Page 18 of Take Her

Swaying her delectable hips as she pushed her trash cart and rolling mop bucket down the halls.

I almost stood at the realization.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” I muttered.

She was supposed to be being punished by this. To be too prideful for it.

Not using it like it was her chance to be on The Voice.

I reached out for her image on the monitor screen, running a thumb over her, like I could somehow crush her physically from afar.

This could not be allowed to stand.

I fell back into my chair and contemplated my options. There wasn’t much I could do from here to fuck with her, but the next time she went into a bathroom, where my cameras couldn’t follow, I waited about ten minutes and then flipped the power off to her entire floor.

The downside of doing so was I couldn’t see what havoc—if any—my actions had wrought for her.

Note to self: install heat vision cameras this upcoming winter.

I counted down in the darkness along with her patiently, and saw a flicker of light as she came out of the bathroom—of course she had her phone with her; it was playing her music—but then it disappeared before she turned her own flashlight on and I didn’t know why.

If I caught her taking a nap when I flipped the power back on, I was going to pull the fire alarm.

But what I found instead when I turned the lights on was completely unexpected.

Daddy’s little girl was on her hands and knees in the middle of the tile hallway, puking her guts out.

I sat forward on my chair.

Had she been drinking on the job tonight?

Just like me?

I scanned the lines of her baggy uniform, wondering if she had a flask on her, and if so, where, as she surprised me again by crawling down the hall, like she couldn’t manage standing. She didn’t stop until her back was against a desk and she was catching her breath like she’d just run a marathon.

I had the nearest camera zoom in on her as closely as it could, and I swear to fuck it showed her trembling. She was holding herself now, one thumb on the wrist of her opposite hand, muttering—not singing—wildly.

What had happened to her on her own in the dark?

I’d have sworn that she’d seen a ghost, only I knew I’d never had anyone killed in that bathroom.

My hand instinctively reached for the beer again—but instead of bringing it to my lips, I pushed it farther away on my desk, and opened up my desk’s top drawer instead for a long-forbidden cigarette.

Three days passed.

Each night I watched Lia walk into the building and clean. Ruiz never made her do the grease traps, because she wasn’t as fast as he was, but she slowly took over servicing more and more floors.

And each night, as I sipped a Red Bull and chain smoked through the last carton I’d hidden away when I quit to help me stay up, I thought about flipping the lights off on her one more time, but for some reason, stopped.

Because apparently she hadn’t reported our prior interaction to her father.

The weather’d been delightful. It was a beautiful summer, so I’d left the windows open the entire time, even when I was sleeping, keeping an odd schedule so I could keep an eye on her. I spent half the night up, watching her sing and dance, and then slept in every morning before puttering around the house, doing odd bits of chores, re-screwing in weather-loosened boards in the stable, painting spots only I could see on the walls, or playing in the field with Gracie.

Gracie had retired years ago. After Isabelle had died, I hadn’t had the heart to let anyone else ride her again, but I couldn’t bring myself to give her up, either. I bought her a donkey once to keep her company, but she’d been so mean to the thing that I’d had to let it go.

But with me, and with Alonzo and his kids, she was like a golden retriever instead of a palomino, running one way and then the next when we played chase, until she’d stop on a dime, and it was my turn to run from her.

She was a good horse.