Chapter 12

I’ve got used to the special date entries on his schedule and the list of current playmates gracing his bed. I’m sure he ran out of headboard space long ago to keep a tally of notches for his conquests, and it’s just another reason I will never warm to him. He’s a slut.

“Yes, sir.” I pull the door closed behind me and scowl through the closed dense wood. The urge to stick my fingers up with venom surprises me. I guess I’ll have to get used to the reactions he pulls out of me and work harder to remain impassive. He has an ability, it seems, to piss me off without effort or without real reason, and I don’t even want to analyze it.

Twenty minutes later, Margo returns, and I am free just as the AC finally breathes a fresh coolness over us from the ceiling, a wave of relief. I’m sticky, hot, and flushed, and I need a change of clothes.

I head to the bathroom for a quick freshen up and gaze at the badly lit mirror on the wall to see I’m glowing red. My cheeks are flushed, there’s high color across the nape of my neck, and I have a dewy complexion where my make-up has sweated. My hair is no longer slick and smooth in its bun but is weaving its way loose despite the products I use to keep it sleek. I have natural waves which I straighten to get my hair this smooth and manicured. I’m in disarray.

Dammit. I can’t continue with my day looking like this.

I look like I’ve done a workout in my work clothes and I’m melting away. I look like a panda with the way my eyeliner has collected under my lower lashes and my normally precision lipstick is smudged and damp. I blot my face and release my hair in an effort to minimize the damage. The humidity and heat have caused it to pull back into waves, and it’s covered in bumps and creases made by the hair ties. Without my straighteners, it will never look right unless I wash it. There are showers on the fourth floor within the company gym; maybe I should sacrifice lunch and get a quick shower to cool off after sweating like I’ve been in the tropics.

I check my watch and work out how much time I have and decide to go for it. I have a forty-five-minute lunch break and I can shower in less than half that time. Luckily, I keep a change of clothes in the office, a suggestion from Margo, in case I’m ever asked on an overnight trip at short notice. I know I have toiletries in the bag too.

With my hair held in a loose ponytail, I go back and retrieve the bag, glad that Margo is focused on her laptop while taking a call and doesn’t see me. Mona, the outer receptionist, throws me a funny look but says nothing.

With my bag, I head down in the elevator to the floor that has the employee gym. I work for a company that’s invested in hotels, fitness centers and spas, and these facilities are standard in Carrero buildings free for all employees, another perk of this job among many.

When I emerge, I look brighter and neater, make-up residue gone, fresh clothes, and hair falling into long, natural waves in its blow-dried state. Unfortunately, there are no hair straighteners in the women’s locker room, but I’m cooler. Having my hair down bothers me. My hairstyle is part of my uniform, part of my defense; having it up and neat helps me feel more in control, and it’s part of the image I present.

Having my hair down like this makes me nervous. I know how often I tug at my hair and twist it when I’m home on weekends, another nervous old Emma habit that I’ve found no control over, anxiety related and childish. There’s nothing for it; tying it up without my products and straighteners will look messy. I’ve got to cope with it down for half a day. Even I can get through that, I assure myself as I head to the cafeteria for lunch, ignoring people looking at me as if they don’t recognize me, which makes me uneasy.