Strapped (7 page)

She wins.

“I’ll take it all.” He can sort this shit out himself. I nearly pass out at the total...$3387.52.

I enter the house with the bags and walk straight into the office. Mr. Holden is on the phone. He looks up to acknowledge me without skipping a beat with the person on the other end. The call is clearly business. I place the bags on the desk with a loud thud.

“I’ll be here tomorrow at nine,” I say firmly and turn on my heels without giving him a chance to respond. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his eyes widen. I am out of line, but it feels right. If he wants to play games, I can play them too.

Chapter Six

I take a detour to my office to do some reading alone. I am in a sour mood and I don’t feel like answering Rick’s questions about my day. Mr. Holden has his fortress in the woods and thanks to him, I now I have one high in the sky.

The 45th floor is ghostly by the time I arrive in the evening. I eat some soup I purchased at the 24-hour diner down the street. At first, I read at the desk, but then I spy my white loveseat and it beckons me to snuggle up with a book. My book of choice: one about anxiety disorders that I picked up with the business materials the other day. I can only hope this helps guide me through the labyrinth of Holden’s behavior.

The glare of the sun wakes me from my unplanned slumber. The book I was reading is resting on my chest, and I have a terrible crick in my neck. When I register where I am, I jump up from the couch completely disoriented. What time is it? I look around trying to desperately find a clock. I dig into my purse for my cell phone and it’s dead. I run over to my unfamiliar desk and I spot a very futuristic mini clock. 8:47am...
Fuck!
I slide on my shoes and take a quick look in the small mirror on my wall. I smooth out my hair, grab my purse, and run.

“Bye Marsha!” I yell as I run past the front desk, no doubt she is surprised to see me. I pop in a piece of chewing gum and plug my phone into the car charger.
Shit!
I want to speed to work and a seasoned driver would be able to do so with Ladybug (that’s what I call her), but I am still getting used to driving this thing. My iPhone is so dead, it takes about 5 minutes to even turn on and is followed by the familiar pings of text messages.

Rick:

Lala? Where are you. Are you ok?

—

Lala, I am worried. Can you text back? Is something wrong?

—

Lala, call me, please. No one knows where you are

Then I see a text from Kristin:

Kristin:

Where r u? Rick just called me and said you never came home. We’re worried over here. Please let us know you r ok.

I can’t manage the car and text them. They will have to wait at least 20 more minutes until I can get my hands free
. I am such a jerk.
Once I hit the freeway, I am a mad woman until I have to abruptly slow down for an accident. I hate being late. I hope being early the past two days will make up for this. The clock on the dashboard reads 9:10 am. I left on a rather ballsy note last night and who knows if Holden was already thinking about reprimanding me. Now he has a reason to be a total jerk. By 9:12 am I am practically at a standstill. I know I should call him, but after last night, I fear that the interaction will be painful. As I look down at the phone, debating with myself, it rings. The caller id says Taylor Holden. I let it ring once, take a deep breath, and answer, expecting either anger or a cool reprimand:

“Are you okay?” He almost sounds frantic.

“Ummm, yes. I’m sorry I overslept. It won’t happen again.”

“I know. I mean you didn’t have an accident?” I am puzzled for a second and realize he must think I could be in the accident that is clogging the freeway. I can’t help but feel the concern in his voice is a bit of an overreaction, but I feel it is my duty to assuage him.

“No. I am fine. It’s okay. I am stuck in the traffic, in the aftermath of the accident.”

“The news helicopter showed a red car that looked just like yours. The wreck is terrible and they said a young female was the driver. For a second, I thought you might have been rushing to get here on time and...” I imagine him cooly sitting at his desk, thinking of ways to toy with me as a punishment for my tardiness. Then, Harrison walking into the office with the news of the red car in an accident and his mood changing into panic. He cares more than I thought.

“No, I am okay. I’ll try to get in as fast as I can.”

“Take your time. I’m just glad you are okay”

I finally pass the scene, which has been cleared, except for pieces of red and black debris strewn along the shoulder. An ominous feeling chills me. I finally make it past the horrendous traffic and into the house at almost ten o’clock. I still haven’t contacted Rick or Kristin and shoot them each a quick text.

Shyla:

So sorry!!! I am fine. Fell asleep at the office downtown. Late to work so can’t talk. ttyl

Kristin responds with a friendly reprimand, but I don’t get anything back from Rick. Harrison is no where to be seen upon my arrival. I walk right into the office and Mr. Holden gives me the once over, he probably notices that I am wearing yesterday’s clothes.

“I’m here!” I say with a twinge of shame in my voice and give him a little waive.

“Did you have a good night’s rest?” There is humor in his voice. Maybe he is just happy I am not being scraped off the freeway. He clearly knows that I slept in the office.
Marsha, you snitch!

“I am a little embarrassed about that,” I say as I plop down into one of his chairs. I am feeling easy around him today. “Did Marsha tell you?”

“Well, she phoned me to tell me you were on your way, but security protocols are to tell me when someone enters the 45th floor after business hours anyway.”
Of course.

“Well, the couch is lovely in my office, but I think I broke my neck sleeping on it.” We both laugh. Yes, he’s laughing, and when he stops, he holds that crooked grin of his.

“Is everything alright? I mean, you sleeping in the office?”

“Oh yes, fine. I was just going to do some reading, but that didn’t pan out the way I had hoped. Where’s Harrison?”

“He took the day off. His mother is sick and he is taking her to the doctor.” This means we are alone in the huge fortress.

“What a good son. Family is important,” says the woman who has not called her mom to say hello in two weeks. He diverts his eyes from me. Did I strike a chord with that comment? Now I have changed the mood. His disposition is so easily affected.

“Have you eaten?”

“No, I pretty much woke up and ran over here.”

“As usual, there is breakfast on the counter.”

“Great, I am pretty hungry.”

“Mona did keep some clothes here for you, just in case. You could shower and have breakfast. We can start working later and end later. That’s one of the perks of working with me here. I can be flexible.” Sometimes when he says things, I swear they have more than one meaning. Normally, I would say no, but I feel grimy and I think the warm shower would do wonders on my neck.

“Would you really be okay with that? I feel so terrible about being late. As you know I usually have a problem with being too early, not the other way around. My neck really hurts though and I think the shower would help.” He looks at my neck.
Would you rub it for me please?

“It’s fine, really. I have some phone calls to make. I can take care of that while you are in the shower. I would recommend the bathroom upstairs with the massage jets. It will do wonders for your neck. Everything you need will be in the closet, just take the elevator to level two. Two doors to your right.” Again with the elevator, I don’t even know where the stairs are in this house.

The bathroom is the stuff of Kohler commercials. Pale gray limestone tile lines the floor and walls, giving the room a modern, yet relaxed atmosphere. The shower is enormous and has massage jets as well as multiple showerheads. This is a shower made for two. The tub is also enormous and shaped like a giant bowl in the center of the room. It stands alone, like a piece of art. At first I can’t decide what I want to do, but finally, I opt to use the shower. The shower jets explode all over my body. My muscles begin to relax. He was right, the jets do work wonders. I could get used to living like this. I wonder if she was here last night, the one that I bought the lingerie for. Did they shower in here together? I close my eyes and tilt my head back, trying to clear my head of these thoughts, but I can’t stop thinking of him in the shower: naked, hot, and wet.

Images of dark unkempt hair, full lips, crooked smiles and smoky eyes corrupt my thoughts. I try to convince myself that this is just the result of all the time Taylor and I are spending together. The image of his lips grazing a strawberry pierce my mind. Those lines that curve down from his abdomen into the waistband of his sweatpants...They tease me, taunt me, daring me to follow their path. Now the area beneath my waist begs me for relief. I can feel it, the rush of stimulation, the tension. I have to let it go, give her what she wants. Like if pulled by a magnet, my hands glide down my belly, then in between the flesh of my thighs. I have no choice but to surrender. I imagine my fingers are his tongue as he expertly pleases me, then I turn towards the jets and let them do their work. I grab my breasts, caressing them, pretending my hands are instead his and it isn’t long before I tense even more and then explode into the glorious release. My body twitches with every pulse as I try to stifle my moans. Every muscle relaxes and for just a few seconds I experience a perfect moment of stillness. It isn’t long before the uneasiness creeps back in. I have crossed a line with him, even if it was not in the flesh. This illusion has only stoked the flame and I know what I just committed isn’t enough to satisfy the craving.

I stay in the shower in an attempt to cleanse myself of my transgression when I hear the faint sound of music. It is so faint in fact, that I am not even sure if my mind is playing tricks on me. A voice barely rises above the music singing a love song.

The dagger goes straight to my chest. The voice hovers over each word, as if she is speaking to someone and the meaning is so beautiful, it only happens to come out in song. Could the lyrics be for me? Taylor Holden haunts me; his timing gives me goosebumps.

I wrap myself in a huge, plush bath sheet and very soon realize I don’t know where my clothes have been stored. I assume they are in the same guest bedroom I changed in last time. I feel ridiculous riding in the elevator barefoot, wrapped in a towel. I hope that Holden will still be in his office so he doesn’t have to see me like this, but of course this isn’t the case. He is walking in the hallway towards his office when we run into each other.

“Do you know where Harrison stored my clothes? I forgot to investigate that before showering” I try my best to act like I am not practically naked in front of him.

“Uhhhh...yes, I think they are in the guest bedroom that you were in last time.”

“Did you chose that song earlier? Either that or the couch last night has had a far worse effect on my neurological system than I had guessed.”

He smiles and looks down, coyly. I almost drop my towel.

“Yes, I have wireless speakers all over the house. “The First Time Ever I Saw your Face” by Roberta Flack. I think it’s a beautiful song. I thought you might too.” Am I the only one that feels it again? The tension? The potential energy that has no where to actualize? It just sits there, suffocating me.

“Thank you, it was.” I say sincerely and walk to the guest bedroom. By the time I eat my very late breakfast, it is almost 11:00. I feel spoiled, but I will be staying late and working hard to make up for this. I text Rick to let him know it’s another late night and I still do not receive a response.

News breaks out that Russia is ready to privatize some of its major industries and is looking for foreign investment. What was initially just a trip just to bring business into Russia has now become twofold. We will also be negotiating the purchase of shares of some of Russia’s largest national industries. This means we have a lot of extra work to take care of before the trip.

Once we do start working, his focus is laser-like. There are multiple conference calls and analyses of financial reports. We even stop into the office for a few afternoon meetings not getting back to the house until a little after six.

“Do you like Thai food?” I guess I am having dinner with him tonight.

“Yes, I love it.”

“Ok, I am going to order. I’ll be back.” This is the second time that he has ordered food without asking me what I want. I am not sure how I feel about this habit. I notice he walks down the hallway to that curious panel. He pulls a small ring of keys from his pocket and sticks one in the keyhole, pulls and it opens up on hinges, just like a door. He enters and closes it securely behind him. This must be his bedroom, but it is the most unusual bedroom door I have ever seen. I understand wanting one’s privacy, but this is extreme.

I sit down in the great room and pull off my heels. My feet are aching and I refuse to wear these suckers after 6:30. When he returns, he is wearing a low slung, off-white pair of linen pants. The softness of the worn out fabric drapes his body so nicely. A drawstring barely keeps the pants from sliding off of his narrow hips. He wears a faded gray short sleeved undershirt that is just tight enough to hug his shoulders and chest muscles. Even his bare feet are perfect. His hair is tousled and messy. He looks so young. He looks like Taylor.

“I’m sorry, here I am changed into a T-shirt and comfortable pants and you look really uncomfortable. Do you want to borrow a T-shirt and sweats or something? It’s after six thirty, there is no need to be dressed professionally anymore.” I am glad we share the same philosophy. I oblige. Yes, it is a little weird, but it’s not like I will be the definition of sex appeal in his sweatpants and T-shirt.

I end up swimming in his shirt and rolling up his sweatpants about three times to keep them from falling, but they are still way more comfortable than the dress I was wearing earlier. I can smell his familiar laundry scent on the shirt. He offers me a glass of wine and I also oblige. The Thai food arrives, which I collect since Harrison is not here, Harrison is a buffer for him too. We resume work over the meal. Before I know it, it’s almost nine.

“Okay, we should probably call it a night. Just because I don’t have a life, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. Your boyfriend is probably missing you between long hours here and falling asleep in the office.” Mr. Holden, you just had some kinky woman over here last night,
I think you have quite the life.
Wait, did I ever tell him I had a boyfriend? I blame Harrison for informing him. Either that, or he really was thorough in his investigation.

“He probably doesn’t want to see me right now.”
Too much info Shy, too much!
He doesn’t address the comment directly.

“I don’t want to keep you here. You’ve worked enough.”

“You’re right. I should probably get home.” I stand up, and his pants nearly fall off of me. I grab them just in time and we both laugh awkwardly. “I’ll help you put this in the dishwasher.”

“Don’t worry, the cleaning lady comes every morning.” Oh yeah, he’s fucking rich. Rich people don’t need to clean their own dishes.

“Ms. Ball, you have been doing an excellent job, notwithstanding your tardiness today. I was right about you.” I think he is joking about my lateness, but he can be so damned hard to read. I still find it hard to look him directly in the eyes, because it is almost too much.

“Can you call me Shyla?” This must be the wine speaking. He takes a breath.

“Sure, Shyla...Please, call me Taylor.”