He glances down at me. “Depends. How much do you hate this?”
“I love it. My forearms are going to be so toned after I’m finished.”
He smiles slightly. “Then once a week. I want your forearms looking perfect.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Besides, you’re a painter, right?”
I nod a little, scrubbing away. “I wonder if my new strong arms are going to affect my technique.”
“I’m sure you’ll adapt.”
“I don’t know. I could be ruining my art for this.”
“I’m sure it’s a huge loss for the world.”
I glare at him. “It really is.”
He grins, cocks his head. “If I ordered you to paint me a picture of this bucket, would you do it?”
“Of course.”
“You’d sell your art out like that?”
I sigh, scrubbing away. “It’s not selling out, and plus, artists have been selling their art to patrons for thousands of years. There’s nothing wrong with making money and art at the same time.”
He nods a little, smile still on his lips. “I agree. All of art history is essentially one long bill of sales.”
“Without money, there’d be no Sistine Chapel. Most of our great works were bought and paid for.”
“Can you be bought and paid for, Hazel?” he asks softly as I get close to his desk.
I look up at him and realize that I’m practically kneeling right at his lap. I look away, blushing. “Probably,” I admit.
“Do you think I have enough?” His words are soft, almost whispered.
“Probably,” I admit again.
He laughs and swivels away from me.
“Get back to work, Hazel.”
I glare at him, but I do what he says. I dip and scrub, dip and scrub, until finally the whole rug is finished.
It took me about an hour. When I’m done, my knees and arms are exhausted. I take off the gloves and get to my feet.
“Finished,” I say.
He glances in my direction like he forgot I was here.
“Not yet,” he says, and stands up. He leaves the room for a second, coming back with another bucket, another set of gloves, and a rag.
“I just did that,” I say.
He stops and cocks his head. “Are you complaining?”
“No, I mean, I’m just saying—”
“Listen to me, Hazel. I won’t tell you to do something unless it’s necessary. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, pushing back my anger and frustration.
“To clean the rug fully, you have to wipe away the excess dirt and vinegar with warm water and a damp rag. This should be easier.” He hands me the bucket and the rag. “Get to work.”
I nod and do what he says. I drop back down and start to scrub.
I’m wet and tired, but I finish the carpet in half the time. I don’t try to talk to him and he doesn’t bother talking to me. He’s engrossed in something on his computer screen, typing every once in a while, but mostly just reading.
I stand up and stretch. My back hurts and my arms are tired. I drop the rag into the bucket.
“Now I’m finished,” I say.
He glances over at me. “Good. Open the windows and leave.”
I hesitate before doing as he asks. A cool fall breeze blows into the room, helping the carpets to dry.
I go to take the buckets but he waves me off. “Leave them. I’ll take care of those.”
I nod once and turn to go.
Before I can leave the room, though, he says my name. A chill runs down my spine. I love the sound of my name on his lips, and that instantly starts to worry me.
I turn back toward him. “Yes, sir.”
“You did well today,” he says, looking at me. “But I won’t always be so easy on you.”
“I look forward to the challenge, sir,” I say, smiling a little.
That makes him grin. “Good. Go home for the day. Tell Rogers I dismissed you.”
I nod, grateful. It’s around two in the afternoon, and I can’t wait to start painting.
I’ve never felt so inspired before in my life. There’s something about being around this man that I find intoxicating, even when he’s silent and commanding me to clean his rug. There’s something erotic and exciting about it. I want to crawl around on the floor for him, let him stare at my ass, let him do whatever he wants with me.
I turn away quickly before I can do something stupid. Before he can see the blush on my cheeks.
I hurry away, wondering how I’m going to resist my new boss, or if I even want to.4MasonI’m running as hard as I can, my chest burning, my legs screaming in protest, but it’s not fast enough.
Up ahead, the plane keeps accelerating. I know they can see me, at least in the dream-logic of this world. I know they could slow down and let me get on the plane.
But they won’t slow down. They’re going to fly off to their deaths and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.