DEBT Read online

  "This is me, Miss. Marlow," he said, throwing his arm out to indicate a room on the left side of the hall. "And this is you," he added, moving toward the door directly across from it. He reached for the big copper handle and I felt my belly fold in on itself, maybe half-expecting to see some kind of shackles or something as I moved to follow him inside.

  But there were no shackles.

  It was just a bedroom.

  Well, no. It wasn't just a bedroom. It was a really, really nice bedroom. It had the same walls as the rest of the house, exposed, warm-toned stucco. There was a brass framed queen-sized bed directly across from the door covered in a burnt yellow plush bedspread that was flanked by two nightstands with brass lamps and burnt orange shades that matched the bedspread. A dresser was to the far left with a giant brass-framed mirror above nestled beside two French doors that, I imagined, led out onto one of the many balconies I had seen from the outside. To the right of the room was what I figured was a closet and an open door which seemed to lead into my own private bath.

  Hell, it was actually a nicer room than I had at home.

  I almost snorted at that idea.

  "You can settle in, put your things in the closet, dresser, and bathroom cabinets. You'll be here a while. All that though," he said, waving a hand at me and I wasn't sure what he was indicating, "can get burned."

  "I'm sorry... what can get burned?"

  "Those... 'corporate casual' clothes you seem so fond of," he informed me, air-quoting the words corporate casual with distaste.

  "Mr. St. James, that is all I brought to wear for work..." I said as he moved away from me toward the closet.

  He opened the door, went inside, and came back with a giant black box. "This," he said, setting it down on the bed, "is what you will be wearing for work."

  "I have a uniform?" I asked, thinking maybe he was going to put me to work cleaning or, fingers crossed, cooking. I could live with that. It was grunt work, but it was honest.

  "Of sorts," he said with a smirk that I knew not to trust.

  Feeling the belly swirling thing again, I dropped my things and made my way toward the bed, reaching for the top of the box with sweaty hands, knowing, just knowing I wasn't going to like what was inside. I knew it because of that smile, but also because he had moved to situate himself so he could watch my reaction to whatever was inside the mysterious box.

  I exhaled hard and pulled the black tissue paper away to reveal...

  Lingerie?

  "What is this?"

  "Your uniform. When you are working, you are wearing this. So, technically, you are always wearing this. Underneath your clothes should you think you are getting some free time to yourself."

  "This is... underwear..." I objected, looking back down at the black bras, black panties, black garter, black thigh highs, extremely short and skin-tight black skirt and barely-there silk black camisole.

  "All your parts will be covered," he said with a brow raise that almost intimated that I was being a prude. I was not being a prude. I was... I was being... prudent.

  "Mr. St. James, you can't be serious."

  "I can and I am. Actually, there is something missing though," he said, going back to the closet and coming back with a black shoe box.

  "Let me guess? See-through heels?" I asked as I took it from his hands.

  "Not quite."

  They weren't see-through heels. They were actually very nice, very black, very, very high stiletto heels. When I say high, I meant like... six inches. I had never walked in something like that in my life.

  I looked down at all the clothes for a second, then closed my eyes against the churning helplessness inside. If he was going to insist on it, I had no choice. I was going to have to do my work dressed like a God damn prostitute. I'd never even worn anything half as sexy as the clothes he had picked out in the intimacy of a bedroom with a lover before.

  To say it was going to be humiliating would be a gross understatement.

  "Miss. Marlow," his voice barked at me, making me jump slightly before looking up at him. "Is there a problem?"

  I swallowed hard. "No. No problem."

  "Good. You'll wear your hair down as well. No makeup. You don't need it. I'll let you change," he said, moving toward the door.

  "Mr. St. James," I called when he was half in the hallway. He turned back, brow raised, waiting for what I had to say. "What, exactly, is my job going to be?"

  "Whatever the fuck I want it to be," he said, closing the door with a loud slam that made me jump.

  That was exactly what I was afraid of.

  I was just a whim.

  He didn't actually have a job he wanted me to do, something predictable that I could learn to get used to, even in freaking lingerie. He was just going to make me do some bullshit menial tasks, likely around him and his buddies, so he could enjoy my subjugation. The freaking asshat.

  Well, fine. I reached up and ripped my hair out of my ponytail, mussing up the long strands before grabbing a set of the clothes as well as the heels, and making my way to the bathroom.

  And maybe I melted a little seeing the walk-in shower bay and the huge soaking tub, but then I remembered who owned said shower bay and soaking tub... and me and I shut those feelings down real quick.

  I stripped out of my clothes and into the panties, bra, garter, and thigh-high stockings. And well, they weren't uncomfortable. Damn him. They were actually the nicest fitting and feeling bra and panties and stockings I'd ever worn in my life. Of course. On a growl, I pulled on the mini skirt that was so mini that I was pretty sure that by wearing it, I was breaking some decency laws in some states. The camisole was the only piece of clothing that didn't feel completely foreign and weird to wear. I left it un-tucked because, well, fuck him, and slipped into the heels that immediately made my equilibrium go wonky, making me slam my hand down on the sink vanity for a second.

  "This is gonna suck," I told my reflection, taking a deep breath, and attempting to walk out of the bathroom without stumbling too much. He said I had to wear them. He didn't say I had to be graceful while doing so. Not that he could command such a thing from someone who was, by nature, about as graceful as a newborn foal.

  I made my way back to my room, walking a few awkward laps until I could do so without my knees doing that God-awful buckling pre-fall thing.

  "I don't have all fucking day, Miss. Marlow," St. James' voice snapped through my door, making my heart fly up into my throat as I ruined my track record with the not knee-buckling thing. I righted myself, took a deep breath, and made my way toward the door.

  "Really, there's no need to curse at me," I said, standing in my doorway to see him leaning against the jamb of his own, arms crossed.

  "I'll curse at you whenever the fuck I want. Get used to it. Keep your mouth shut about it," he said, turning into his room and leaving me to wonder if I was meant to follow. Ultimately, I moved into his doorway.

  If I thought my room was nice, his was, well, fit for a king. It was darker, heavy drapes hanging on the French doors to the balcony. The set-up was similar to that of my room, except his bed was bigger, his color scheme was deep chocolate brown instead of burnt orange, and the bathroom attached looked like fifty people could comfortably stand around in it... with shoulder room.

  St. James had disappeared into said bathroom for a second before he reemerged, raising a brow at me like I was an idiot. I guessed I was supposed to follow him, so I did. "This will be cleaned every single morning," he said, gesturing to the deep wicker basket that held laundry. "You'll sort what will be washed here by the staff and what needs to be sent out for dry cleaning."

  "Okay," I said, nodding. That was simple enough.

  "You'll also make my bed, changing the sheets every other day. And on those opposite days, you will scrub my bathroom top to bottom." That was just lovely. I totally wanted to scrub his bathroom in heels. With a house his size, he had to have had a staff of people to do such t
hings. "I do have a maid. Three actually," he informed me as if reading my thoughts. "But from now on, this," he said, indicating his quarters, "is your responsibility. As is anything else I should want, day or night."

  "Is there some bell I should answer to?" I asked, trying to keep my tone mild though my words themselves were snarky.

  "You'll answer to your name. Whenever, wherever, and however often I call it."

  "Okay," I said, nodding. I was his personal maid. Or valet. Or whatever the hell it was called.

  "I take my coffee black and often."

  "Okay."

  "When you don't have a detailed job to carry out, you can sit outside of whatever room I am in and wait for me to call you. Understood?"

  "Yep."

  "Nothing to say about that?"

  "Nope."

  "Good," he said, advancing so fast toward me that I moved to go back a step and ended up teetering on my heels. Luckily, or, unluckily, depending on where you were standing, his hands were already on me. As in, on me. He had snagged the front of my mini skirt and yanked it which, at once, settled me back on my feet, and pulled me toward his body. I had about a second to wonder what the hell he was doing before I felt his hands slip under the waist of my skirt. My hands flew out, moving to shove at his chest automatically before I realized what he was doing; he was tucking my camisole into my skirt. His fingers lingered after the tuck, flat against my belly, as his dark eyes roamed over my face.

  There was a completely illogical, biological (I was convinced) tightening of my sex at the intimate touch. It had to have been biological because, really, he was a complete tool. And not to mention rude and inappropriate. That was not something I was attracted to in any way shape or form. So it was just some primal response due to a long dry spell on my part and, likely, the very strong alpha aura Byron St. James projected.

  That was the only possible explanation for it.

  It's not that he wasn't attractive; he was. Actually, he was the kind of handsome that belonged on ads for cigarettes in the 1960's- tall, dark, handsome, successful. But I was never the type of woman to be a sucker for looks over substance. While looks-wise, he won the genetic lottery, substance-wise, he had about all the appeal of a festering garbage can on a sweltering summer day.

  So yeah... my lady genes were just having a knee-jerk reaction to his close proximity.

  That was all there was.

  "At my six at all times, understood?" he asked, finally releasing my skirt, but not moving away.

  I watched as my hands fell from his chest, taking a step back from him, and nodding tightly. He watched me for a long moment before turning and heading out his door. Taking him at his word that I needed to be 'at his six' at all times, I scurried to follow behind him as he made his way downstairs onto the main floor of his ridiculously lavish home.

  I bit into my cheek as I tried to ignore the gazes falling on me, looking at my absurd uniform and, therefore, my very bare body as I followed behind their boss like a little lost puppy.

  "Coffee," he barked as he moved into his office doorway, stopping suddenly and making me crash into him.

  "What?" I asked, stepping back as I held the door jamb.

  "Coffee, Miss. Marlow. Is that too difficult an order for your brain to understand?"

  A mix of rage and embarrassment flooded my system, giving me an almost overwhelming urge to both scream at him and cry... at the same time. I sucked in a deep breath, lifted my chin, and glared at him instead. "Gee. I don't know. I really am quite simple-minded."

  "Must be a family trait," he said, stepping back and slamming the door, making me have to snatch my hand back quickly before it got caught.

  "A family trait," I raged as I stomped toward the kitchen that should have filled me with the same awe as the day before, but I was too enraged to even pay it any mind save for the stainless steel coffee carafe I walked over to, reaching for one of the mugs in the cabinet above it and pouring his coffee, wishing for once that I actually had it in me to do something as foul as spit in it. But I didn't. So I poured the coffee and stomped my ass back toward his office, ripping open the door without knocking because, well, I was a servant. We were invisible and all that crap.

  I could tell it was a move that surprised St. James because his head snapped up, a brow raising as he watched me storm across his room and slam his mug down on the surface of his desk, taking a small amount of pleasure in seeing some of the contents splash over the sides and pool on his, what I could only assume was, insanely expensive desk. Then I turned on my heel and made my way toward the door, knowing my instructions were to be 'on his six' when he was moving, I imagined, and outside whatever room he was at other times.

  "Miss. Marlow," he called and I stiffened as I turned back to see him watching me. "Next time you spill it on my desk, you'll be taking your shirt off to clean it up."

  I bit my tongue to keep the snippy retort I had in and went with instead, "Good to know." With that, I slammed the door a little too hard behind me and moved to the side, leaning against the wall.

  Three hours later, I was pissed.

  I was pissed because I was bored.

  And my feet felt like they were throbbing and burning at the same time. I kept lifting one up and out of its shoe, flexing it around for a moment, before putting it back in and repeating the process with the other foot. It didn't help. But I kept doing it anyway.

  All I had done with my day was fetch five cups of black coffee and stand in the hallway to be gawked at.

  It was humiliating and a waste of freaking time.

  After St. James finally emerged from his office that evening, doing so because he had company of the female variety for dinner, I got to serve them three courses and stand by the wall and watch them eat meanwhile I had nothing in my system save for the muffin I'd forced myself to eat that morning.

  His woman/ girlfriend/ fuck buddy/ whatever the hell she was looked exactly what a woman a man like Byron St. James would date. Meaning first and foremost, that she was stunning to the point of it being obnoxious with long creamy legs that she showed off in a short black dress, a thin waist, an impressive and bouncy and, therefore likely real, chest, long silky blond hair, and sultry deep green eyes. Standing there, even in my sexy uniform undies, I felt very much like the dumpy band girl standing next to the hot cheerleader in high school.

  By nature, I wasn't insecure. With a father who never stopped telling you that you were pretty and smart and perfect all the time, it was hard to develop any serious self-esteem issues. But that being said, I had no delusions. I had that girl-next-door thing. Some guys dug it, some didn't. Either way, I was pretty comfortable with my appearance.

  But... yeah, his Barbie-like date made it really hard to not start to wonder if maybe my thighs would benefit from a couple thousand extra squats per month. Or day. Or hour.

  I snapped back to the present, cringing at my growling stomach, when I saw St. James stand, help his date out of her seat, and start moving toward the door. I hung back, not sure if he was walking her out to her car which I knew from experience myself, generally meant some necking. But then he barked over his shoulder at me,"My six," and I moved to follow, slowing my pace as I realized he was leading her and, therefore me, upstairs. I sucked a deep breath as he went down the hall and he moved inside his bedroom door, leaning out to remind me in case I was indeed too simple-minded to remember, "You know your place." With that, he shut the door, leaving me standing in the hall.

  And, well, yeah.

  Everyone who had a brain knew what happened next.

  There was some soft laughing (from the girl), some rumbled words (from him) and then the bed squeaking and moans and grunts and, yeah, well... one can fill in the blanks.

  At first, I was seething. I was tired, sore, and starving and he was making me stand there and listen to him screw his woman?

  But as the moans from the girl got louder and more desperate-sounding, I maybe felt
that weird biological response again. Biological. I was only human. It was like porn. No woman in her right mind liked it, but, well, sometimes if it was on and there was the groaning and flesh-slapping sounds and the curses from the men, well, the body responded no matter how much the mind didn't want it to. That was all it was. It was real life porn. And my underused lady bits just weren't listening to my mind which was telling them that, one, Byron St. James while hot and alpha, was a bastard, and two, making an employee listen to you boink your woman was beyond seedy. So I stood there and pressed my thighs together as I tried to distract myself by naming off the states and capitals as the moans hit an ear-splitting level, culminating with a choked call to the lord as I ignored the fluttering in my sex in response to the very intense-sounding orgasm going on behind the door to my right.

  It was less than a minute later that I was startled by the sound of the door jerking open, making me scramble away from the wall as my eyes fell on St. James. And, well, hell. He was in a pair of lightweight gray sleep pants slung low on his waist, low enough for me to see the point where his pelvis sloped into the triangle above his cock. A cock which, by the way, was still half-hard through his pants, I noticed with an almost guilty-feeling as I jerked my head up, taking in his abs, glistening slightly with sweat, before my eyes found his face.

  His dark eyes were on me. That in and of itself wasn't surprising. His eyes were on me a lot. But there was something different there I hadn't seen before, something I didn't know him well enough to interpret, but it my my chest feel a little tight for a moment. His mouth opened for a second, closed, then opened again.

  "You're off for the night, Miss. Marlow," he said, his voice losing the sharp edge it usually held. "Make yourself at home."

  With that, he turned back into his room and shut the door with a quiet click.