Chapter Six
Seraphine
I am a nervous wreck for days. Being at work is as nerve-racking as being home at this point. No matter where I am, I feel like I’m in trouble. Like someone is going to yell at me and kick me out or fire me—do something to make my entire situation worse.
When I’m home, Dad is a ticking time bomb looking for things to yell at me about. It’s his life’s mission to make me feel small and useless, and it’s working. My confidence was never all that great, but whatever I had built up over the years, he’s chiseling away without issue.
When I’m at work, I wait for Clara to come in and fire me for indecency.
Happy endings are not something offered by this high-end salon, and if she finds out what happened, not only would she fire me, but she’d probably press charges and sue me and who knows what else.
Pretty sure Clara’s full name is Clara “drama queen” St. Pierre.
She’s horrid, and not someone you want to piss off.
I can’t tell which place I hate more. I need them both and hate them both. Running away is looking pretty damn good. Only I’m pretty sure my car wouldn’t make it more than ten miles down the road without overheating. I’m so screwed.
“What is up with you?” Justine asks, dropping her lunch bag onto the table. “You’ve been weird all day.”
“Just… tired.”
“Right. Tired. Yeah, I get that.” Sarcasm drips from her voice. She doesn’t believe me and that’s fine. I really am tired though. Hidden underneath all this stress and worry, tired is there.
“I’m not in the mood today, Justine,” I say, stabbing a cucumber with my fork.
She raises her hands in the air, palms out. “Sorry.”
We eat our lunch in silence, which isn’t common. Usually we make small talk about our lives, but I’m afraid if I talk about anything, I’ll blurt out what I did. It’s right there, on the tip of my tongue. I so badly want to get this off my chest, but I can’t.
Justine is cool, but she’s not that cool.
In fact, I don’t know anyone who would be okay with what I did.
I’m sure there are people out there who would be, but I don’t know any of them.
I haven’t been lucky enough to find a friend like that.
I’m not even sure Gia would be okay with this, and that girl has done some weird stuff.
When our lunch break is over, we toss our trash into the bin, and I wipe down the table while Justine goes into the room to get her bed set up.
We both have single appointments right after lunch.
Usually we schedule a couple’s after lunch, but it didn’t work out that way today.
Fine by me; I could use more silence. You know, so I can get sucked deeper into my head, worrying about what I did and making myself feel worse about it. That’s exactly what I need.
Before heading into my room to make sure everything is all set for my client, I flip the sign on the door and unlock it, doing a check to make sure the sitting area is tidy.
When I get into the massage room, I fix the sheets on the bed, turn on the table warmer and fill up the pump with oil.
I check the volume of the music and make sure the CD is playing from the beginning, so it doesn’t cut off mid-massage.
That happened to me once and it was awkward as hell, so now I obsessively check it.
My client is on time, and I get her situated in the room before leaving her to get comfortable and onto the bed. I wash my hands, making sure to use warm water so they warm up for her, then knock on the door. When she calls out to come in, I do, and get started on the massage.
It’s a basic massage, no issues, and when I’m finished, I thank her and let her know to take her time getting up. It’s always what I say when leaving because clients have passed out from getting up too quickly after a massage. When I step into the main room, Justine is behind the desk.
“Did your client cancel?” I ask. It really sucks when they do that because we lose out on money since we get paid a portion of what they pay.
“No, it was just a thirty-minute.”
I grab the tablet to prepare my client’s payment.
Clients don’t always pay us directly. If their massage is part of a spa package, then it’s taken care of at the front desk when they come in for the day.
But if they’re only here for a massage, then we take payment when it’s done.
Clara has someone handle the scheduling, and there’s always a note on who has a package or who is only getting a massage, so it’s important to pay attention so we don’t lose money.
Aside from massages, the spa offers many services. Mani/Pedis, facials, and waxing, to name a few. As a massage therapist, I only work in this section of the spa and hardly ever deal with anyone outside of here, not even the other employees, since we’re tucked away in the back.
I’ve just pulled up her name when the door behind me opens, and I turn to smile at her as she walks out.
“How are you feeling?”
“Wonderful,” she says with a tired smile. “That was an amazing massage.”
“She is fantastic with her hands, isn’t she?”
The voice has me freezing, my fingers gripping the tablet. Swallowing hard, I turn back to face the front and realize somehow in the few seconds I greeted my client, Elliot Caldwell walked into the room, looking sexier than ever in a three-piece navy blue suit.
“She sure is,” my client agrees, moving beside Mr. Caldwell as if he’s just another person and not Elliot Freaking Caldwell. “I won’t go anywhere else since I’ve found her.”
I shake out of my shock by reminding myself not to be rude. “Thank you. That’s very sweet.”
She hands me her credit card and I take it with trembling fingers to swipe through the machine. I hand the machine to her so she can sign with her finger and add a tip if she chooses.
Handing her card back, from the corner of my eye, I catch both Justine and Mr. Caldwell watching me. Justine has a strange look on her face while Mr. Caldwell looks almost indifferent.
“Have a great day. I’ll see you next time,” I say to her.
“Have a lovely day, Sera,” Greta says before leaving the room.
I stare after her, wondering if Clara is going to walk in next, or maybe the cops. When that doesn’t happen, I bring my gaze to Mr. Caldwell, still noting the way Justine is staring at me from the chair on my left.
She has no idea what happened, or that my house call was to him. I’m not sure if she even knows who he is by looks. By name? Maybe. It’s common enough, but not something everyone would know. He isn’t the mayor. Hell, plenty of people don’t even know who he is.
“Could I have a moment of your time, Miss Sinclair?” he finally says.
Something about the slight rasp of his voice reminds me of the groans he made while coming. My stomach gets all warm and I wince, hating the way this man makes me feel.
He’s my ex-boyfriend’s father, for crying out loud!
“I already had my break for the day…”
“I’m sure Clara won’t mind,” he says with a tight smile.
“You should go with him,” Justine says slowly. “Your next client isn’t coming in for another twenty minutes.”
I turn my gaze on her, scowling. She rolls her lips between her teeth to stop from smiling.
I see what she’s doing. A handsome man walks in, and she thinks I should spend time with him to get over my ex?
Well, she wouldn’t feel the same way if she knew who he was.
Who, as in Harrison’s father and a client I gave a hand job to.
If she knew who he was, as in the CEO of Caldwell Enterprises, she’d no doubt push even harder.
“I don’t know…”
“I assure you, it’ll only be a moment,” Mr. Caldwell says.
“Fine,” I relent, having a feeling he won’t give up until I give in. “We can talk in the break room.”
“Sure.”
He follows me into the small room, and I shut the door before moving to the table but not sitting.
“Are you going to take a seat?” he asks.
“No, thank you.” I put my hands on the back of the chair to hold myself up.
I should sit, but I feel more vulnerable that way.
With the way he’s dressed in a thousand-dollar suit and looking all handsome and rich and powerful, and here I am in leggings and a t-shirt with messy hair and oily fingers, I can’t help but feel less-than.
“I’ll cut to the chase, Miss Sinclair. I’d like you to come work for me.”
I choke on my own saliva at those words, and it takes a moment for me to gain some composure.
“I’m sorry. Work for you?”
“That’s right.”
“Why? Doing what?”
“I’m in need of a personal assistant.”
“Personal assistant? I’m a massage therapist.” I gesture toward the reception area.
“And as my personal assistant, you would use those skills. Preferably weekly. Twice a week perhaps. Maybe more.”
There goes my stomach, getting all warm and gooey again.
Just the thought of having my hands on him gets me all crazy.
It doesn’t matter that I went home that night and took care of myself.
I woke up the next day, needing more. I’ve never touched myself so much in my life.
That whole situation, as horrible as it was, was the most erotic thing that’s ever happened to me. And I can’t stop thinking about it.
But I need to because it’s wrong. Working for this man can’t happen. It’s a disaster waiting to happen. I still don’t know why that happened at all. Blackmail is still at the top of the list.
I shake my head. “I can’t work for you.”
No matter how badly I want to.
“You can, and you will.”
My jaw drops as I stare at him. He’s so nonchalant about this as if it’s already set in stone.
“Why are you doing this?” I finally ask. “Why do you want me to work for you?”
“A father should mend the wrongdoings of their sons, don’t you think?”
My brows shoot to my hairline, and a strange sound leaves my throat.
A what should do what? Is he insane?
“I’m sorry?”
He takes a step toward me, running a hand through his hair before saying, “My son told me what happened—”
So, I was right then. This is blackmail…