Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Emily
He's doing it again.
I roll my eyes in irritation as I scrub his plates and cutlery, but only because I’m sure he can’t see my face.
I make certain to leave the spoons bowl down on the draining board this time, like he told me to.
He’ll get angry again if I don’t, and I don’t want to be yelled at about spoons ever again in my life. Spoons, for god's sake.
I walk out of the kitchenette and sit next to him on the sofa, drying my hands on an old tea towel with a huge hole at one edge.
He doesn't want me to waste money on a replacement when that money could be spent on vodka.
"Honestly," I grumble playfully, masking my disgust at what he's doing with my best approximation of a gently teasing smile.
He looks up at me, his eyes full of gleeful spite.
He's colouring in the edges of an underwear model's torso from one of his cheap magazines to give her a waistline more to his liking.
He's been doing this more and more lately.
He likes his women thin to the point of emaciation, hand span waists, but with large, perky breasts.
Very few women measure up to his exacting standards.
I certainly don't. "What?" He grins with feigned innocence, but there's a sharp edge to his voice; I need to tread very carefully, or that sharp edge will cut me once again, and I’m tired of crying myself to sleep.
"I'm improving her. If she went to the gym more, this is what she'd look like, the lazy bitch. "
I look at the model. She's stunning, with a lovely figure that no-one in their right minds would consider overweight or un-toned.
The electric blue lace underwear she models looks fabulous against her perfect golden tan.
She's in much better shape than me, which, though unspoken, is as clear as day.
He wasn't just calling the model a 'lazy bitch'.
I'm a normal, healthy UK size 12, but that's practically obese in his eyes.
He berates me every chance he gets for the food I eat and the fact that I don't live at the gym every evening, as he does. He loathes my cellulite, and my not completely flat belly has been blamed for him losing his hard-on more than once. I’ve looked at my body in the shower and cried so many times over the past few months.
I'm getting more and more annoyed by his misogyny and nasty comments about people’s weight, but I dread what would happen if I called him on it.
Acid insults, or the silent treatment. I just can't face it, cowardly though it may be.
It might be easier for me to go to the gym if he was more encouraging and less scathing.
..and if he cut out the incredulous jeering.
I can't believe you can't do this, he'll taunt as he pushes me to perform like an experienced athlete rather than the beginner I am.
It sets me up to fail every time, and I swear he delights in it.
I will never be good enough.
"She can't be more than a size 10," I say, speaking up in defence of this model on principle, but smiling gently to show I don't mean any real harm. I don't want to be yelled at again, but, although my inner fire has become barely glowing embers, it’s still there. Just.
What am I doing here, I think to myself. What’s the point anymore?
"Too. Fucking. Fat," he declares in his I'm-not-to-be-argued-with voice.
"She's an underwear model. That’s her motherfucking profession.
She should be half this size." He carries on shading with his biro.
"Her tits are pretty decent, but there's no excuse for her being this wide. It’s just unprofessional, not to mention gross.
" I look again at the photo, and he's colouring more and more.
And then I see her face.
Oh my god.
It's no longer the underwear model.
It's me. It's a photo of me in that underwear.
And he's coloured nearly all of me in with deep, scratching strokes of his black biro that tear the page of the magazine.
I jolt awake.
My heart is pounding hard and my throat feels like it's closing up. I know it isn't, but I quickly sit up and have a drink anyway to ease the feeling, managing not to choke.
I can feel a panic attack hovering at the edges, and I whimper in desperation.
The trembling, the nausea, the tingling chest, the tightness, the overwhelming need to cry.
..the feelings start to build. Please, no.
Not today. I have to be at work in...I check my mobile for the time with sweaty hands.
..three hours. First day. I must be on time. I can't be dealing with this now.
He's not here. He doesn't know where you live. You don't ever have to see him again.
Do some square breathing, I tell myself, and take a few slow, deep breaths.
Quick, think of a colour… I choose blue, and then I look around my room, counting how many blue things there are in here.
My jeans. The antique velvet chair I dumped them on.
The lid of my hand cream. Some of the stripes on my bed set.
I take a deep breath and do another grounding technique, noting everything I can hear. A couple of cars passing in the street below. The downstairs neighbour shutting a door. A seagull crying - I live among seagulls, this is so awesome - and, if I listen very hard, the distant sound of waves.
It's working. I'm no longer frantic.
Once my hands have almost stopped shaking, I reach for my Kindle and pick up the sci-fi romance I downloaded last night where I left off. I do love a good Ella Maven book. I have a little while before I need to get up and start the day, and reading always calms me. Distraction is key.
Butterflies of nerves start fluttering in my gut when I contemplate my first day at Wishbone Tattoos, and I wonder if this was really such a good idea.
What if I'm as hopeless as Gav always said I was, and I make a massive fool of myself?
Cock up a stock order, forget to write down an appointment, faint at the sight of one of the artists working, that kind of thing?
What if they get angry with me, too? The thought fills me with terror. If they shout at me, I’ll freeze, and I’ll go to pieces, and then...
I get a tight grip on myself. They seemed like good people.
Normal people, who don’t shout and swear because someone messes up a little.
I need to stop assuming that everyone is just going to act like Gav all the time.
Because no matter what he told me, the way he behaved was not normal or understandable.
He was the aberration, and what I went through was not acceptable. I left because I believe that now.
You need this job. You're not backing out. Just do it.
Eli
I have to admit, Sadie was right about this coffee maker.
When she told me how much Leo had let her take out of petty cash to buy it, I was shocked to my core. It's just a coffee machine, not a second hand car. But god damn, if this Americano doesn’t hit the spot.
I’m alone right now. It's usually me that opens the parlor up because I'm up and at 'em before anyone else.
I've never needed that much sleep, and I go to the gym or for a run early every morning before everywhere gets too crowded, so I might as well start work early.
I'm usually the last to go home in the evenings as well, but I don't mind. My life is pretty quiet for a man of thirty-five. I work a lot; bragging aside, my appointments are always booked out months in advance and my waiting list is long. I’m as introverted as it gets, and permanently single, so I'm not exactly missing out on a pulsating social life. And at least I know for damn sure that the store’s alarm is set properly.
Leo never remembers the code, and I got sick of having to come back out to fix it.
I'm just re-tying my hair back into a knot for the day when I hear the gentlest of taps on the glass of the front door.
I sigh a little. It’s amazing how many people can’t, or won’t, read signs on doors. “We’re closed,” I call firmly as I leave the kitchen and move towards the entrance, intending to bring their attention to our clearly stated opening hours, and then stop in my tracks.
She’s maybe late twenties or early thirties, and looks as nervous as a turkey on Thanksgiving, but her tentatively smiling face is one of the very loveliest I’ve ever seen. She’s in a green parka, and she’s holding a grocery bag from the supermarket across the street.
"Hi, I-I'm Emily," she calls through the glass, and her breath mists it slightly. "Your new receptionist? I'm sorry I'm so early." She squirms a little, and something inside me that I didn't even know was frozen melts into liquid.
"Right," I say, shaking my head to clear it, realizing I’ve been standing here staring at her.
"Sorry, I’ll just..." I unlock the door and open it for her.
It takes me a moment to realize that I'm standing in her way, because close up, damn, she's even more gorgeous.
She's all big gray eyes, snub little nose, and soft, plump pink lips that need, deserve, a thorough kissing.
Her hair is pale blonde, darker at the roots, and she's pulled it back into a neat ponytail.
I gulp a little and stand aside so she can come in.
I'm not saying I never appreciate a beautiful woman, but I don't normally react this strongly, this quickly. I don’t get stunned like this.
Any other time, I would smile and strike up a conversation, just for the pleasure of talking with someone this hot.
But, even if my life was different and I could realistically allow myself to start sweet talking her and getting to know her better in the hope of dating her, after all the shit I gave Leo yesterday about sleeping with employees, she's the one woman in town I could never approach anyway without being a giant asshole.