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He was gone this morning.
But there he is, wearing his smooth, charismatic armour, fitted to perfection within a flawless charcoal suit. I know what is under that armour now. And it’s volatile. Deep. Vulnerable. Angry. So full of passion and possession it makes me want to weep with joy that a man soalivelives beneath that veil.
A familiar-looking red-headed woman interviews him in front of a burnt trunk and, behind them, in the far, far distance, a helicopter circles the glowing forest.
The orange headlining banner scrolling the bottom of the screen reads:Eight members of the outlaw Stockyard Motorcycle Group and well-known businessman Dustin Nerrock have died after becoming trapped in the bushfire due to taking a shortcut back to their motorcycle headquarters.
Clay goes on to say, "I flew back from Dubai the moment I received the regrettable news. The city and all its members send their condolences to the families of the fallen Stockyard Motorcycle community. It is truly a tragedy. We will be hosting a memorial ride through the District on Thursday."
He's a clever man.
"Don't let her eat from your bowl," HJ says, capturing my attention, appearing in the lounge room wearing his all-black suit and tie. "They have worms, Miss Harlow."
I curl up my nose. "Luna does not have worms. They put the little drops on her fur to kill the worms."
He stops staunchly in front of me, his hands hanging down by his sides.
Exhaling hard, I ready myself for another day of being followed, being politely responded to, being treated like a ward. It is what it is.
"You know," he begins, "I'm lucky to still have a job. I'm lucky to still be alive. A month ago, Mr Butcher would have fired me for letting you slip away. Well, at least that would have been the story for why I wasn't around."
Gazing up at him, regret for him but not for my actions play across my face. "I'm so sorry. I had to."
He nods stiffly. "I know." A rough sigh leaves him. "I need you to remember that it's my job to keep you safe. At the very least, you should have requested I go with you.”
I laugh at him. "You wouldn't have let me go."
"No," he admits, "because Mr Butcher is my boss.And... your safety is important to me as well."
Luna crawls out from my diamond leg pen and stumbles over to his freshly polished black shoe, rubbing her face on the reflective surface, smearing it with her dribble. Then she tumbles to the side, her paws going up, swatting at the black laces.
"So…" I peer up at my henchman/butler/rat, who I am very fond of even though he is a pain in my arse. "I had no choice. I'm glad you're not dead, by the way. Even though you're a rat."
He ignores Luna as she attacks his shoe. "Rats are the new cats. I read it in a Cosmopolitan."
I laugh, surprised he managed a joke given our new less-friendly arrangement. "You know, I heard that people change on death row. I didn’t realise it would happen so quickly, so profoundly. Your sense of humour has finally returned."
He looks lighter as he says, "Which leads me to the next thing I have to say to you, Miss Harlow—”
“Wait… Is this about your sense of humour or your epic experience on death row? I’m fragile, after all.”
“You are not fragile. I think that ship has sailed. No, this is about my job,” he advises, amusement in his voice. A sound I have missed. “Mr Butcher has changed my contract.”
I deadpan.No.I don’t want a new butler/rat. I likemybutler/rat. “Oh. Is he taking you away from me?”
“No.” He smiles. “He’s giving me to you. I’m officially under your orders from now on.”
I squint at him. "Wait…” As I try to understand what that means, I pause and watch Luna try to crawl up his leg. “What does that mean?”
Looking down at the kitten as she makes her way towards his crotch, he tries to gently shake her off his leg. She doesn’t budge. So, he pries her from his thigh and sets her on the ground again. Shemakes a squeaky call of annoyance.
"I’ll do what you ask of me,” he says, pulling my focus back to the knowing sparkle in his eyes.
Happiness plays along my mouth as the meaning behind that gesture registers. "He trusts you with me—"
"He trustsyou,Miss Harlow."
My breath catches. “Woah.” A little flicker of control, of place, identity, and acceptance rolls around inside me. I beam. “I have an employee. Can I request that you call me Fawn?”
