Chapter 17 Rebels
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
rebels
REY
I float through the office on my happy little cloud that’s all because of Robin (and partially because I adore this colourful place). The last two weeks have been dreamy. Since last weekend, we’ve texted throughout the day, every day, and he calls me at night. It’s been hot, but also very sweet.
“Don’t go,” he said after the third night. “Stay on the call.”
“But I have to go to sleep,” I answered.
“So sleep. I’ll just be here.”
So I did.
Almost every night.
And I can’t get enough. It’s addictive—Robin talking about his family and growing up as the big brother (he has three sisters!), Robin sharing memories of his best friend getting him into trouble in school, or even just the subtle sound of his breathing when I’m the one babbling away.
But I can’t decide whether my favourite is his voice when he says dirty things, when he groans, or when he orders me to do things like, ‘Come for me’.
So demanding. I’m loving it now. He’s direct. Except he’s skirting around his VVIP status, but I haven’t dared bring it up.
I’m also too busy imagining his hands are on me.
My body remembers every touch from the pitch-black experience at The Orion. Every kiss, every breath on my skin, and, most of all, his face down there. I’ve never fainted in my life, but I was damned close that night.
My clit is throbbing just thinking about it.
Shit, I can’t sit here, horny at my desk.
I get up to walk it off, but the sound of Horace’s voice makes me turn around.
He’s coming out of Mark’s office, and I accidentally meet Mark’s piercing gaze through the open door.
The gaze I’ve been avoiding since he moved down here.
And there’s a highly confusing moment when my clit’s practically on fire from fantasising about Robin, but I’m looking directly at the ridiculously handsome shape and sizzling eyes of my CEO. Someone I don’t even think I like.
Before I let the awkward moment drag out any longer, and before my brain has fully registered that Horace’s mouth moves somewhere in my side-vision, I swivel on my heel and charge down the room to the coffee machine. A gigantic cup of coffee should do the trick.
Footsteps sound behind me, and I’m sure it’s Horace coming to say whatever he tried to tell me before I literally ran away.
I turn around with a sheepish smile already forming on my face. “Sorry, Horace, I—”
It’s not Horace.
It’s Mark. With his mouth pressed together in a thin line.
Horace told me last week that Mark had questioned my role here, but the fact that I’m still here means Horace’s explanation must have been acceptable. The sight of Mark now makes me think otherwise.
“Rosemary.”
The sound of my full name gives me chills. He must have found it in the personnel files—no one calls me that. The sound of it on his lips is the deeper version of my mum’s judgemental tone, and I shrink.
Mark knits his brow at me, eyes searching my face. I do my best to appear strong.
“You have been inducted into this company, correct?”
The question catches me off guard. His deep, calm voice makes my stomach tingle, and I don’t understand why it doesn’t scare me shitless. It makes no sense.
Confusion makes it hard for me to keep my composure and form a response.
“Umm, sort of? I went through the content on my own.”
“Did Horace take you through Infinio’s style guide?”
I nod, a sinking feeling in my gut. Did I get Horace into trouble? I glance behind the broad frame of Mark and there’s Horace with a deep frown and arms crossed.
Is he angry with me?
“Horace is accountable for ensuring what we put out there is in line with the set Infinio style. You seem to think you are above the rules of your manager.”
“Is this about the prototype ideas?” I shuffle my feet and wrap my arms around myself. I messed up already.
“So you’re not denying it.” His eyes bore into me as if he’s trying to read my mind. Did he expect me to lie to him?
“No, it was just a discussion about a prototype. It wasn’t—I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
He presses his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose.
His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply.
Then he suddenly drops his hand and his eyes snap open, staring me down.
He cocks his head, a crease forming between his eyebrows as his gaze flits almost imperceptibly down and up again.
I wish I wasn’t wearing this loud yellow dress again now.
It’s become my ‘getting told off by Mark’ dress.
There’s a small audience forming on the edge of the creative corner. Is he going to yell at me like he did that development lead a few weeks ago?
My heart pounds hard against my ribs, waiting for it. What is he thinking?
He straightens, and his expression relaxes.
“Know your place, Rosemary.” His voice is quiet, but stern. “You are here to learn from Infinio. Do that.”
That’s it?
I expected him to have a go at me. Or at least ask why I shared my ideas.
I open my mouth to say exactly this, but Horace cuts in. “Sorry, Rey, I mustn’t have been clear enough.”
“The rules are clear, Horace,” Mark interjects, looking back at me again. “Some people simply don’t think this is important enough to consider. It’s just a job, right?”
He sends me one last glare, and I feel like a scolded child. He doesn’t know how deep that stare stings me.
With that, he walks away. That straight-backed walk. The tailored charcoal suit hugs his broad frame just right. The people who had gathered scatter like rodents from a cat. Only Horace is left next to me.
“Sorry,” I whisper, looking up at him. His frown is still on his face.
“Don’t be,” he says, his expression relaxing.
“You’re not mad at me?”
“At you? Absolutely not. I’m frustrated with … you know,” he says, jutting his chin towards Mark’s office. “He doesn’t think I’m strict enough with the team.”
“Oh.”
“Rey, I love your art. I was thinking we should try something new today.”
He’s smiling now.
“Horace Lin, what are you up to? Are you trying to get me fired?”
He laughs. “Not at all, but Mark has been in a better than normal mood lately, and I think if we can show him some outstanding examples, he might come around to the idea that Infinio could be more than what Damian created.”
Warmth spreads in my chest at the optimism in Horace’s voice. I study his face and how his eyes light up when he speaks. “You have a vision, don’t you?”
“Sort of. It’s not fully formed, but when I saw your portfolio, something clicked into place.” He indicates for me to follow him. “Those paintings you had, the gouache ones of the planet you’d invented, let’s make a few examples of those.”
My layered forests and landscapes.
“You mean traditionally, not digitally?”
“Traditional first, then scan to digital. It’ll keep the textures. Trust me, it’ll look fantastic when it’s based on something made with your skills.”
I grimace to myself but quickly morph it into a smile when Horace looks at me.
Although I’ve been illustrating lately and finding my creative self again, I’ve not painted yet. And the mix between watercolour and acrylic paint used for gouache is difficult. It dries fast, so I can’t hesitate. It’ll take some practice before I get it right.
We wander back to the corner, and Horace leans on my desk, craning his neck, looking through the cracks of my wall to Mark’s office.
“What do you want me to paint?”
“Continue with your idea,” he says, his voice low. “Do the magical forests and the desolate landscapes. Just whatever comes to you.”
“When do you need it by?”
He scratches his chin and shrugs. “Oh, there’s no rush. Good things take time. Just get all the stuff you need and get set up in the library nook. Is there enough light in there for you?”
“I’ll check.”
I look at him. His dark eyes wide open, his thin lips in a crooked smirk. He’s much braver than he seemed when shrinking away behind Mark the first time I saw him. Is he going to stand his ground when it’s needed?
“Is this going to get us in trouble?” I ask, not sure what I’ll do with the response if it’s ‘yes’.
“Oh, let’s just make sure we don’t get caught until we have something to show.” He grins, but it’s not reassuring. I don’t want to lose this job.
But do I want to draw Damian’s style or paint my own stuff? The answer is easy. The thought of painting—picturing myself setting up my canvases, and conjuring up an imaginary world—is the closest I’ve been to feeling whole since my painter-days.
“Okay.” I nod once, and he stands up.
“You’ll learn this, Rey: innovation and change take time to get right, but time won’t be given to us. We need to steal it. We have to be rebels to make change, or they—” He jerks his head towards the office behind my desk and the man inside it. “—will kill it before it’s even started.”
“You’re a badass, Horace,” I say, winking at him.
“No, I’m a man of faith, Rey. I believe that things that spark joy in your life are worth fighting for.”
He doesn’t know it, but these words go on repeat in my head the rest of the day and they don’t just inspire me to go (super sneakily) to get the painting equipment and set up in the nook as he instructed, but it also made me feel brave enough to stop worrying about Robin not wanting me because I’m not a VVIP like him.
Or because I don’t have it all figured out.
Robin brings me joy, and I bring him joy. I’m certain of it.
I’m ready to see him. To let him see me.