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And, I shit you not, this woman noticed, and simply raised her chin higher.
I saw something odd as I looked at her, uncovered a memory fuzzy with time.
When I was a kid, maybe seven or eight, we lived in this shit area where the houses were matchboxes and the yards butted right up against one another.
The neighbor to the left had a dog, a big old Rottweiler named Misty that he had kept chained to a tree her whole life, never taking her in in the winter, the sweating heat, or during storms. He kicked her when she barked, left for days on end on a bender, leaving her to starve until my Pops would toss scraps of meat over the fence for her.
This woman in the office had the look that Misty did the day her owner came back from three days away. Right before she lunged at him and ripped out his throat.
I'd been on our back porch because my father was stripping the paint off the kitchen cabinets, telling me they had lead in them - whatever that meant - and it wasn't safe for me to be around while he dealt with it.
"Fucking crime," he had said as we watched animal control take Misty away.
"Where are they taking her?" I'd asked, watching as she yanked against the handler.
My father wasn't a soft man, didn't know what that meant, didn't understand the concept of sugar-coating facts.
"To the pound to put her down," he'd told me. "Cut off her head and ship it to the state for a rabies test. Don't have rabies, just got sick of being treated like shit. And now she'll have to pay the ultimate price for standing up for herself."
This woman looked just like Misty had.
Like she was sick and fucking tired of putting up with someone treating her like shit.
And was just waiting for the chance to rip out someone's throat.
I didn't know the woman, but there was some primal, indescribable urge within me to make sure her fate wasn't the same as Misty's, that she would not pay the ultimate price for her fight for freedom.
Christopher's gaze moved away from her neck, unaffected, but curious.
Making me all-too-aware that the bruises weren't from his hands.
If not his... I didn't even need to finish the thought.
Michael's.
Even as my eyes went there, I saw the smug smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, making me have to ball up my fists to keep one from landing there, knocking the look off his face.
I realized then, as I took the three of them in, that this woman wasn't just some servant being treated badly.
No.
There was no mistaking it.
The dark hair. The jaws. The long and lean builds.
This was a family.
Father.
Son.
Daughter.
And this fuck that I was trying to work for was letting his own goddamn flesh and blood get abused under his own roof.
If that wasn't some fucked up shit, I didn't know what was.
"How do you take your coffee? Helen can make it up for you before she goes," Christopher offered.
Helen.
She had a name.
An apt one too.
I wondered if her mother somehow knew when she'd named her how beautiful she would someday be.
The most beautiful woman in the world.
Just like her namesake.
Helen of Troy.
The face that launched a thousand ships.
"I take it black," I said, turning my attention to Helen who reached for a simple white mug, handing it to me. She was so careful to avoid our fingers so much as brushing that it made me wonder if she had reason to fear the touch of her father's men, an idea that made my saliva turn bitter. "Thank you," I said, trying to catch her gaze, but she was avoiding me as she poured cream into two other cups, then turned to rush back out of the room as silently as she had entered.
"Sorry about her. She has the manners of a feral cat," Michael said, as soon as she was out of earshot.
"Anyway, back to business," Christopher said a bit pointedly, like a reprimand, like a warning about bringing outsiders into family business.
So then we got back to business.
I felt torn, even after hearing the salary that put all my other jobs to shame - after a trial period, of course.
I was a bastard.
I did things people, good people, didn't do.
But that didn't mean I didn't have a moral compass.
Working for shitheads like the Eames family rubbed me the wrong way.
It also meant I would get to be around the house more, get to see Helen more.
It was a stupid thing to base a job decision on - the desire for a woman who wouldn't even look in your direction.
I couldn't explain it, didn't even try to analyze it because I knew there would be no logical answers.
But I accepted the job.
For better or worse, I aligned myself with some of the lowest scum I had ever met just on the off chance I'd see Helen again, maybe get her to talk to me, to agree to see me.
