I was set up. I’d had enough of the braid and his contrived, dim-witted jibes. But he kept talking and I’d started walking. He trailed me for a half an hour, all the while gabbing like a drunken hobo asking for change. It was only after that half an hour that he stretched and said in an annoying, easygoing fashion, “Hey, Heero, that was nice, wasn’t it? Now, it’s time to bring you back. I’ve stalled long enough for them to put your digs together.”
The “digs” he was referring to was really an apartment within this “mansion”, an apartment consisting of a bedroom, a bath (with a hot tub built into the center); a study, and an entertainment room…a ritzy apartment that conveniently lacked a kitchen. They would wile me into complacency. And, they would starve me into being social.
I shrug. What the hell. I notice that some towels have been laid out on the king-sized bed. I begin to strip. There’s something in one of my jean’s pockets. It’s the blonde’s cell phone. I’d forgotten that I’d still had it. I toss it onto the bed but I over-shoot. It lands near the edge, hangs perilously, and then falls to the carpeted floor on the other side of the bed. I snort. I grab two towels and hit the shower, partly to wash the grime of the fire off me but also because the blonde’s wheeling and dealing has made me feel defiled. While it’s an interesting feeling, it’s not something I want lingering.
After a long shower, most of which I’d stood mindless and motionless, I come out with a towel wrapped around my waist. In my right hand is the second towel, which I’m using to rub the excess water from my hair. Water’s getting into my ears and I’m annoyed. My mouth curves into a frown and then it goes slack as I realize I’m not alone in the bedroom. There’s another man there. From the looks of him, he’s Chinese. He’s wearing horn-rimmed glasses and carrying a clipboard. Instinctively, my body stiffens, and three things cross my mind: How the hell did he get in here, why is he here, and why is he looking at me with such a smug expression?
“So, I see he’s brought home another stray,” says the man with the clipboard. That accent, he’s definitely Chinese.
His gaze runs over me for a moment before he asks, “Omae, tte dare?”
Automatically, I respond, “Yuy Heero.” I frown at my blunder.
At this the Chinese man smirks. “I _thought_ I saw some Japanese in you.” He snorts, “So, Winner is going for the exotic type.”
“Exotic?” I snort back. He’s the one with a big, shiny forehead. Who’s the oddity?
“Yes, half-breeds are all the rage today. Or, so I hear,” he replies condescendingly.
Despite myself, I feel my face growing hot.
“Ahh, and you’re bashful, too. Yuy-san, you are indeed full of surprises.” He looks down at the clipboard before returning his gaze to me. “I suppose this can’t be helped. Let me introduce myself. I’m Chang Wufei and for the next few minutes I hold your life in my very hands.”
I look back at him as if he’s a mosquito that’s about to get squashed. I watch as he checks off something on his clipboard.
“Hmmm, Winner was right about the intense looks.” He looks up for a moment. “Please follow me into the adjoining sitting area. I would like to discuss the issue of finances with you.”
I’m seated in the suite’s study. Mr. Forehead is at my right and I have to turn my head to look at him. He’s smart. He’s got me cornered. I’m stuck wearing a towel with no means of leaving. There is no clothing in any of the closets in this suite and somehow my own clothes disappeared while I was in the shower.
“I would ask you to bring your legs together,” says Mr. Forehead, “but there’s no need for embarrassment, I have what you have…just larger.”
So, I’m flashing him. He’s going to have to deal with it unless he’s planning to provide a bigger towel. I pause. There’s no way he can see anything from where he’s sitting.
He snorts at my change in expression. “I was just attempting to get your attention. Now, to the matter at hand. I’m here to discuss your salary.”
“Salary?”
“Yes,” he says while taking off his glasses and folding them. He places them on the side table separating us. “Winner informed me that you will be temporarily employed as his personal assistant. With employment comes compensation, unless you prefer to relegate your status to that of slaveboy.”
I stare back at him. I see traces of a smile, but it’s patronizing. I finally respond, “If this is a matter of salary, why am I discussing this with you?”
“And not with Winner?” he snorts. “Well, for two reasons; one, I handle all his financial matters and, two, I was curious about the person who inspired him to disregard my advice to scrap that decrepit building.”
“What building?”
“Your former place of employment.”
“I stopped him?”
“Yes,” says Mr. Forehead while looking particularly bored. “Your voice. It’s putting me to sleep.” He ruffles through the sheets on his clipboard. “Your savings account. How much is in it?”
I pause for a moment before saying, “I’m sure you’ve already sniffed around.”
“$10,000,” he responds, “in three years. With the pittance you received and your expenses considered, that is quite a feat.” He looks up. “I’ll make this quick. Your weekly salary will be a third of whatever is in your savings account at that time. If you continue to be as frugal as you are now, think of the fortune you can accrue just by being Winner’s ‘assistant’ for a couple of months.”
He’s smirking. And, for the first time during this conversation, I’m feeling uneasy. Assistant. I don’t like the way he pursed his lips after saying it.
I’m sitting on the bed. Mr. Forehead left about 40 minutes ago and I’m pondering my options. I have none, at least nothing proactive. I’ll go to bed. I stand up and begin to pull back the sheets, but I’m interrupted. There’s a knock at the door. So, someone in this place is actually moved by decorum.
“Come in,” I say, but it sounds like a dare rather than an offhand instruction.
There is silence before I hear a voice respond, “I can’t grasp the doorknob.”
I raise an eyebrow. It’s the blonde and I’m damn sure his left arm should be working. Curiosity wins out and I head for the door.
After opening it, I see the reason for the hesitant quality to his voice. His right arm is in a cast, from his elbow to his knuckles. No possible grasping mobility there. And, in his left hand, he’s holding a small folded stack of clothing. As he walks past me into the room, I realize it’s my clothing he’s holding. I back away from the door. He faces me, looking pretty bright and happy for someone who has a broken forearm.
“It’s just the ulna that’s fractured. I’ll be able to have the cast removed in 4 weeks, possibly 3 if something miraculous happens.”
He still has my clothes and doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to hand them over.
He’s still prattling on.
“I came by earlier, but you were in the shower. I figured you could use some clean clothes to change into.” His gaze is fixed on my face. “I was surprised,” he continues. “I pictured you as the briefs type, but you don’t wear underwear.”
“I do wear underwear,” I respond warily.
He looks thoughtful for a moment. “Hmmm, I must have misplaced it.”
Stalker. Klepto. And, now, billionaire turned inept maid. But I have a sneaking suspicion he’s being less than honest. He probably has a used underwear fetish and has added mine to his collection.
I don’t know if it’s by more bizarre happenstance or by some divine being’s peculiar sense of humor, but my towel suddenly falls from my waist. It hits the floor with a plop. I’m feeling drafty.
My lower lip drops. My mouth is hanging slightly open. The blonde approaches me and hands me my clothing. I take it from him. But he doesn’t take my acceptance as a cue for him to leave. Instead, he bends down. For a brief moment, I’m aware that his head is on the same level as my crotch. His hair brushes the outside of my right thigh as he retrieves the fallen towel. He stands up looking even more amiable than before.
He comments, “It’s remarkable how, despite how many toiletries people use, they never totally succeed in washing off or cloaking their natural scent.” The curve of his lips hints at intimacy that is entirely unwanted and unwarranted.
I stiffen as he murmurs almost to himself, “On your smoky clothes and even on this towel I can catch the same whiff.”
Smiling, he says with his voice at its regular volume, “Dinner’s at 6. After which we can discuss your responsibilities in great detail.”
He walks out…with my towel sitting on his left shoulder.
Creepy freak.