Page 79 of Take Her
“Because he’ll never get out of his own head, or his own way, to be with you. We both know that.” Mason finally twisted over to look at me. “Also, I didn’t really want to be a doctor.”
I smoothed his wispy hair off of his forehead to kiss it gently. “Such a disappointment to your family,” I teased.
—Sarah, from One of a Thousand Wishes by A. R. McGeorge
Rhaim wasn’t in his office the next day, either, which I didn’t like, until he called.
I almost didn’t pick up, because talking on the phone was ridiculous, but when Monster flashed on the screen, I knew I should.
“Good morning, little girl,” came through the line.
“Good morning, sir,” I chimed back, unable to hide the sheer pleasure from my voice.
“I was worried you wouldn’t pick up. I know how you are about phones,” he teased.
“When is Mrs. Armstrong coming back? Because I’m really not good at this,” I said with a laugh. And maybe because once she did, I could actually be his intern. We could put a desk in his office for me and everything. “Why did you call?” I asked. “Did you need something?”
I’d already laid out my plans for the day—I had a few more quarterly transcripts to get through, and then I was going to try to make sense of things from very far back, from when Corvo first started, and see if I couldn’t break his official books, looking for any financial discrepancies.
“I just wanted you to know that I’m always thinking about you. Even when I’m away from you, or when I seem busy or distracted.”
I blinked, flattered—but also concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t call and tell you nice things? I would’ve thought you’d like that.” I heard the sound of a car door shut and then the outer world press in from wherever it was that he was now.
I ducked into his office, so I could make sure my side of this conversation would be private. “Where are you? Are you okay?”
“It should be me asking you that,” he said, sounding briefly stern, before chuckling darkly. “I’m fine, moth. I just have a few more people to run numbers by this morning.”
“And then are you—” I started, then snapped my mouth shut. A million and one things I Should or Should Not Do came rushing up, trying to save me from myself, not being terrifically needy chief among them.
“Use your words,” he prompted me, and I realized the more important thing was that I wanted things between us to feel safe.
As safe as they ever could be with a murderer who I was madly in love with.
“You’re not the only one who gets lonely,” I confessed. “If you’re not here, am I allowed to text you some, during the day?”
“As long as you don’t expect a quick response, yes.”
“But you will respond?”
“Always,” he said, and then added, “Do you feel better now?”
“Yeah,” I breathed. The inclination to apologize for pressing him rose up my throat and rode on my tongue, but I remembered my promise to him in time to swallow it back down. There was no need to act like I was sorry—I’d asked for what I’d wanted, and gotten it.
“Are you still doing what I asked?” he said, with a very intentional leer in his tone, over the sounds of the city and cars honking behind him.
“Yes,” I laughed and beamed. “Even though there’s no one here to appreciate it but the carpeting.”
“I never thought I’d find myself jealous of office furnishings,” he said with a snort. “Take a?—”
“Don’t make me take a picture,” I said quickly enough to cut him off. “Please.”
I heard him make a thoughtful sound on the other end of the line. “Mmmm. Is this really the one time you want to ask for permission to disobey?”
“Yes. Please.” I begged again.
There was no way for me to explain aesthetics and lighting and my inability to take a decent picture under my skirt with my arm. Maybe at home, I could frame things with some artful pillows, but as much as I enjoyed masturbating, I was not a porn star—there were some skills I did not possess, and possibly some level of intrinsic shame I still had, not quite excavated out yet.