11. Chapter Eleven
Rachel
I t felt like my eardrums were being pierced by sharp needles when my phone shrilled on the bedside table.
I curse softly under my breath, opening my eyes slowly, expecting to be greeted by the sun’s blinding rays seeping through my curtain blinds. I raise my eyebrows in surprise when I see that the sun is just coming up—I can’t even feel its warmth yet.
Who the hell is waking me up at this time? The sun itself hasn’t fully woken up yet!
Before I can notice, Archie jolts awake beside me. He dashes toward my phone, but not even the fast reaction time of a cat could beat my close distance to the bedside table. I pick up my phone just in time before Archie can do any damage. I am sorry, feline friend, for waking you up, but I am not about to let you damage my cell phone.
My heart leaps into my mouth when I see the caller. It’s Vaughn!
“H-hello?”
Aside from the fact that I have a sore throat, and my voice already sounds as if a series of heavy-duty chains are being pulled against a rail track from sleep, the nervousness that envelopes me makes it worse—at least to me.
“Wait, are you just waking up?” he says in disbelief.
I clutch at my blanket even tighter. From his tone, I already knew what was coming next, though I wasn’t even expecting him to call me in the first place because of you-know-what.
He goes on a tirade about how he pays me a good amount of money to show up at work when I’m supposed to and tells me to “haul my ass over here” right now. Just like that, the automatic panic response one acquires after almost two years of working with Vaughn triggers within me, and I am on my feet within seconds.
Archie, who still seems annoyed, looks at me with a puzzled expression. It’s the same look she gives me every time I get ready for work, and it seems to always ask, “Aren’t you tired of your shitty job yet?”
Well, my shitty job makes sure you have enough milk in your bowl and enough cat food to last you a decade! I yell in my head before storming off to the bathroom—the first step in readying myself for a showdown with Vaughn.
***
Okay, Ray, you can do this. You are going to maintain a professional tone when speaking to him and a professional posture when you see him because that’s what you are—a professional.
Shit.
This exercise seems stranger than I thought, but at this point, I could give my next month’s paycheck not to give Vaughn even the slightest hint of how I feel about our sexual encounter in his study. I don’t want anything to interfere with our work relationship, even though we’ve practically avoided each other for the past two days.
I look into my eyes through the rearview mirror, trying to make them appear as determined as possible.
Okay, Ray, you’ll do just fine.
The drive to Vaughn Charity Center doesn’t take more than fifteen minutes. Still, to me, it feels longer than that because I struggle to maintain a decent composure despite how tense I feel inside.
I hop out of my car and go straight to the training ground upon arrival, my eyes sneakily scanning the area for Vaughn so as not to be caught off guard. And then, just a few yards away from the soccer pitch, I spotted him.
Good Lawd!
His sweaty body makes his jersey cling to his broad chest as he runs toward the goalpost, kicking the ball as fast as he can while the other players chase him relentlessly. For a fleeting moment, the thought of me running my hands over that chest crosses my mind and—
Come off it, Ray. Think composure, think control, think classy.
I switch my gaze to Raphael, who is standing with a camera crew on the sidelines, recording Vaughn’s training sessions. We are discussing something related to making some edits to Vaughn’s recorded training sessions when I catch Vaughn approaching us from my peripheral vision.
Shit.
I swallow hard and gesticulate with my hands fiercely to hide that they are slightly trembling. It takes real strength not to turn my head to look at him.
He sits down on a bench close to where we stand, and the man does not even try to hide that his gaze is fixed directly on me!
I maintain my composure, putting on a straight face as I continue to talk until, I hear: “Toss me a bottle of water.”
Okay, it is already strange enough that he calls me out of the blue at seven in the morning, acting all bossy and threatening to fire me if I don’t come over in ten minutes after what happened in his study—not that I am expecting a kiss on the cheek or a trip to the Eiffel Tower. But telling me to toss him a bottle of water so nonchalantly seems strange to me. I am curious as to how he went from avoiding me to acting as if nothing happened. Perhaps in an attempt to restore our normal work relationship? That’s fine by me!
I pause mid-conversation and meet his gaze. Well, he really is talking to me.
I catch my breath, and just as I think of getting him a bottle of water, Raphael takes a long stride toward a bag lying on the floor and throws him the bottle.
“Here, Vaughn,” he says.
Relief washes over me. Oh, thank God. Then comes the slight anger about being relieved. I scold myself: What’s so special about handing him a bottle of water? I have always been efficient at dealing with Vaughn, but now I can’t even hand him a bottle of water. That sucks!
Then, I feel a wave of panic washing over me. Has Raphael noticed anything? Why did he suddenly step in and toss the bottle of water himself? No, Rachel, it’s just a random gesture. Vaughn might have as well been talking to him since he said “Toss me” instead of “Hand me.”
Snap out of it, Ray.
I go back to ignoring Vaughn and continue discussing with Raphael and the group. Vaughn stands and goes back onto the pitch to keep playing.
Moments later, Carmen shows up with what I assume to be some food in a plastic bag for the field.
Really? Bringing Vaughn’s meal to the training ground?
But then, I assume that’s okay for someone like Carmen, who has shown several times that she wishes to take my “position,” like that’s something to strive for.
I get it; Vaughn is as attractive as the word goes, and I am sure most girls would rip faces off just to always be in close proximity to him. But Carmen knows how much of a jerk he is, just as much as I do, so the fact that she still wants his attention so badly baffles me.
“Hey, Carmen, you are looking awesome.”
It’s true. I couldn’t care less that she’s wearing a dress so seductive that even Raphael and the camera crew can’t hide the fact they’re eyeing her, trying to get Vaughn’s attention.
She gives me a slight nod and says, “That it is.” She offers a tight smile, but despite her attempt to be polite, I can tell she’s not happy to see me, which is evident from her eyes, now darker with annoyance.
She walks to the bench and sits down, her cleavage dipping a tad lower.
Poor breasts. They are probably gasping for air by now.
Raphael swallows and clears his throat, drawing my attention back to him. The expression on his red face almost makes me burst into uncontrollable laughter. He starts saying something, but then Carmen interrupts.
“Are you sure you’re okay, though? You know, you could stay at home for as long as you want. I’ve got everything covered here.”
Carmen is as pretty as she is stupid. When you add her arrogance to the mix, it becomes even worse. Oh, the ignorance in what she just said! She’s been around for some time, but it seems to me she still doesn’t understand that being Vaughn’s “secretary” means being his personal assistant, his courier, his maid, his manager, his secretary in the conventional sense, and oh, even his cook sometimes. It goes far beyond being the person to deliver his morning meals!
“Oh, I appreciate the gesture, Carmen. But I can’t just leave everything to you. I am sure you’ve got enough on your plate already, and that wouldn’t be very fair, would it?” I reply sassily.
She opens her mouth to say something stupid and annoying, I am sure, when suddenly, a loud bang rattles through my head, right to my brain and my molars.
The inflated ball ricochets off my head. The force behind the kick is so heavy that my bun instantly loosens. My knees give way, and I fall to the ground, my vision blurred.
Raphael and some of the crew members echo in concerned voices: “Are you okay, Rachel?”
“I am fine,” I answer, clutching my head.
I lift my throbbing head to see that even some of the players who had been training with Vaughn have rushed over to me. The ones who didn’t at least stop playing for a while to acknowledge that someone has just been hit.
Vaughn?
He just stands there staring at a ball under his feet, and the indifferent look he has on makes me feel like he only stopped because the other players stopped.
Hands pull me to my feet as I keep repeating, “I am fine now.” Even Carmen has come over to where we stand, but Vaughn, the asshole, just watches from the center of the soccer pitch, like we are some sort of characters in a TV show or something.
Son of a bitch.
I feel a pang of intense hurt pierce my heart, and then I chastise myself for feeling hurt about a man like Vaughn, who doesn’t give two flips about me. It’s not like he’s ever cared, so why even bother?
As I am escorted to the bench, reality hits hard: Vaughn Graham is an enigma, and I am just a mere secretary in his vast world of fame and glamour. Nothing is going to change that.
***
Would it have made much of a difference if I hadn’t taken practically two days off from work a week earlier? I don’t think so at all. The fatigue and stress I have gathered over the week aren’t something a workaholic will be able to adapt to in a short time.
Stressful doesn’t even begin to cut it. There have been a handful of tasks for me to work on aside from the normal “non-strictly secretarial” tasks that come with working with Vaughn Graham.
Preseason starts in a few days, and I have had to work on his schedule. And oh, did I mention that Mobilix Solutions, the rivals of the company that Vaughn has done an ad for, actually sued?
The professional soccer player, his lawyer, and I now have a real case. We have the meeting in an “air-tight chamber”—meaning it is strictly confidential. I am thankful the lawyer’s presence fixes the issue of having to be with Vaughn for an extended period.
Reporters will have a field day with this case if it ever comes out. We have negotiated a settlement with Mobilix Solutions, but they refused and sued instead, so obviously, it’s only a matter of time before the whole situation comes to light. But before then, we have to make sure that Vaughn is not painted in a bad light.
I have just gotten home from the pharmacy to get some painkillers when my phone rings. Yeah, you guessed right—Vaughn.
“Rachel, come over to my place now.”
What?
“Okay.”
The line clicks dead.
That’s strange. What does he need me to come over to his place for? I should have asked him, but my dumb ass reflexively mouthed off an “Okay.” Why? Because it’s always an “Okay” to all of Vaughn’s requests?
Certainly, he isn’t stupid enough to try any funny business with me again, is he?
I shake my head to dispel my thoughts. I head toward my car, but not before grabbing my prescriptions because I know it will only get worse by the time I am done with whatever it is that Vaughn wants me to do.
Shit. The car won’t start.
It’s high time I asked Vaughn for a raise so I can save up for another car. By the way, I more than deserve it!
Without wasting any time to see what’s wrong with it—because Vaughn will kill me if I get left trying to figure that out—I hail a cab.
***
Sometimes, I wonder how Elena handles Vaughn’s mansion all by herself. From what I see in movies, owners of mansions like this employ the maid, the cook, and the butler as separate people. I would take as many leaves as I could if I were in her place as well.
I hum a tune under my breath as I prepare a dish of Bronx-style chicken Parmesan. It turns out that Vaughn wants me to cook dinner for a family gathering since his people are coming to visit. Elena will be gone for three days—something to do with her mother being sick.
I pause and tug at the overly tight apron strings just before pouring some melted mozzarella over the fried chicken. When everything’s all set, I place the food on the tray and take it to the vast dining room.
It appears like a heated conversation is abruptly stopped when I am seen approaching, judging from the not-so-happy faces and the tense atmosphere in the dining room. Without thinking much about it—because, obviously, it’s none of my business—I set the tray on the table and begin unpacking.
Vaughn is drumming his fingers repeatedly on a spot on the wide walnut table. It doesn’t take long to realize that he is troubled. There’s a certain way his right eyelid droops slightly when he’s tense.
“Enjoy your meal, Mrs. Graham,” I say, turning to Vaughn’s mother. She forces a smile in my direction, making her eyes wrinkle at the edges.
“Thank you very much, Rachel.” She rubs her palms together and inhales deeply. “I am sure this tastes so nice. You can always tell from the aroma.”
I guess that’s her attempt to lighten up the gloomy mood in the dining room.
“Thanks for the compliment, ma’am,” I reply shyly, my eyes glazing over the rest of the faces around the table.
Vaughn doesn’t even acknowledge my presence as his gaze remains fixed on the table. It’s almost as if his secretary hasn’t just walked into the room with the most delicious and mouthwatering chicken Parmesan you will ever taste.
Awkward.
I turn to leave when Vaughn’s mother decides to make the situation even more awkward for me by saying, “Why don’t you sit down at the table with us? I am sure there’s enough for all four of us.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I slowly turn back to face her. “Umm, I think it’s fine. I made some for myself back in the kitchen—”
My throat gets dry when my eyes roam over the rest of the people around the table. There is Vaughn’s sister, Michelle, who looks about seventeen, and then there is Steven, whose smooth, young face and huge stature make me unsure of his age.
“No. You eat here. I insist,” Mrs. Graham says with a smile. But even with the smile, her tone is firm enough for me to know that I don’t dare object.
Vaughn is looking at his mom at this point, annoyance etched into all the lines of his face. “Would you just let her go if she doesn’t want to sit? By the way, this is supposed to be a family lunch, so I don’t get why—”
She waves her hand at him, and he stops abruptly. I swear it takes me a great amount of self-control not to burst into fits of laughter right then and there when I see the look on his face. It is like that of a nine-year-old whose mom won’t buy him his favorite cookies at the store.
“I am hearing nothing of it, Vaughn.” She urges me to sit down, and I deliberately avoid sitting next to Vaughn, walking around the table to sit next to Michelle. She doesn’t even lift her head to acknowledge me and just keeps surfing through Instagram posts on her iPhone.
“Hi, Michelle,” I say.
She doesn’t even answer.
Sheesh, how typical for a seventeen-year-old.
“Put that phone away, Michelle,” Mrs. Graham orders just as Steven pulls a plate of steaming hot food toward himself and begins digging in.
Michelle mumbles something under her breath but eventually puts the phone away. Vaughn also calms down a bit, and we soon start eating in silence.
I occasionally steal a glance at Mrs. Graham and notice how much older she’s become since I last saw her. We met some months ago during a fundraising game for children with cancer, where a lot of parents were in attendance, and Vaughn introduced me as his PA.
“Yo, Vaughn, I heard preseason is starting very soon. Is your leg feeling much better?” Steven says between mouthfuls. “I can’t wait to see you get back on the field. My buddies are all excited and want autographs signed.”
“I am as good as new. Thanks, Steven. How’s college, by the way?” Vaughn asks.
Steven drops his fork and huffs, a frustrated look on his face. “Don’t even let me get started. There’s been so much going on that I hardly have any time for myself.”
Well, guess what, Steven—it’s either we attend the same college, or we both work for Vaughn because I am you, and you’re me.
“ That doesn’t sound like the fun you made it out to be on the phone the other time,” Vaughn says, forking chicken into his mouth.
“Well, things change, I guess.”
“While still on the topic of things changing, you won’t believe who Mom and I saw last week in the mall,” Michelle says, directing her attention to Vaughn on the other side of the table.
She and her mother exchange a glance, and a frown appears between Mrs. Graham’s eyes. “Michelle, don’t—”
“It was Jessica, Vaughn. I saw Jessica. She seems like a totally different person. She offered to pay for some of our goods. She was nice to Mom and me, and she even dyed her hair purple. She looked amazing.”
The color drains from Vaughn’s face even though he tries not to show it, but the oblivious teenager keeps talking with a smile on her face. The mention of Jessica—whoever that is—clearly does not sit right with Vaughn.
“Will you just shut up!” Vaughn’s mother barks at the young girl, startling both me and Michelle.
“That was dumb, Micky. Really dumb,” Steven says, a disappointed look on his face.
“What’s so wrong with the mention of Jessica? It’s not like they are still together or anything,” Michelle says indignantly. “I think I will just take some fresh air outside. I am not even hungry anymore.” She pulls her chair back and walks away.
Vaughn’s mom drops her fork and stretches her hand to touch his. “I am sorry about that, Vaughn. I don’t know why she acts that way sometimes. I will talk to her.”
“No, no, it’s fine. She’s just a girl anyway.”
He pulls his hand back and grabs his fork.
This is beyond awkward for me at this point. Might as well just stare at the table’s hardwood until everyone disperses.
“Anyway, is there anyone you’re seeing at the moment, Vaughn? I know you players hardly discuss these things with the media, but you know you can always tell your mom,” she offers.
Steven just shakes his head and continues eating absentmindedly.
“I don’t have time for that, Mom. I am a busy man,” Vaughn replies.
“I can see that. In fact, Michelle counted up to five billboards with your face on them on our way here. But don’t you think having someone in your life would help you get over Jessica?”
At this point, I don’t think I am supposed to be here.
“I am fine, Mom.”
“Are you, though?” Mrs. Graham turns to me and asks. “Don’t you think that’s a great idea, Rachel? You’re his PA. You should advise him.”
The immediate reaction that follows spares me the stress of thinking about how to respond to Mrs. Graham’s statement. Vaughn’s cutlery clanks on his plate, and he jerks his head upward to face his mother, his eyes glinting with fury.