and you can take him along and show the goods?"
Her tone was lightly argumentative, but it was also stolidly merciless, and it hurled true to its mark the shaft of conviction. Out of the yesterday, Mary heard the voice of her father that was the voice of a society rigidly shaped by the conditions of its own fashioning:
"Bay 'un thirty year old an' noot another sin ag'in 'un, I would beat 'un within a bare inch o' 'er deeth, an' turn 'un oot to live the life 'un had picked fur herself!"
She understood that statement now.
"I can go to Max's," she hazarded.
"To—where?"
"To Max's father's."
"Maybe you can; but it's a long trip to Hungary."
Mary answered nothing. Rose had only confirmed what the girl had for an hour feared.
"You see how it is," pursued Rose, reading Mary's silence with a practiced mind. "Better let me take care of you."
Mary's face was hidden. Again she felt New York as a malevolent consciousness, a living prison implacably raising around her its insurmountable walls. There was, she thought, nothing left her but the diminishing hope of Max's return.
"Now you will eat, won't you?" Rose was continuing.
Mary shook her head.
Rose patted quietly one of the clenched hands that lay close to her.
"Better do it, dearie," she said. "I'm your friend; remember that. You can have whatever you want."
Mary mastered what strength remained to her. She raised herself on her elbow.
"Then let me go!" she pleaded, extending an open palm like a beggar asking for a crust. "I don't care if my clothes is mussed. I don't care what'll happen afterward. Just let me go!"
"You're a fool," Rose made cool rejoinder. "Where'd you go?"
"I don't know?"
"What'd become of you?"
"I don't care."
"Well, you would care, all right, all right. You can't go home, and you've no clothes and no money and no references. You couldn't get work anywhere in New York, and you couldn't get away from New York."
"I——" Mary groped through the darkness of her soul. "I can do housework."
"Not without a reference you can't."
"I could go to some office——"
"If you went to any charity-joint, they'd throw you out because of what's happened to you."
"I could beg on the street if I had to."
"Do you think the men in this town give money for nothing to a goodlooking girl? You could go on the street, that's what you could do."
The phrase was new to its hearer, but the tone explained it.
"Then," she stumbled forward, "I could go to the police. They'd help me. I could——"
But at that word Rose flew into a torrent of anger and abuse that dwarfed the former tempest.
"You could, could you?" she cried. "That's your game, is it, you sneaking little innocent? I'll bet you're a damn sight wiser than you let on. But you don't know this town: you can take that much from me. Go to the police! Go to 'em! The cops on this beat are my friends: if you don't believe it, I'll bring 'em in and introduce you. They're my friends, and so's the whole precinct my friends. Go to 'em! Go to 'em, and I'll have you pinched and locked up for bein' what you are!"
Mary had drawn away from the blast, but Rose's powerful fist caught her under the chin and sent her crashing down on the bed.
"You don't come that on me!" the jailer continued. "You've got your choice: you can stay here and live easy, or walk out and go to jail, and that's all you can do. Max ain't comin' back, and you always knew he wouldn't come back. You know what this house is as well as I do, and you've got to stay here and earn your keep. If you give one yip I'll have the cops in! You don't want to eat, hey? Well then, you shan't eat! You can lay there and starve, or you can knock on the door and get the best breakfast you ever had, all ready for you. Do what you please; but if you let out one yip I'll hammer the life out of you!"
She turned and left the room. She banged the door behind her, and Mary, in a swirling dream, heard herself again locked in her cell.
THE BIRDS OF PREY
Through all the days that immediately followed—the days that were nights, and the nights that were red noondays—a thousand horrors, from subtle word to recurring experience, conjoined to assure to Mary the reality of her servitude. All of that first day, after Rose had left her with the dark blood oozing from her cut chin upon the scented pillows, she lay, like a wounded dog, now in a faint and then in a stupor, on the disordered bed. As the sunlight shifted and the shadows lengthened in the room, torpor gave way to reawakened fear, and she crawled into a corner and tried to hide herself, trembling, with chattering teeth, at every sound of laughter that rose from the lower floors, at every footstep upon the stair.
Thrice Rose returned. Each time she bore a steaming dish that, as the girl's physical pain grew less, assailed the nostrils with increasing poignancy. Each time Mary shook her stubborn russet head. And each time the visit ended in a beating.
Escape by door or window was out of the question; to attempt to raise an alarm was to invite fresh violence; and gradually grew the certainty that the situation was genuinely as the jailer had described it: that the street was worse than the house, and that Mary was her own prisoner. She found the bottle labeled "Poison," and bit one of the tablets, but she was young and afraid, and she spat the burning crumbs from her mouth. She did not dare to die, and when Rose came again to the room, her captive was too weak to refuse the broth that was fed her, as if she were a sick child, from a spoon.
"You're a dear girl, after all," said the mistress, as she administered the grateful food. "You do as I say and you won't never be sorry. All I want is to have you sensible. I'm your friend."
Mary said nothing: she was too weak to answer.
"And now," Rose pursued, "I'll just give you a drink."
And when she had come back, she had not come back alone.
The worst of prisons is that in which the door is so cunningly closed upon the inmate that, at last, after the brutality is familiar, the inmate seems originally to have closed it upon herself, and in such a fortress of pain Mary now found herself restrained. The process was simple. It was merely first to wound and then to inure. The descent to hell is not easy; it is red with blood and wet with tears; but hell itself must be endured.
It was not for some days that any woman save Rose came to Mary's cell and then, one afternoon, two women followed the grating key.
They were alike only as to clothes. Both wore loose negligé garments, but whereas the one was sturdy and German-blonde, with straw-colored hair, round and heavy face, blue eyes and peasant frame—a younger Rose —the other was wiry, compact, her brows low and dark under somber hair, her full cheeks red only in defiance of a swarthy skin, her eyes black and her mouth vermillion. It was this one who, with an accent that a more sophisticated ear than Mary's would have placed along the Seine, was the first to speak.
"'Ello!" she laughed, her teeth gleaming between her lips like pomegranate seeds. "We have come to make the call."
Without awaiting a reply, she jumped upon the bed, drew her feet beneath her, and produced and lit a cigarette. The German girl moved more slowly to the other side and there elaborately ensconced herself.
Mary looked at her visitors without immediately replying. She had not, in fact, the remotest idea of what was the fitting word.
But the French girl was unruffled by this silence. She flung her head back upon a white neck and sent a slow column of blue smoke curling toward the ceiling.
"My name," she explained, with an odd clipping of her speech, "eet ees Celeste, an' my good frien' here," she continued with an easy gesture of the cigarette, "she ees Fritzie—chust a bar-bar-ous German."
Mary looked at her with a gaze large and listless.
"An' you' name?" pursued Celeste, "eet ees—what?"
Fritzie supplied the answer, speaking in a ponderous contralto.
"Her name is Mary," said she.
"Bien—a pretty name," Celeste rattled on, precisely as if her unwilling entertainer had made the response. "I like eet well; but"—and she studied with unobtrusive care the russet-framed, indignant face before her—"eet ees not so good as ees yourself. I t'ink—let me see—yaas: I t'ink I shall call you 'Violet.'—Violet, why you don't eat more een dees 'ouse?"
"I'm hardly ever hungry," said Mary.
"Not hongry?—Oh-h, but you mohst be hongry! Anyone so young mohst want to eat, and anyone so beautiful mohst eat so as not to loose the beauty.—Ees eet not so, Fritzie?"
The German girl smiled gently and nodded her blonde head.
"Ach, yes," she rumbled. "The liebchen!"
"No," insisted Mary. "I don't care about nothing. I have a headache all the time. I have one now."
Celeste jumped lightly to the floor: it was as if to uncoil her feet and to reach the door required but a single movement.
"Un moment!" she laughed. "I shall feex the mal de tête immediate!"
There was no time for remonstrance; the door closed upon her concluding word, and Mary was left there gazing into the stolid, sphinxlike face of the placidly smiling German. It was not a bad face, and soon Mary realized that it was a contented one.
Fritzie was returning her look with an equal curiosity.
"Are you vorried?" she finally inquired.
"No," lied Mary proudly.
"I dought you looked like vorried," the German continued. "Bud you should be nod. Dis iss a goot place. Dere are loads vorse blaces in New York dan dis: I know 'em."
She paused, but Mary's lips remained closed, her eyes fixed.
"You bed I know 'um!" Fritzie repeated. "Bud dis blace—vhy, ve haf de best meals, so goot nobody gould besser haf! I like dis blace."
A faint question shot into Mary's face. At once Fritzie answered it.
"Dat's righd. Listen: I gome over here two year ago in de steerage. Some of de vomen, men meet dem—oh, most all de nod-family vons—un' took dem to dese here intelligence office dat are only fakes, un' sold dem, vidout dere knowin' nussin' of it, fur ten un' fifteen dollar' each. Bud I vas careful. I get a real tshob.—Ach, himmel!"
She waved a broad palm in disgust.
"Id vas bad enough in de steerage mit all de sailor-mens kissin' you today un' kickin' you to-morrow; bud dat tshob of mine, dat vas de real limit! I gome over here because I vouldn't vork in de fields back home, bud in dat boarding-house vhere I get dat tshob, I get up at dree o'clock every mornin', because some of de mens vork in Jefferson Market, un' I haf to scrub, un' make de beds, un' help cook, un' vait on dable, un' vash dishes, un' sweep de whole house oud. Un' den till late at nighd I haf to help cook, un' vait on dable, un' vash dishes some more still. Vhenever I am sick, or late, or break
von dish, or a boarder don' pay, I gets docked. Un' almost every veek I'm sick or late or break a dish or a boarder don' pay. My vages is d'ree dollar a veek, un' I never gets more as two-fifty—sometime, two—un' dat vill nod pay my clothes ad first, un' don' pay my doctor bills aftervard."
The story was told monotonously, without much show of emotion, but it was enough of itself to wring a word from the woman to whom it was addressed.
"You got sick?" asked Mary.
"Who vouldn't?" said Fritzie. "You bed I get sick, un' vhen I gome oud of de hospital, de young doctor—he'd been makin' grand lofe to me—he tell me I vas too nice a girl to vork my hands off fur nussin' a veek, un' he gif me his visitin' card vith a writin' on it to a voman he knowed, un' I quit un' vent dere."
She paused, but Mary was silent, and the German resumed:
"It vas a goot place, bud nod so goot as dis von. I stay a mont' till she move to Philadelphia. Den I vent to anozzer house, not so goot as dat first, fur two mont's till the voman die. Un' den, after some more, I gome here, pretty soon, to Miss Rose's. No"—she waved her thick hand toward the door through which Celeste had lately passed—"I'm nod like dat Frenchie. She's vhat Phil Beekman calls a 'gongenital,' vatever dat iss; I vork hard enough now, und I vanted to vork righd den; bud I tell you I could not stand it, dough I vas so strong. No, I'm glad I gome here."
She leaned back upon her elbow.
"Now, dis Celeste——" she began, but the French girl, just then entering, came with an air that was a sufficient explanation of her never complex temperament.
"Voilà!" she smiled, holding aloft a long glass filled by a dull green liquid. "Let the leetle girl tak some of thees wheech I meex for her."
Before she had well realized what she was doing, Mary had accepted the glass.
"What is it?" she asked weakly.
"Absinthe," replied Celeste.
"It smells like licorice," said Mary.
"Ah, but no; eet ees not that. You try thees, an' then you can eat."
"But I don't think I want to eat."
"Poof! That ees folly! See, now, I meex thees myself—I myself have frappé eet. Ees eet what you call polite that you say 'no' to me? Say, now: ees eet?"
Involuntarily Mary smiled. It was a rueful little smile, but it was a smile of exhausted consent.
"It won't hurt me?"
"Thees? You do not know eet. Eet ees the enemy of all the headache, of all the heartache, of all the bad nerve."
For answer Mary drained the glass, and when her visitors left her they turned no key upon their exit.
So, slowly, through all those early days, and through the days that immediately followed them, the spell of the situation worked. There was infamy, there was torture. The unending procession of visitors—clerks, drummers, car-conductors, teamsters, gamesters, thieves, brothers in the fraternity of lust, equals in the night of horror, mostly drunken, nearly all unclean of body and everyone filthy of mind—the green government note was their certificate of qualification, the money, however acquired, constituted their right to those counterfeits which the house of Rose Légère was maintained to sell. For that note, themselves the chattels of conditions, they might caress or beat; for that, they might take whatever their hearts demanded. Was the slave wounded? Was she ill? Was she heartbroken? She
