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I turn on my heel and follow him through the backroom, through the locker room, and into his office, where he holds open the door.
Strong aftershave fills my nostrils as I edge through the doorway, trying to avoid touching him as I pass. Is he getting ready for a date?
“Take a seat.” He lets the door fall shut with a soft click. Instead of walking around his desk, he sits on it with his legs spread.
I pull back the chair, lower myself into it, and try not to cringe at the way the fabric pulls across his crotch. “You wanted to speak with me, sir?”
“How’s the painting going?” he asks.
I lean back in my seat and frown. “Um… Alright. Why?”
“One of our regulars inquired about purchasing several of your works, but she would like a quantity discount.”
“What kind?” I ask, my brows pulling together.
“Fifty percent.”
I bite down on my bottom lip. “That’s hardly going to cover my expenses. Watercolor paper is getting expensive, then there’s the cost of the studio—”
“Which I rent to you at a steep discount,” he says.
My lips tighten. The studio is just the attic space next door to my apartment that’s too drafty for anything but storage. Instead of voicing this, I say, “And I’m grateful for that and for the apartment.”
Mr. Roberts narrows his eyes. “You used to paint into the small hours, but for the last two nights, you’ve been otherwise occupied.”
I’m about to ask how he knows this, but then I remember he lives downstairs. The building is old, with wooden floors that creak with every step, and my mate and I haven’t exactly been quiet.
“Perhaps if you took your career as a painter more seriously, you could improve your output.”
Something in the tone of his voice is off. Or perhaps it’s what he doesn’t say. In his position, I would complain that my employee had been too noisy or that I’d been late two days in a row, but he’s unusually preoccupied with my art.
Besides, it’s peculiar that he wants me to sell it at a discount when it’s already so cheap.
“You do realize that fifty percent of the retail prices means half as much commission for you?” I ask.
He leans back in his seat. “But imagine the exposure.”
Now, it’s my turn to narrow my eyes. “Why are you so concerned about increasing my output? It doesn’t make sense.”
Face flushing, he waves away my question. “Never mind that. What were you doing for two nights in a row, making loud sexual noises?”
Normally, a confrontation like that would make my cheeks heat, but I’m so suspicious of this guy’s motives that it barely registers that he’s overheard me at my most intimate.
Mr. Roberts slides off his desk and tries to tower over me, but I rise off my seat and step back. He’s six four but with a wiry frame that makes him look fragile.
“Answer me,” he says, standing within grabbing distance.
“None of your business, and stop trying to change the subject.” I ball my hands into fists.
He places both hands on my shoulders and digs his fingers into my flesh. “Without me, you’d be homeless.”
“Ouch get off—”
The lightbulb shatters, plunging the windowless room into near darkness. A small stream of light seeps through the blind covering the door, illuminating my mate’s shadowy outline.
“What is the meaning of this?” Mr. Roberts says before his body flies across the office. He lands against the wall with a painful thud.
I whirl around, looking for my mate, but he’s disappeared.
