Chapter 11
11
Penny
"I’m so sorry, Ma, I thought I’d find a way to keep you here but I’m at my wit's end. I could have accepted that assho— Uh, Abby’s brother’s offer, but he’s such a bast— Uh, unpleasant man, that I didn’t think it was right to give him the chance to manipulate me. And he would have. If I’d gone to work for him, he’d use it to his advantage. I know that. And you know I’d have done such a good job for him. Working as an assistant to a hot-shot CEO is probably the only thing I haven’t tried. And I have a feeling I’d be good at it. After all, the only thing I’m good at is typing, and I’m organized—mostly—and given my last two, no, three career options"—
If you include my attempt at becoming a submissive
—"didn’t work out, I’m kind of up against it." I drag the comb through her greying locks. I’m seated behind her at the tiny dresser in her room at the care home.
Last night, Knight insisted on dropping me home. I was so taken aback by first, his announcement that he had the bar emptied so he could talk to me un-interrupted, then, he all but accused me of putting my interests before that of my mother. After which, he stayed silent all the way to my place. Now, he knows where I live, but that’s the least of my worries. This morning, I woke up early and came to see my mother at the care home.
I have another twenty-four hours until her time here runs out, and I’m no closer to finding a way to pay the fees for the next month. Maybe Knight was right. If I weren't so prideful, I’d have accepted Knight’s offer. I hunch my shoulders.
I did look into selling my body. I checked out the website where I heard women could strip and make money, and promptly clicked out of it. No way, do I have the courage to pose naked in front of a camera. As for going through with using my body for sex… I’m not sure where to start. I suppose, I could look for another place like the 7A Club, but the thought of anyone else’s hands on me made me so nervous, I began to feel sick to my stomach. I shut my computer and pulled the covers over my head at two a.m. this morning.
I barely managed to get a few hours of sleep before coming to meet my mother. It helps to talk to her. She doesn’t respond, but saying my issues aloud makes them feel lighter. The sound of my voice always seemed to soothe her. She also loves her hair being smoothed out. I place the comb down on the bed, then twist her hair up into a bun and pin it.
"There, that looks good, eh?" I glance up at her reflection in the mirror.
“Thank you, dear,” she smiles at me. There’s a twinkle in her eyes, and she seems so like the mother I once knew.
Then her forehead wrinkles. “You look so much like my daughter. What did you say your name was again?”
My nose stings. Tears prick the backs of my eyes.
I will not cry. I will not.
“It’s Penny,” I manage to choke out. “My name’s, Penny.”
“That’s my daughter’s name. What a coincidence.” She laughs. “I must tell her the next time I see her. I’d tip you for your help, but I don’t have money. I’ll have to ask my daughter when she comes by.” Her lips turn down.
“It’s okay; don’t worry. You don’t need to tip me.”
She's silent for several minutes before her forehead furrows and she laughs. “Of course I don’t need to tip you. You’re my daughter, silly girl.”
“Mom!” I burst out. “Mom, you recognize me?”
“Of course I recognize you. I’m so happy you’re visiting us. Eric should be home very soon—” Her gaze grows vacant. She stares through me, and I know I’ve lost her.
I don’t know if it’s worse when she doesn't recognize me at all or when she's coherent for a little while, then forgets who I am. And she thinks my father's alive. Not an unusual occurrence.
On a good day, she’s coherent enough for us to have a normal conversation. There have even been a few days when she’s been her cheerful self throughout the entire visit, though those days have been dwindling, of late. She grows more withdrawn and confused as the day wears on, which is why I prefer to come in the early part of the day to see her. How much longer will I be able to do that? How long can I keep pretending that the mother I knew isn't all but gone in flesh.
The ball of emotion in my throat grows bigger. I swallow around it and scan her features—pale cheeks, thin lips, hollows under her eyes. Vestiges of her beauty cling to her features, and if I stare hard enough, I can still see the animated mother who’d drive me home from school, play the piano in the mornings so I’d always wake up to the sound of one of her favorite sonatas, hold my father’s hand and mine when they took me to my first opera as a birthday surprise… She gave up so much for my happiness, even turned her life upside down to move to another country, just to be close to me in London. And how do I repay her? By not even making it as an actress. Not being able to pay for her to remain in the home she’s grown to love.
"I’m such a selfish daughter." I swallow down the tears that threaten to overwhelm. "I’m so sorry, Ma, I wasn’t able to help. I’m sorry I was too self-involved to realize the true state of your health. But I promise, we’ll find a way. I’ll take you home. It’s a flat I share with Mira, but you can have my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch and—"
A knock on the door has me glancing toward it.
The manager of the place, Sunita, stands there. There’s a grim look on her face, and her lips are pinched. Oh, god, I thought I had another twenty-four hours before having this conversation, but there’s no putting it off. I place the comb on the dresser, then bend and kiss my Mom’s cheek. "Let’s get you into bed, shall we?"
I urge my Ma to her feet, and once she’s in bed, I pull the covers over her, then step out of the room. Sunita shuts the door. We stand in the hallway, and she opens her mouth to speak, but I raise my hand. "I know what you’re going to say, and I did everything I could to avoid it, I promise."
She just looks at me without saying a word.
I square my shoulders. " Honestly, I tried everything. If there was any other way out, I’d have taken it," I lie. "I don't want to move her out of here, but—"
She blinks. "You don’t have to take her out of here, but you insist you’re going to. What is the rationale behind that?"
"I thought I’d find the money to pay and keep her here, but—" I blink. "Hold on, did you say I
don’t
have to take her out of here?"
She raises a hand. "That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. You don’t have to move her."
"But I don’t have the money to pay to keep her here."
Her scowl deepens. "What are you talking about?"
"That I’ve been unable to find a way to keep her here."
She leans forward on the balls of her feet. "But her bills have been paid."
I freeze, open and shut my mouth, but nothing seems to emerge. I seem to have disconnected from my body and am looking down at the scene unfolding. So, this is what a brain fart looks like?
"Penny?" Sunita waves her hand in front of my face. "Penny, you okay?"
I draw in a breath and my lungs burn. "Her bills have been paid?" I manage to choke out.
"Yes, and for the next twelve months."
"B-by whom?"
Her gaze widens. "You don’t know who paid your mother’s bills?"
I open my mouth to agree, then give myself an inward shake.
Don’t kick a gift horse in the mouth. Take it and move on. You want your mother to stay here, don’t you?
"Ohhh, I know who did. It was my new boss."
"New boss?" She tilts her head. "You found a new job?"
"Yes, yes, I’m going to be the assistant to the CEO of Warren Media."
"Warren Media?"
"Yes, he’s my friend Abby’s brother. That’s how I got the job, and as part of the deal, he—I mean, the company—agreed to pay for my mother to stay here."
She smiles. "That seems like a generous offer.”
I shuffle my feet. It’s a guess on my part to say it’s Knight who paid the bills, but who else could it be? No one else I know has that much money to spend. But why would he do that? And for the next twelve months? I pull my phone out of my pocket and pretend to gasp. "Look at the time. I need to go meet my new employer."
"You’re meeting him at five p.m.?" Her forehead furrows.
"Oh, yeah. I officially start tomorrow, but it’s a preparatory session. These big companies—" I roll my eyes. "They’re so particular." And now I can’t stop the lies that spew out of my mouth. I wave my hand at her. "Well, thank you again for being so helpful. I gotta go." I brush past her and walk down the corridor and out of the building.
My head is swimming. A strange floating sensation fills my limbs. It feels like I'm in a dream, walking through a thick syrup. I manage to make it to the tube and head over to Knight’s office building. I enter, march up to the reception and announce, "I’m here to meet Knight Warren."
"Do you have an appointment?" The receptionist sniffs.
"I don’t, but he’ll see me."
She looks down her nose at me. "I’m afraid he won’t be seeing you if you don’t have an appointment, and—"
"Penny?" His rough, hard voice rolls down my back. Sparks of awareness flicker off my nerve-endings.
The receptionist in front of me jumps to her feet so quickly, her chair overturns. Her face is flushed a deep red, and her pupils are dilated. OMG, is she going to have an instant orgasm right now? Not that my thighs are not quivering. And the inner walls of my pussy are clenching. My panties are not so drenched, I can feel the wet fabric sticking to my inner thighs. But seriously, does he have that effect on everyone?
It must feed his already inflated ego to see women melt into incoherent blobs of goo wherever he goes. As if to illustrate my point, the receptionist swallows, then stutters, "M-Mr. Warren, she doesn’t have an appointment to—"
"She doesn’t need one. She’s my new assistant, Penny Easton."
The receptionist gapes. "Y-y-your new assistant?"
"Put her on the list of people who have twenty-four seven access to me."
"Twenty-four seven?" It’s my turn to gape. I stare at him over my shoulder. "But I don’t need twenty-four seven access."
"Yes, you do." He locks his fingers above my elbow, and tendrils of heat vibrate out from his touch, arrowing straight to my core. My nipples harden, and I find myself swaying toward him to draw in his sea-breeze scent. Then, he’s steering me around the receptionist’s desk and toward an elevator set at the far side of the lobby. He stabs the button, and the doors open. He pushes me in, steps in after me, then presses his thumb onto a pad.
The dashboard illuminates with a green light, and the car rises upward. It’s so smooth, it’s only the progression of numbers in the floor display panel that indicates our upward movement. The elevator doors are buffed to a high polish that reflects back both of us. He releases me and moves to stand to the opposite side of the car, putting as much distance as possible between us, and a shiver runs down my spine. How is it possible to miss his warmth when he doesn’t mean anything to me? He’s an egotistical, pompous bastard who thinks no one can disregard his orders.
"If you think paying for my mother’s stay at the care home means you’ve bought me, then you’re—" I firm my lips, for he’s turned those startling green eyes on me. My words stick in my throat. Am I going to deny why I came to see him? Sure, it was to tell him off, but also to say I’d work for him.
The relief I felt knowing my mother doesn’t have to leave the home made me understand my priorities. It doesn’t matter what I have to do to keep her in there. Doesn’t matter that I'm going to work for the devil himself. Nothing matters as much as making sure she's comfortable and safe and content in her last days. And the bastard knows it. That’s why he paid for her for the next twelve months. Which means, I’m effectively bound to this job for that much time, at least. The fight goes out of me, and I glance away.
He notices it but doesn’t say a word. He could gloat about how he’s been proven right about the job, but he stays silent. The elevator slides to a stop at the top floor of the building. He couldn’t have his office anywhere else but where he’d be the lord and master of all he surveys, of course. The doors open, and he gestures for me to step out, then leads the way. This time, he doesn’t touch me. The first time I met him here, I was too nervous about the prospect of working for him to take in my surroundings. Now, I follow him past the rooms with executives still at their desks—apparently, people here work late nights—a small conference room with two other executives engaged in discussion, then two larger ones which are empty, and a workstation set outside double doors. He opens one and ushers me in.
I walk into what I know is his office. I noticed how spacious it was the last time, but this time, the details sink in. It has to be triple the size of the apartment I share with Mira.
Floor-to-ceiling windows cover one side, and I can see the Thames and the large imposing building which houses the MI5 on the opposite bank of the river. In the distance, the London Eye gleams in the evening sunshine. He props a hip on the massive desk that is set against another bank of windows. There’s a laptop, three screens, and a couple of papers stacked one on top of the other in a neat pile. Other than that, the surface is spotless. On the far end of the room is a bookcase—or rather shelves of a bookcase which are empty—that lines a wall, and in front of it is a seating area. There’s a sofa with its back to the bookcase, a coffee table in front of it, and two chairs on either side. Next to it is a door which I assume leads to an ensuite bathroom. In another corner is a long table with chairs, and a screen on the wall—a space meant for more formal meetings. Next to that is a wet bar, and adjoining the room is a kitchenette. Whoa, it’s a self-contained unit. A self-contained, not very lived-in unit. There’s no art on the walls, no empty coffee cup, no pictures. Except for the papers on top of his work desk. It’s a sterile room, with a stunning view dominating the space. Unable to resist the view, I walk over to the window and glance out.
The hair on the back of my neck rises, and I know he’s watching me. I tighten my hold on my bag and continue to stare ahead. If I turn to him, I have to face the fact that I’m at his mercy.
And would that be so bad? What the—! I did not think that. I did not!
And I can’t hide away by looking at the view, either.
"So,"—I point at the MI5 headquarters—"is it true that, though you were in the army, you were on a secret mission for the MI5 when you were captured?"
The silence in the space seems to deepen. The temperature seems to drop until it’s frigid in here. I wouldn’t be surprised to see my breath forming puffs of condensation in front of me. Goosebumps rattle up my skin. I mentally slap myself. Nice one, you went and said the one thing that he didn’t need to hear. The one thing that’s probably giving him flashbacks to his capture and to whatever was done to him there, and I had to bring it up.
I draw in a breath, then square my shoulders. "Okay, sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t mean to constantly bring back memories of your time as a prisoner of war. It’s just—"
Heat sears my back. I turn and gasp, for he’s standing right behind me.