The Price of Inertia (EBOOK)

With my suitcase in my hand, I follow him around like an unwanted dog he is trying to lose. He rushes around, although ‘races’ is the wrong word, given his heavy build.

The house is beautiful. He shows me around downstairs.

“I expect my writing room to be dusted and cleaned every day, preferably when I’m not in it.”

“When will that be?”

“It varies. I can’t give you an exact time.”

I try not to say something smart and sassy back, even though I’m privately pissed that he expects me to be at his beck and call.

“Don’t mess with things on my desk. Leave things as you find them. Don’t read anything. I don’t want to have to stow things away and get them back out again, it messes with my process.”

“Got it.”

He leads me into a room which has the biggest TV I’ve ever seen. This room is littered with chip bags, donut boxes and drink cartons and cans. It’s four times bigger than my bedroom was in my last apartment. As I glance across, I can see into the kitchen. “Sometimes I like to relax in here,” he says, as I watch and wait to see if he’ll bend down to pick up the trash from the floor. He doesn’t. “There’s a TV in your room.”

“Oh, so I can’t watch TV in here?”

He looks taken aback. “You’re not on vacation. You have a job to do here.”

I open my mouth, then close it quickly before I say something else I will regret. He’s so rude. I wish I hadn’t bothered making a detour into town to get him those donuts. He’s so unappreciative and nasty.

A tightness forms in my gut as I follow him out of the TV room and into the entrance hall where I should have left my suitcase instead of dragging it around with me everywhere.

I miss Jamie.

He’s a real gentleman.

This man is not.

He shows me the other rooms: the place where all the cleaning supplies are kept, and the pantry, the kitchen. He tells me that he will leave me his credit card on the kitchen island and that I can buy what I need and order groceries, and if I prefer to go out, to look online and find out what stores are nearby. Then he shows me the library before opening another door.

“This is my study.” He opens the door quickly, and lets me step inside. It’s dark in here and such a contrast to the rest of the house. “I need it polished and clean, every surface spotless. And my desk,” he walks over to it and slides a finger along the sleek wood, “my desk has to be neat and tidy.” I walk over and find myself paying extreme attention because he seems so serious about the matter. “You must not mess up the order of things.” He lines up the papers and pencils and pens again, even though they were already neat. “And you must never read anything.” He pins me with a ferocious stare that makes me stop breathing. He’s expecting an answer, I realize.

“I won’t,” I say quickly. “I won’t read a thing.”

“I want everything back in its place.”

I nod.

“My pens and pencils. My MontBlanc. This is my lucky pen.” He picks it up and examines it before setting it back down again.

Weird.

“You can open the windows to let in some air while you clean, but I want the room left exactly as you found it.”

“Understood.”

“I don’t know anything about you. Rob hired you and took care of all that, but let me be very clear. You are not to read anything I have written.”

“You’ve already mentioned that.”

“I’m telling you again.”

I have to force myself not to roll my eyes. “Again, I understand.”

He ushers me out before closing the door. Then he marches up the stairs and I stand at the bottom, watching him with simmering resentment. Not once did this man offer to take my suitcase from me. Not once did he offer to assist me.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks, turning around when he’s a few steps up. There is tension is his voice. Always. It’s like he’s permanently annoyed and bitter. He’s made it perfectly clear that my presence here is unwanted, but I need this job.

I can’t afford for him to get rid of me on a whim, and with Rob gone, it wouldn’t surprise me if this guy tries to look for any opportunity to get rid of me.

How wrong I was. How disappointed Jamie will be when I tell him what this guy is really like. I assumed he would be nice because he was famous and successful, but I was so, so wrong.

“Uh …” Telling the truth isn’t going to help me. “I was admiring the staircase. It’s … it’s beautiful, the way it curves around the —”

“Hurry up,” he snaps, marching on ahead. “I don’t have all day.”

I grab my suitcase and bound up the stairs, catching up with him in no time. “I did say you could tell me where my room was and I would find it. I know you have work deadlines and a book to fin—”

“Stop,” he growls. “I can’t take your constant whimpering.”

I have the sudden urge to tell him to shove his job up his huge butt, but I am trapped by my circumstances. My mom depends on me. I’m doing this for her.

And I don’t have a better option.

“I’m sorry. I won’t talk if it upsets you that mu—”

He turns to me at the top of the stairs. “There you go again.” He does a zipping motion with his fingers against his lips. “I can’t think when you’re constantly yapping.”

“But you’re not writing now,” I protest, noticing his ugly satin robe again. It looks ridiculous and makes him look much older than he is.

“I’m always thinking,” he mutters, pointing his finger to his head. “I’m always thinking of the story. Your voice is like the sound of nails scratching a blackboard.”

That’s an overdramatic exaggeration. I hate him. I hate him more than I believed was possible. I zip my lips together and resolve not to say another word.

“You only need to clean my room once a week, otherwise you don’t need to be on this side of the house.”

I nod, then follow him like a sheep as he heads down the other hallway on the left. He opens the first door of many. “Take this one.” He flings the door open but doesn’t step inside. “I trust it will suffice?”

I step inside, as he switches on the light.

Will this suffice?

My heart leaps for joy. Yes! Yes, it will.

It’s huge with the biggest bed I’ve ever seen, and a dresser, and closets, and another door presumably leading to a bathroom. “This is wonderful!” I cry, my insides jubilant with joy as I walk inside. I set down my suitcase and bags, too excited to speak, but also under strict orders not to.

This is my room.

Mine.

For the duration of this prison sentence. Excited, I walk inside and look around and inspect the room. There’s a walk-in closet, though I don’t have enough clothes to even fill one of the racks. The closets are extra space lined around the room.

Who has this many clothes? Or possessions or things?

I turn around, needing to ask him something, but as I come back out and step into the room, he has disappeared. I run towards the door, and peer down the hallway only to catch a glimpse of the edge of his robe as he turns the corner and disappears.

He didn’t tell me what I needed to wear; whether there was an outfit or uniform I should wear. He hadn’t told me anything. I don’t know what time he expects breakfast, or what type of food he likes to eat, and ditto the same for lunch and dinner.

I’m in the dark about all of this.

The only thing that makes my stay here palatable is that the house and my room are the most luxurious I’ve ever had.

It’s a shame that the price I must pay for this luxury is to live with that swine.