Chapter 12 Elias
TWELVE
Elias
Obviously, I don’t get much sleep. I haunt the internet, trying to find out anything I can about Andre Black, but there’s remarkably little. Not even The Axis’s sleek website features him.
I do find an article on the previous owner, Peter Grange, who committed suicide two years ago, shortly after selling the hotel to Black Enterprises in what was termed an “unexpected sale.”
I’m too agitated to jerk off, even though it would probably help me sleep. Mostly, I toss and turn, obsessing over the question, Why me?
It makes no sense that someone like Andre Black—wealthy, powerful, beautiful—would choose me.
Of course, he’s not choosing me in that sense, even if a few moments sent all the wrong signals to my body.
What he wants is for me to work for him.
But even that is bizarre. I work at a bodega for god’s sake.
Used to work at a bodega, I guess. Now, tomorrow, I’ll be his personal assistant. That’s a close position. And all this time he’s been considering me for it? He’s been coming into the bodega because of me? I can’t wrap my head around that at four a.m.
It’s no easier at eight, but I do have to get moving. I have so much to do and only three hours. I don’t even bother with coffee or tea. I doubt I could get anything down anyway.
I walk to the animal shelter to give the cats the last of my treats, except for a few that I hold back for Turtle at the bookstore. Mostly, I want to see the cats, but I do feel a slight obligation to say, Hey, I won’t be back.
At least, I don’t think I’ll be back. But maybe? What happens when Andre realizes he doesn’t want me? I should have asked. Fuck, I’m so dumb.
But then, when no one at the shelter or even Shiloh at the bookstore really reacts to me saying I got a different job and am moving, I remember that it doesn’t matter what happens.
Sure, they say, Oh, exciting, good luck, but I know that doesn’t really mean anything.
They don’t ask what my new job is because they didn’t know what my old one was.
I might be dumb, but I’m not delusional. No one is interested in me.
Except, for some reason, Andre Black.
It’s after ten by the time I get back to my apartment. Shit. I have to change. And pack. I know that Andre said someone would pack my things, but I don’t love that idea. Some stuff is private.
I dig out my personal documents that I don’t need anyone looking at too closely. I mean, they’re good. The best that money can buy, and I spent everything on them five years ago. But still. I’m paranoid.
Everything goes in my backpack, along with my slow, glitchy laptop.
Next, the toys. I really don’t want anyone seeing those.
I also don’t want them rolling around loose, so I stuff my other toys into the black box with the plugs and shove the whole thing, along with its purple ribbons, into my backpack.
It doesn’t fit well. It’s obvious there’s a box in there, but no one will know what’s inside the box, and that’s what matters.
I change into my best jeans and newest t-shirt. I’m still putting on my socks when a knock at the door makes me jump. I cram my feet into my pre-laced shoes and snag my backpack.
Andre said “someone” would pick me up, so at least I know it’s not him in the hallway. I’ve been too busy to mentally prepare myself, but I should have at least 45 minutes before we reach downtown. Hopefully by then I’ll have figured out how to not sound like an idiot.
I open the door. “Uh …”
Andre’s lips quirk. “I told you I would pick you up at eleven.”
I snap my mouth shut then say, “You said someone would pick me up.”
He shrugs. “I’m someone.”
His hands slide into his pants pockets, parting his steel-gray jacket over his vest, revealing a silver watchchain. I heft my backpack in front of myself as though it can shield me from comparison.
His eyes fall to the obvious outline of the box. His lips quirk again. “Interesting.”
I sling the backpack over my shoulder because it’s only making things worse. “I just had some things I wanted to bring.”
His eyebrows pinch together. “Just that? Don’t you want to bring anything else?”
“I mean … I guess I need my clothes and sheets and stuff.”
“Everything you need will be provided, but anything you want, anything you care about, you should bring.”
“Just my clothes then.”
Andre frowns. “Are you sure?”
I can’t tell him this, of course, but this isn’t the first time I’ve left everything behind, so I just shrug and say, “Yeah.”
“What a mystery you are,” he mutters.
I don’t want him thinking that, so I say hurriedly, “It’s just thrift store junk. I can get stuff like that again if I need to.”
That alerts him. “If you need to?”
“If this doesn’t work out.”
Anger flashes through his light blue eyes. I brace myself, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared. Whatever he was thinking, he doesn’t share. He just says, “Okay. I’ll tell them.”
He snags his phone from his pocket and types. When he stows it, he asks, “Ready?”
“Are you … are you sure about this? About … me?”
He smiles slightly in a way that makes me shiver and says, “Oh, yes.”
* * *
“Jesus,” I mutter when I see the black Jag.
Andre opens the door for me. There’s no smirk or swagger.
He’s so used to money that it doesn’t mean much to him.
People like that can be very dangerous. As I settle in the passenger seat and watch him walk around the front of the car, I wonder if he can be very dangerous.
Sometimes it feels like it, but I’m never sure what I’m mixing in from my fantasies.
I’ve overlaid him with … the other. I’ve imagined Andre Black fucking me in the bodega, in my apartment, in the woods.
Maybe that means I shouldn’t be taking this job, but the truth is, that’s why I’m taking this job.
After being chased that night, fucked like that, I can’t go back to my dull, safe life.
I need more.
I don’t know what exactly I’m getting myself into with this new job, but I can tell that it’s something. And it’s money. As much as I hate money, it does help. It’s what bought me my fantasy in the first place. And with this job …
I don’t let the thought fully form, but it’s there in the back of my mind.
None of that means I’m not nervous as hell about this job.
The beautiful man I now work for gets in and starts the car. It has paddle shifters, and he works the gears smoothly as we pull into traffic.
“I thought this would give us a chance to talk before we get to The Axis,” he tells me. “The hotel can be overwhelming.”
He says that as though he’s not overwhelming. I feel compelled to say, “I just don’t feel qualified, Mr. Black.”
“Andre,” he corrects.
He waits expectantly until I echo softly, “Andre.”
He breathes in like he’s pleased, then he says, “I know you’re very hung up on this, but you need to let it go. You don’t need to understand why I chose you. You only need to trust that I know what I’m looking for, and it’s you.”
I swallow hard. “Okay.”
Over the next half hour, Andre gives me an overview of his role at the hotel and what that means for me as his PA.
My job will be reading reports and messages to pull out the key points.
I’ll be keeping his schedule organized and making appointments.
That’s going to mean making phone calls, which turns my stomach a bit, but I try not to let that fact show.
I will also, apparently, help with his wardrobe.
I snort at that. “I don’t think you need any help with your wardrobe.”
“There are some things I need and some things I want, and you, Elias Rose, do not need to know which is which.”
For some reason, that sends heat into both my face and groin. Oh god. A hard-on is the last thing I need right now.
He goes on, “Today, however, we’ll be working on your wardrobe.”
That cools my blood. “Oh. Um … how does that work? I can’t possibly buy—”
“You won’t be buying anything. You’re working for me in a role that requires a certain look. My part is to pay for that. Your part is to accept it. That’s going to include a haircut.”
I’m quite abruptly overwhelmed. I’m not used to talking this much, and there are too many things to think about, too many new pieces. I manage to mutter, “Okay,” but that’s all I’ve got.
I half expect Andre to realize that I can’t handle this, pull over, and kick me out, but he allows me the silence I need instead.
I glance at him a couple times to make sure he doesn’t look angry. Once, he catches me. I cringe inwardly at being caught, but he gives a slight smile that says everything’s okay.
He’s so strange. He’s intense and a little scary, but sometimes I feel like he’s … almost taking care of me.
I know that’s ridiculous. It makes me feel pathetic because, maybe, a little bit, I want that.
He drives us through the crush of Midtown and into Lower Manhattan. I don’t know this area well enough to know how close we are to The Axis until suddenly we’re pulling into an underground garage. My heart skips. We’re here.
This can’t be the main entrance because it wasn’t marked and there’s no traffic. We drive only a short distance to a private parking area. Andre pulls the Jag into a spot between an Aston Martin and an Escalade.
I grab my backpack and follow Andre to an elevator. I watch him punch in a code, then we get inside. As the doors close, he asks, “Did you see the code I put in?”
I angle my head down and away. Shit, he caught me.
“Elias. What’s the code?”
I could lie. I probably should. But I admit, “1-4-7-8.”
He chuckles. “Very good. Next time, though, just answer me.”
“Oh. I-I thought you’d be mad.”
“Why would I be mad? This is exactly why I chose you. You pay attention. And if I hadn’t wanted you to see the code, I would’ve blocked your view.”
I take a deep breath, relaxing a little. “Okay,” I say, then, “Oh my god,” as the doors open onto a huge, luxurious office.
Andre leads the way out. I follow, but his long strides leave me behind as he walks toward the sleek, multi-surface desk near the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I’m slow, looking around at the beautiful leather furniture and crowded bookcases.
Above, glass tubes twist and twine to form a modern chandelier.
A wall of mirrors reflects it all, seeming to double the space.
At the sound of a desk drawer, I look at Andre and find him watching me.
He summons me with a casual but commanding gesture.
As I approach his desk, I notice that it’s actually two desks.
The second is set perpendicular to the first, forming an L that juts out into the room.
The workspace has its own chair and computer.
But it’s the chair waiting in front of the main desk that Andre points to.
I set my backpack on the floor and perch on the edge of the chair seat.
Andre slides a piece of paper and a pen my way.
I brace myself for a background check or at least a W-9, but it’s just a direct deposit form.
I relax a little. The less paperwork there is, the less likely that I’ll have to cut and run.
It doesn’t make much sense, though, at a place like this.
Maybe this is a trial period. Maybe I’m not an official employee.
When I slide the form back toward Andre, he holds out a debit card and says, “Your starting bonus.”
I stare at it. There’s no name on the front. It’s a prepaid card. “But … I haven’t done anything yet.”
“Yes, you have. You gave up your existing job and apartment. You took a risk, and this is my thank-you.”
Given the salary he said he would pay and the fact that I will, apparently, have an apartment here, even a week of this job would pay back my risk. But Andre just keeps holding out the card.
As I take it, I mutter, “I would’ve settled for a fifty-dollar gift certificate for a haircut.”
“I already told you that your needs would be covered, and that’s 10K.”
“Jesus!” I drop the card like it’s on fire. It clatters to the desk. I gape at Andre, but he’s busy putting my banking form in a drawer.
“We’re doing the haircut first,” he informs me, shutting the drawer, “then clothes. Put that card away.”
I scramble it off the desk and bend down, fumbling it into my backpack.
Andre gets up from his chair and tells me, “Leave that here. No one will bother it.”
I pop up from my chair and follow him back to the elevator.
We descend to the ground floor, where the doors open onto a small foyer marked “Private” then out into a spectacular, high-ceilinged lobby with a marble fountain.
I glimpse the elegant front desk and a number of well-dressed guests, but Andre leads me away from all that and down a wide corridor to the double doors of what is clearly a spa.
I take in what I can from my lowered gaze. I am excruciatingly out of place and, for the second time this morning, abruptly overwhelmed. I feel myself locking in, withdrawing from the environment—until Andre’s hand settles on my lower back.
I startle and look up. Andre glances at me as he guides me into a salon, empty except for a blonde woman waiting for us. Andre doesn’t smile or say anything, but his solid, confident presence reassures me more than a smile would anyway.
I’m surprised that he stays. He surely must have better things to do, but through the whole wash, cut, and style process, he sits in a nearby chair.
I knew my hairstyle wasn’t very good. I’ve been trimming my hair myself for years, and the style just kind of evolved into a comfortable shaggy mess. But I didn’t realize just how bad it was until I’m looking in the mirror at a completely different person.
It’s startling to see my whole face exposed. My dark hair is styled up and back in a subtle coif then faded out to show my ears and jaw and neck.
I hear a deeply indrawn breath. My eyes flick to Andre in the mirror as he gets up and approaches.
The stylist backs away as he comes to stand behind me.
He towers over me in the chair. His eyes are locked on my reflection.
I watch in the mirror as his hand lifts, but I still startle when his fingers lightly brush my jaw.
He speaks softly, almost to himself. “That’s what I thought.”