Elevator Love part 7
By Tralla

I awoke with a sneeze. It was like a blow to the head with a mallet. Still bleary 30 seconds later, I rub my nose and look to the right. There’s sunlight coming in through the windows. I’m being mocked from within. My stomach is grumbling. I push back the sheets. My mind’s already set. Shower, get dressed, get food.

Mission almost accomplished. I’ve found a kitchen and a reason to head back to my suite as I make it to the doorway.

I was beaten to my destination.

It’s the blonde. There’s something in his hand and he’s staring right at me.

“Muffin?” he says.

I stare back at him. He’s sitting at the kitchen table. I believe there’s a mug of coffee inches from his elbow. It smells like coffee and it’s steaming. He holds up the muffin in offering. He looks bright and happy. I hate him. I’m not a morning person.

I’m still staring as I ask, “Is there another kitchen on this floor?”

He nods before verbalizing. “Yes, I can take you there.”

I frown. That would defeat the point of relocating. I leave my spot in the doorway. He puts down the muffin on what looks like his plate. From what my cursory glance has told me, there were no crumbs there. His place is set, neat as though he was sitting there primly waiting for company. There’s a place opposite him that’s also set. I snort. For someone with a lame arm, he’s quite the homemaker. I head for the counter and the pitcher of orange juice on it. I grab a glass.

“Your clothes, they are a good fit, Heero. You’ve chosen well.”

I spill the juice. It hits my shirt, runs down my pant leg, and does a ‘splat’ on my shoe. I turn around. I hadn’t heard him move. But he’s just a foot away with a dish towel.

“I’m sorry,” he says while looking somewhat contrite. He also looks like he’s trying not to smile as he says, “I didn’t think you’d be the type who’s self-conscious in the morning.” He offers the towel. “Coffee? I just brewed some.”

I know I’m squinting at him. I’m that suspicious as I take the towel from him. I swab at myself. He putters off to pour my coffee. There is already a mug waiting by the pot.

I’m eating now, sitting in the place that was set opposite his. I’m alternating between biting into my toast and guzzling my coffee. It’s like I’m in the mob. I want out…of this kitchen. The blonde’s by the counter, leaning against it with his mug of coffee in his hand. His muffin sits untouched on his plate. I’m eyeing it as I bite into my toast. I want it. If he leaves, I’ll probably make a grab for it.

“Heero.”

A bit of toast gets lodged in my throat. I gulp my coffee.

“I’m ready to speak on the duties required of you in the coming weeks. It would be best if you came to my office when you’re through here. It’s on the 8th floor.”

Right. I’m a bloodhound and I’m going to sniff out his whereabouts. I haven’t forgotten the enormity of this place; I probably know 1/15th of it. I glance back at him before asking, “Where?”

He puts down his mug. “It’s the entire floor.” He smiles and does a short wave and walks out.

I reach over, take the muffin, and peel off the paper. It’s banana with chocolate chip.

My nose itches. I bring a hand up to it and my head jerks forward. I contain a sneeze and look up. It’s taken me six flights of stair climbing from my suite to get here. There are double doors twelve feet from the staircase. I push my way through and begin walking, prowling the blonde’s inner dominion ostensibly looking for his whereabouts but I’m really checking out what kind of ship he’s running.

I see a fountain, marble floors and four archways leading in different directions. For a brief second, I’m tempted to initiate a “Marco Polo” game, just to save myself from expending serious effort on searching. But I hear talking. It’s muffled but it’s the blonde. I start walking and turn into the third archway.

All doors are open and I see the various chambers and what they lead into: distinct inner sanctums that are seemingly all connected. My study, my bedroom, my entertainment room, the kitchen, the dining room etc are blown up to the 2nd power.

I snort as I keep walking.

Apparently, the blonde lives where he works, works where he sleeps, and eats where he isn’t wanted. As I look around, I’m all too aware that there was no need for him to be on my floor drinking coffee and offering muffins.

He’s still talking. But his prattling is more intelligible. I can see him. He’s standing and his lips are flapping.

“I’ve looked over the footage. It’s the best I’ve seen so far…No, I want to keep everything…Yes…but…no…Can you come over again tonight…You work better at night…I have everything set up already. I’m just waiting for you…Perfect, Trowa.”

He’s on the phone. He looks up. He sees me. He hangs up without excusing himself. Looks like spidey got slighted.

“Heero. Please, follow me.” He walks ahead. “I expected you sooner.” He stops and peeks at me from over his shoulder. “Was it a difficult decision?”

I look back at him. His eyes were on my clothing.

He finishes, “Choosing something liquid repellant?”

He thinks he’s a comedian. He turns around and resumes walking.

And I follow like a dog, on a short leash.

He points different things out, but my mind goes numb until I see something that causes me to walk into him from behind. I had turned my head. I was rubbernecking and he had stopped short.

He acknowledges my awe with a chuckle. I keep ogling the tech Mecca before me.

I know my mouth is hanging open.

Basically everything a computer junky would want, he has…in multiples.

He’s talking as we enter his office.

“I haven’t taken the time to explain the layout of this building. No doubt it appears strange, rather eccentric given the repetition of rooms, the electronically locked doors, and the presence of facilities that don’t correspond with what would likely be included in a home.”

He’s watching my face for a reaction.

“My home doesn’t appear to be a home, but a puzzle with pieces that don’t quite fit. I suppose a glimpse of the larger picture is necessary.”

I wonder if he’s trying to test my patience with trite metaphors.

“I host conventions here, Heero. There are suites like yours, mostly located on the 4th through 6th floors. They’re locked until they’re needed. And they’re locked when they are needed but not occupied by the guests, themselves, for privacy’s sake. And the same courtesy has now been extended to your own. The multiple kitchens and dining areas on each floor, the clinic, the gymnasium, etcetera are also for convention guests.”

Suspicious. He’s managed to explain everything that made me uneasy, without my asking.

His gaze is on his desk. “Do you have any questions? Perhaps, you would like a tour? I don’t think you’ve seen the main hall.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

He’s silent. And, the moment I get accustomed to it, he starts yapping again.

“I have someone I exchange letters with on a weekly basis.” He looks my way. “It would be painfully obvious that something is amiss if I attempt a letter with this hand.” He lifts his uninjured arm. It’s his left one. “And it would be many times worse if I do not respond with one at all.”

My mind travels back to the note I received two days before, the note inviting me to dinner, with my name, ornately inscribed on the envelope. He’s still looking my way. I stiffen as he says, “The dinner invitation.” He looks embarrassed, embarrassed enough to turn around, but instead he casts his gaze elsewhere. He laughs as he says, “I spent an hour on the envelope. Practicing, trying to get somewhere near my handwriting. I managed to write your name, but after that…even punctuation was tiring.” He turns back to me. “Duo was kind enough to write the note.” He takes in my expression. “And, yes, he was responsible for the stick figure version of you on the map.” He’s still reading me. “And, yes, he was the reason for my apron at dinner.” The blonde beams. “It was a gift. A funny reminder of how we met.” His eyes glaze over, like he’s lost in memories. But it looks like he’s just licked an Amazonian tree frog and is on some LSD kick.

He snaps out of it when I sneeze. I think back to the doctor and the spiel she gave me. One of the few people with no allergies, my ass. I’ve been sneezing since I awoke.

“Bless you,” he says. He looks startled, as though a pipe bomb had been set off just a few feet from him. But he’s back on track.

“The letters are my main concern. I’m due to have one delivered this coming Sunday morning.”

I snort to myself. He sounds eager to please. His prison pen pal must be the fastidious type.

He walks behind his desk and picks up a small stack of papers. “I would like you to create a font using my handwriting.”

He’s in front of me now. He hands me the papers. “Here are the samples.” He pauses for a moment. He hasn’t let go of his end of the papers. “I won’t require any set hours of you while you are here. There’s no reason for you to be tied to this office at all times. We can schedule appointments and discuss the nature and progress of your assignments.”

He tugs the papers a little. The other end is still held by my fingers.

“You’ll need a laptop, for convenience,” he says. “And, if you’d like free use of my office, only say the word.”

I look back at him. He’s smiling. The stack of papers goes taut between us. “I’m fine without it.”

“The laptop?”

“Your office,” I reply.

I’ve dropped off the papers in my suite.

I’m outside. My wallet is fat with the money I received the day before. I have the car keys to the Vanquish in my hand. I’m ready to drive out of this place and get that laptop and the hell away from here. I’d parked the Vanquish behind an archaic-looking gazebo, past some brush, and under some trees. I had hid my bounty, but,apparently not well.

The car’s missing. I hear feet treading over grass. I look to the willows.

I see Mr. Forehead walk out of the shadows. I wonder if he has fangs and a thirst for blood.

He approaches me and says, “I’m here to deliver these.” He lifts a hand and, like a magic trick, 5 white cards appear in a flourish. With that same hand, he reforms them into a small stack. He drops the cards into my shirt pocket before addressing me.

“One is to ensure your privacy. One is to reduce some of your limits on this estate. The last three tell you where you can purchase your work related paraphernalia without touching one red cent of your salary.”

My eyes are still on the compromised hiding spot. I look up when I hear a snort.

“I can guess what you’re looking for,” murmurs Mr. Forehead while looking particularly smug. “Just follow the rock music,” he comments while walking away.

I hadn’t noticed it before. But it was there, in the background. I walk. Each yard I traverse it’s louder. 3 minutes later I find myself outside of a garage and the cacophony finally begins to assemble into something discernable.

I hear it: aggressive electric guitar riffs; heavy, almost tribal drums; screaming that sounds like it’s coming from the bowels of hell; synth that sounds like a rabid gerbil is running spastically across the keys.

It’s industrial rock at its most raucous. And it’s leaking out of the garage. There’s a door. I turn the knob and use my foot to edge it open, and I pay for my curiosity. The walls are shaking, tools are rattling, and my head is quaking. I see the cause: a stereo system with speakers that rival my height and are 2 ½ times my width. I’m too close to them. My eardrums are seconds away from bursting. I reach for the outlet and unplug everything with one hard yank.

The music goes dead and I turn around when I hear wheels rolling over the garage floor. I see feet moving towards me from under the Vanquish. It’s elevated just a few feet off the ground by a jack. And it’s the braid who’s the owner of the approaching feet. He’s on a creeper, rolling out from under the car. Still horizontal, he pulls a rag from his pants pocket.

I walk towards him and the car. My ears are still ringing as I ask, “What are you doing?”

“Just checking out Trowa’s work,” he says while standing up and using the rag to wipe the grease off his hands. He throws the rag over his shoulder; it lands on the car, undoubtedly smearing it with the grime from his paws. He fields a wrench from just in front of the left rear tire and looks back at me. “I’ve been,” he uses his free hand to signal quotation marks, “‘prohibited’ from touching anything you drive. But I couldn’t help myself. Curiosity got the best of me.”

“You stole it.”

“Stole?” He chuckles. “_I_ didn’t steal anything from you. You’d have to own it for that to be the case.”

I’m not wasting any more words.

I’m about to turn and walk away when he says, “Hey.”

I look back at him.

“You’ve been here for what? Two days? And I’m taking orders because of you?”

I’d snort, but that would probably spur him to keep yammering.

“Are you listening?”

I was wrong. He doesn’t need encouragement, just someone trying to ignore him.

“What the hell are you so smug about?” He fumes for a moment. “What’s your angle?”

“My angle?”

“You’ve got something on him? Why is he punishing me for your ass-backward driving?”

The wrench is moving in his hand. A short snort escapes him.

He’s twirling the wrench like a baton. It looks heavy. He must have strong fingers. Maybe he has a girlfriend and he’s impotent. Fingers can go a long way, when you can’t.

I’m about to take another cheap shot at the questionable functionality of his loins when I realize he’s stopped his twirling. He holds up the wrench. He sneers. He chucks the wrench at me.

I’m surprised but my reflexes are in high form and I dodge the wrench by inclining my head to the side. I hear the wrench hit the wall with a clang. Something hits me from behind. It’s slight. The wrench makes a series of clangs as it hits the ground before coming to a rest.

I look back at the braid. He seems satisfied and amused as he comments, “Nice reflexes.”

“You tried to kill me,” I say. I’m stunned, even if my tone doesn’t say as much.

“Nah,” he scoffs. “And piss Quatre off? He’s scary when he’s upset.” After a bit the braid says, “Check out the wall behind you.”

I turn, after making sure he didn’t equip himself with another wrench. There’s something that looks like ooze and there is part of what looks like a pincher sticking out from it.

“Scorpion,” clarifies the braid.

I turn around as he says, “Quatre collects them. Every once in a while one of them gets out.” He turns and heads back to the car. “I told him already. If they come near my garage, they’re as good as target practice.”

The braid glances over his shoulder at me. “By the way, Heero, the stinger’s attached to your back. You might want to remove it, carefully.”

I was wrong earlier. It isn’t the braid. The blonde’s trying to kill me as well as his off-kilter underlings. Scorpions, roaming like free range cattle. He’s a sadist as well as a nutjob.

I’m back in the blonde’s office. He’s behind his desk, reading. He puts his papers aside and looks up as I walk in.

“You don’t have an appointment, Heero,” he says. “We agreed to meet tomorrow.”

I ignore him.

“You have scorpions,” I say.

“Yes,” he responds as though I’ve told him he has ants…on an ant farm.

For a moment, I stare at him. He’s staring back. Finally, I come up with something that will break through the haze. “They’re roaming free.”

“Are they?”

I frown. He doesn’t see a problem and is looking at me as though I’m a five-year-old and he’s being indulgent by conversing with me. “I don’t like them,” I say. I frown again. I am a five-year-old.

“You don’t like them, Heero?” He leans forward. He looks conciliatory and for a second I think he’s going to offer me cookies and milk. But the look is fleeting. It’s replaced with one of solemnity. “Scorpions are fascinating creatures,” he says while fixing his gaze squarely on me, “they don’t mate but they do a courtship dance.”

Apparently, he thinks this is the Discovery Channel and I’m a captivated audience hungry for trivia.

“They’re dangerous,” I mutter.

I don’t care if scorpions fear physical intimacy.

After inspecting me for some quiet seconds, he comments, “They only sting in defense. They’re only dangerous if you provoke them. Remember that, Heero.” He smiles and my skin crawls.

With my escape thwarted by the braid, I’m back in my suite, in the study. The blonde’s pile of papers is sitting on the desk where I left them. I pick up the stack. They’re all letters. I start rifling through the pile. It’s obvious from the first page that there is more to his request than he initially explained. A font based on his handwriting. I snort. His handwriting varies during the course of and across letters. A uniform typeset would be easy to spot, suspicious on sight.

I keep flipping. I squint. The letter in my right hand. The handwriting is different from all the others. It’s fluid with a slant to the right. It’s curvy with lingering tails. It’s a woman’s handwriting. I flip back to the blonde’s letters. I hadn’t looked to see to whom they were addressed, not once. All his letters are addressed to the same name, the same female name.

I put the rest of his letters aside and pick up the out-of-place letter. There’s only one page and it’s not the first. I start reading. It begins partway through a sentence:

[…you parried every one of my catty retorts with a smooth, diplomatic reply. And, the very moment I grew bored with your lecturing, I felt the elevator jerk to a stop. You’d distracted me with your soft words and surprised me with your audacity. Watching your hand leave that lever, Quatre Raberba Winner, watching as you approached, for the first time in my life, without being touched, I quivered down below. You were still talking, cajoling me into reconsidering my barbs as you lifted my skirt with a simple brush of your hand. You had my full attention as you hooked a finger under my garter, causing it to snap.

And, dearest, you had me wet in that instant. I was held rapt by the feel of your hard thigh between my legs, as you chastised me for my callousness, still with that soft tone and gracious manner. The contradiction was stunning. And I was yours as I felt a single finger, your single finger, moving across my breast, caressing me through my blouse.

Such mastery. I didn’t think you had it in you. And, at that moment, I wished I had you in me. I wanted]

The ink’s running. It’s my hand. It’s wet with sweat. My slacks are no longer slack.

I look down.

Apparently, I’m hard up because I have a hard-on. I look back at the letter.

It’s the end of the page and there’s nothing more. The letter is moving, wavering in the air with my hand.

I look at the door leading to my bedroom and think of the one leading out of my suite. I’m wrong. There is more, 6 floors up, in the blonde’s office.

I look back at the letter. It’s simply a matter of justifying my use of his office despite my rebuff…and without an appointment.

Part 8