Chapter 3 #4
“I…” she starts, pointing at her chest, then stops, shaking her head.
“It is stupid. Please accept my apologies. It will not happen again.” She blinks several times.
Will she cry if I push her further? Assessing human capacity is a skill I have developed over time, first by my father and then sharpened by experience.
People believe they can hide behind words, but there is not much they can conceal from me once their bodies begin speaking for them.
“Sit,” I say aloud. I move toward the pair of armchairs facing each other by the chess table.
When I have no one to play, I play myself, imagining what a ruthless opponent might do and outmaneuvering him before he can touch my king.
Nate says this is the inevitable collateral damage of my loneliness.
Her small body follows me, and the air in the room seems to shift with her, carrying the faint scent of lavender and soap.
I motion for her to sit and wait until she obeys before lowering myself opposite her, elbows on my thighs, leaning toward the prey fidgeting before me.
Ella.
“Have you ever played chess, Ella?” I sign her name with each letter, wondering what sign I could create to call her.
A unique one. Her brown eyes follow my hands with startled attention.
Legs crossed at the ankles, a strand of dark hair falls against her cheek, brushing the corner of her mouth and irritating me beyond reason.
How would it feel between my fingers? She shakes her head, and her legs cross more tightly at the sight of her name speld with my fingers.
“I do not know the rules,” she signs. I bite the inside of my cheek.
“It is simple,” I say. “A game of give and take until one player decides the game should end.”
“My father once told me it was more about strategy than a simple game,” she signs.
“So you do know chess.”
“Only what he told me. Like I said, I have never played. Games have never been my thing.” I lean back, unexpectedly appreciative of the back and forth.
There is a white bandage on her hand, the cloth reminding me of last night, when I held her wrist and looked into those mysterious eyes, a sea made of storm and unknown waters.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, looking at her hand.
“Much better. Thank you, by the way, for yesterday.”
“I would have bandaged it myself if you had not run off.” My jaw flexes in irritation and I have the sudden urge to loosen my tie.
“It was not right of me to ask that of you. You seemed…like you had more important things to do.”
No, Ella.
Nothing was more important than helping you last night.
At that moment, the end of the world could have waited.
“Why didn’t you accept my chauffeur?” Her brows draw together slightly.
“Why did you offer me your chauffeur?”
“Safety concerns,” I sign.
“You do not know me.”
“It isn’t safe to be outside during the night.”
“The bus is perfectly safe.” I tilt my head to the side. Is she serious? The bus.
At night. Alone. My fist tightens against my thigh, the sudden need to hit something pulsing through my knuckles.
“Please do not tell me you have been coming here to work at night by bus.”
“How else would I…” She stops herself, as if realizing too late that she has given me another piece of information. “I came here for my bag, sir. Could I please…”
I let the subject drop outwardly, though my mind has already begun turning around the unpleasant and unsafe shape of her situation.
She cannot come here at night by bus, it’s way too dangerous.
I will arrange someone to pick her up and drive her home.
It is purely out of concern for an employee’s safety.
That is what good bosses do. Right. I accept her attempt to lead the conversation elsewhere now that the bus situation has been settled in my mind.
“Why were you looking at the picture?” I ask again. “You said it was for a stupid reason, and I would very much like to hear it.” She looks away at the endless skyscrapers, a shadow of sadness pressing on her shoulders.
“Please don’t fire me,” she signs, a wince crossing her delicate face.
“I don’t believe I ever mentioned firing you.” I frown, her distress unpleasant enough to make my blood sizzle in an unexpected way. She sighs and it sounds heavy, heavy like the weight of the world, or the silent desperation of someone who doesn’t have a plan B to fall back on.
“Your office felt cold and empty last night. I wondered who could ever feel at peace in such a place. When I was cleaning the shelves, I saw the frame and felt that it was your office, your eyes, they…” A knock at the door interrupts her signing, and my molars grind together.
I adjust my posture. I’d very much like to remove my jacket, but I’m afraid it would catch her attention and break the spell of her opening up.
“Hey, have you seen the last article on-” Nate pushes the door, then stops as he takes in the peculiar setting.
“Shit, sorry,” then shuts the door and disappears.
I’m going to hear about whatever he thinks he saw for the next decade.
Whatever article was published will have to wait.
I have a far more interesting endeavor right in front of me.
“My apologies for the interruption. Please continue,” I tell her, and a heavenly shade of pink paints the apples of her cheeks. I could exclusively sign, but my voice seems to have an effect on her. The tips of her fingers brush delicately over her forehead.
“I…I just meant that you looked like you were carrying the world on your shoulders.” My hands lie flat on my thighs, lips sealed, and I take a minute to appreciate her candor, her honesty in the face of someone obviously older and in a position of power over her.
Even then, she chooses the truth. Carrying the world on my shoulders.
Could she tell from a simple photograph and a few minutes in my office? Is it that obvious?
“So that’s why you picked up the frame? To look more closely at someone else’s hardship?”
“No.” She shakes her head, shaping the syllable silently, frowning, eyes locked on mine.
“It didn’t feel right, all that pressure on one man.
It…it made me want to comfort you,” she signs and silence meets us again, pressing against the walls from every angle until there is no air left to breathe.
In a rough motion, I loosen my tie and fold it into my fist. She jumps at the sound of fabric sliding quickly from my collar, her body a violin responding to my every movement.
“I have to admit, Ella,” I rasp, “your boldness is quite…refreshing.” My tone remains incisive and sharp, digging into her delicate nature as she meets my gaze hesitantly.
Abruptly, I stand and reach for my vault, the lock opening to reveal her bag in the middle of my hidden dark treasures.
I retrieve it and shut the vault again, the photograph concealing it once more.
Why I opened it in front of her, I do not know.
Nate is the only one who has ever seen me use it.
She remains seated, next to my chess set, and a part of me trusts her obedience to stay there unless told otherwise.
I come close to her, towering over her as she stills.
Handing her the bag, I hold it by the top handle, and her hand, without nail polish or manicure but with clean, short nails, reaches to take it back.
The ends of our fingers brush in the exchange, a fraction of a second where gasoline meets fire and burns every one of my senses to ash.
As if she could feel the damage she has just done to me, she clutches the bag against her chest. I step back, searching for clarity.
“When are you working again?” Words escape my mouth before I can stop them.
She frowns, taken off guard. “Tonight. If I still have a job.”
“You do,” I say aloud, then sign, “but you need another bag. This one is barely holding together.”
“I can’t afford one, and it works perfectly.”
“That is debatable.” I wait for her to ask to leave, but she is still here, still seated in my chair, in my office, arguing with me with that pillow-soft pink mouth I would very much like to taste.
“Your earphones have seen better days too.”
“Did you look inside my bag?” Her lips form a small oh of disapproval.
“You looked inside my office.”
“It’s not the same.” She closes her eyes tightly, inhaling and exhaling with deliberate control. Impressive. She must be accustomed to keeping her temper in check. I respect that.
“If that’s all, then I would like to go now, please.” Why is she asking for my permission when she could slam the door in my face for digging into her private life? A woman’s bag, my mother always said, is unforgivable to search.
Leaving me speechless, which is a rare occurrence, I watch her rise and shoot daggers at me with those pretty almond eyes. I would smirk if it did not portray me as a complete asshole, but instead, I simply watch her reach for the door, offering me one last glance over her shoulder.
What on earth was that?
She is no threat, that much is certain, but she is definitely…something else. I doubt that was our last encounter. Before she fled, I slipped a small addition into her bag when I opened the vault. Depending on her true nature, it will bring her back sooner rather than later.
And I must admit.
I am rather looking forward to it.
Ella
I close the door and welcome a rush of new oxygen. Tristan Ashford, CEO, says the plaque on his door. Shiny silver letters, already engraved into my brain with the certainty that they will never be erased. How on earth does this man know ASL?