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She’s making all kinds of sense right now. Interviewing and sussing out the situation doesn’t tie me into taking the job, does it?
Me: I’ll think about it.
Jess: Good girl. Call me later, ’kay?
After rereading the ad for the hundredth time, I copy the email address, type out a quick message, and attach my résumé and the required full-length photo. I press SEND before I can change my mind and then slam my laptop shut. I’m already regretting it. I need to distract myself. I pick up my bag and grab my car keys off the kitchen counter, then head out the door to do the thing I love most: shopping. Not that I’m able to buy much, but I can dream.
I pull into the parking lot of the shopping mall and steer my red Jeep into the nearest free space. Removing my sunglasses, I place them on the dash and open the car door. The cool breeze hits my arm, making me shiver, so I reach behind me and grab my jacket. As I slip it over my arms, my phone beeps. I fish it out of my handbag, my heart racing.
Am I hoping it’s him, or am I hoping it’s not? I don’t know. I’m confused about whether I even want the damn interview.
I click on my email and see it is a reply from him. My hands shake as I click the message.
Thank you for your application. I’d like to meet with you at four p.m. today to discuss the role in further detail. If you are unable to attend, please be advised that no other times will be made available to you.
Sincerely,
J.M.
J.M. As in Jaxon Murphy. Holy shit, it really is him. My heart thumps at the thought of meeting him. I check my watch and see that it is almost three thirty. Is this a test of my ability to follow orders? I have barely enough time to go home, change, and get to the interview. I’m on the verge of saying “Fuck it” when I remember why I’m doing this in the first place. I owe it to myself to at least check it out. I decide to scrap the idea of going home and opt to race inside the mall for a fresh shirt and some makeup. Less than ten minutes later I’m on the highway, swerving through lanes as I attempt to freshen up my makeup. I narrowly miss driving up the ass of an expensive-looking blue BMW. I sheepishly lower my lipstick as the driver shouts abuse at me. I take a deep breath and focus on the road, because I definitely won’t be getting this job if I’m laid up in the hospital with broken limbs.
—
I’m not surprised when I see how beautiful the neighborhood is where Jaxon lives. Up in the hills, his mansion sits on the edge of an exclusive estate, on sprawling green lawns. The properties on either side of his are equally impressive and spaced far enough apart to ensure privacy.
I smirk: Jaxon Murphy would like his privacy.
As I stand at the entrance to his property, my heart races. I have no idea what I’m about to get myself into. I reach up and press the intercom button, my hands shaking as I glance at his house in the distance. I take a deep breath and try to settle my nerves, only I can’t, because I might be about to become someone’s sex slave. Focus on finding the story. Remember why you’re here.
“The front door’s unlocked. Please make your way down the hall to the left and wait in the living room.”
I jump, the little hairs on the back of my neck standing up as the smooth male voice booms through the speaker of the intercom. I’m not sure what it is, but something about that voice…His assertiveness intrigues me. Everything about this guy is intimidating.
I bet not many people disobey him.
In the back of my mind, a little voice mocks, Like the girlfriend he murdered…
So much for remaining impartial.
“Okay, thanks,” I mumble, and take a deep breath. Brushing a strand of hair from my face, I make my way through the gate and down toward the house, determined not to show my fear. I look around me, the full impact of the property hitting me.
The grounds are huge. The imposing three-story mansion sits atop expansive, lush green grounds. Its white exterior is cold and unwelcoming, in stark contrast to its beautiful surroundings. I make my way up the wide concrete steps, my breathing heavy as I near the door.
By the time I reach the double wooden front doors, I feel faint. How did I let Jess talk me into this? It’s so much easier to blame her rather than admit that part of me wants to do this.
Not only is this a potentially life-changing story, but I need to find out what his deal is. I spent so much time studying the guy, I feel like I know him. What scares me the most is that the closer I get to discovering his secrets, the more I find myself thinking up the dirtiest fantasies of what it will be like to work for him. Heat creeps up my neck as all sorts of nasty images enter my head.
If I am offered the job and I decide to take it, there is going to be sex. Kinky, fucked-up, off-the-charts kind of sex that little old me just doesn’t do. But that isn’t necessarily by choice, is it? My sex life up to this point has been very vanilla but, like every girl, I have deep, dark fantasies that I long to explore. The thought of exploring them with Jaxon Murphy…Oh, God.
One thing I can say about Nick is that he was anything but experimental. It was missionary, him on top with the lights off all the way. The few times I suggested spicing up our sex life with something out of the ordinary, like cowgirl style, he made me feel like some kind of sex fiend.
Seeing him fucking that bitch on our kitchen counter didn’t just hurt me, it annoyed me—because our own sex life had been so dull. I guess the lack of physical connection should’ve been my first hint that our relationship was in trouble.
I push open the door and let myself inside. It’s so quiet. I’m standing in what looks like a lobby, and down the hall I can see what has to be the living room. I make my way toward the light-filled room, passing various pieces of art that I’m guessing are originals. They must have cost a ton. I sit down on the edge of a thick leather sofa. I feel so uncomfortable. I’m surrounded by perfection: There is not a thing out of place and everything screams “expensive.” I’m pretty sure the couch I’m sitting on is worth more than everything I own combined.
My ears prick at the sound of a male voice in the distance. It’s him. I close my eyes and recall the newspaper clippings that showed his smiling face. Does he look better in person? Is that
even possible? Anyone who describes himself as attractive has to be pretty cocky, and the confidence he must have to place an ad like that scares me. I haven’t even met the guy and I’m already as intimidated as hell. I hold my hands together in my lap in a feeble attempt to hide their shaking. Over and over my mind is screaming, What the hell am I doing here?
