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5
THE SCOUT
She walks in at 6pm on Monday.
I watch her through the monitors, and finally admit to myself what I’ve shrugged off all weekend. The unexpected twist of her turning out to be a Blackwood Tower employee has turned the tide in her favor. When I gave instructions for the ad to be placed in Blackwood Quarterly, my company’s magazine, the best I hoped for was miniscule but twisted private satisfaction in the interim; knowing I was toying with Maxwell, with the larger pleasure to be reaped when the unvarnished truth came to light. I didn’t anticipate this turn of events.
Lucky. Elly. And whatever the hell other names she has tucked beneath that cheap uniform and velvety skin, has managed to achieve the impossible; she’s piqued my interest for a second time.
There’s a deliciousness in knowing she could be serving me by day without knowing I’d be fucking her by night. That unanticipated morsel has elevated my mood from deadly lethargy to mere languor since Friday.
Well, that and keeping Maxwell twisting in the wind.
Avoiding Maxwell won’t last, of course. He won’t let it. He’s never been great with being ignored. And after almost a week of unanswered summonses, it’s only a matter of time before that particular bough breaks. Languor fades, and I imagine I can feel something.
The intercom next to my elbow buzzes from the team I have waiting next door. “She’s here. Shall I take her in and explain the procedure to her?” Fionnella Smith, the team leader asks.
“Not yet. I want to talk to her for a minute. I’ll send her out when I’m done.”
“Okay.”
I slide my voice distorter into place and wait.
She’s shown into the room five minutes later. She pauses at the door. Her eyes warily assess the room, her body poised with more than a hint of self-protection. Intrigue heightens.
She’s scared of something. Or someone.
The urge to bloody myself with her secrets escalates.
I cross my legs and wait for her to enter. When she doesn’t, I speak, “It’s good to see you again. Come in, Lucky. No one’s going to bite you today.”
The provocative words achieve the desired results. She steps in and shuts the door behind her, while one eyebrow spikes. “No one’s going to bite me any day.”
“Is that your definitive view on the subject of biting?”
She drops her tiny backpack and pulls out the chair in front of the camera, a frown crawling over her exquisite features. “Do I get docked points if I say no?”
“This isn’t a game show, Lucky. I merely want to assess your boundaries. I bite sometimes when I fuck. Will that be a problem?”
Heat engulfs her face, and her fingers drum on the table before rising to curl around the ends of her ponytail. One shoulder lifts. “I’m okay with it, I guess, as long as you don’t draw blood.”
“Noted.”
Her gaze flickers for a second, then she does what I’ve wanted her to do since she walked in. She stares straight into the camera. She’s better composed now than she was in my executive restaurant on Friday. She’s had time to prepare for this meeting whereas then, her reaction to me was raw and unfettered.
I muse over the possibilities as I stare back at her.
Eventually, the question spills out, “So, I’ve got the gig?”
I pause for a long minute. “Yes, Lucky, you have the gig.”
The sharp breath she takes is curious. Her expression isn’t one of happiness or the ecstasy of gluttony satisfied. It’s overwhelming relief that stems from abated terror, like a person snatched back from the jaws of certain death.
Her whole body trembles with the release of the paralyzing feeling. Her lower lip quivers, but she kills the telltale action by catching it between her teeth and gnawing on it.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me just yet, Lucky. There’s a reason I’m paying you a million dollars for your time. You will be fucked with, and not always in ways you’ll find…pleasant.”