Braxton

Julia Thompson is breathtaking, and I can’t keep my eyes off of her. I know I need to be more discreet. Staring at her as she sits there nervously on the sofa in the private suite I maintain right off of the main ballroom in my apartment complex, I want to forget that I have a few hundred guests just on the other side of the soundproof door, including her husband. I want to tell Cindy not to bother with the steak, that I’ll give Julia everything that she needs.

I can’t do that, though. Not yet anyway. It would be immoral of me to put moves on this married woman--unless, of course, her husband approves it—and so does she. I have been thinking of what I can do to get Jeff Thompson to realize he is not worthy of his wife, but he is such an arrogant asshole, I think he’s somehow gotten the impression he is too good for her. He is about to be reminded that he is nothing, that he is an insignificant peon and that his entire career exists only because I have not lowered my thumb and squashed him like the bug he is.

Julia sees me staring at her. She lowers her eyes, and I do, too. Her husband has accused her of showing too much cleavage. From my vantage point, she is hardly showing any at all, certainly not too much; probably not enough. And I am really looking.

But when she sees that I am doing just that, I look away, trying to maintain my status as a gentleman--for now.

I get her a drink. Our fingers brush. I feel electricity pulsing throughout my body. I want this woman. I want her now.

I can’t have her though--not yet.

“Cindy should be back soon,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Okay. Thank you.” She is nervous. She licks her bottom lip, and I wish that I could lean over and do the same. Instead, I linger by the door. “You don’t have to stay here with me,” she says, making it sound as if she is insignificant. I am not her husband. I do not find her to be less than worthy of my time.

“I don’t mind,” I say to her, finally sitting down on the edge of the couch. I am keeping my space from her not because I find her repulsive. On the contrary, I am drawn to her like a magnet. “What is it that you do, Mrs. Thompson?”

“Julia, please,” she says quickly. “I am… a homemaker.” She makes a nervous giggling sound in the back of her throat, as if I will also think that her being a homemaker is funny, or again, insignificant.

“Do you like being a homemaker?” I ask her.

Her eyes dart back and forth, side to side, quickly, as she searches for the right response. There is no right response with me--only the truth. She doesn’t know that. She thinks she’s supposed to be or say or do something different than whatever it is natural for her to be because she’s been told she is wrong so many times. “I like… art,” she finally says with a smile.

I smile back at her. I want her to know that I love that she likes art. “Are you an artist then?” I ask her with an encouraging tone.

She shrugs. “I would like to be, I guess. But… I don’t have time for that.”

I can tell by the way she makes that last remark that it isn’t true. She has plenty of time, probably too much time. She has more time than she knows what to do with and would like to use it on her art, but she can’t. Because she’s not allowed to.

Jeff Thompson is a horrible prick, and I want to break him in half.

Before I have a chance to let her know how angry I am at her douche of a husband, Cindy is back with her meal, and I am inclined to let her eat alone. I stand as Cindy lifts the cloche. “I’ll be back,” I assure her, not putting any time restraints on my return because I know that I will be caught up in conversations with people I do not wish to speak with.

“Thank you, Mr. Merriweather,” Julia says before she even cuts into her steak.

I am near the door now, but I stop and turn to look at her. I smile. I can’t help it. She’s so goddamn beautiful. “It’s Braxton,” I tell her. Julia’s smile widens, and the apples of her cheeks turn pinker. I know she will not call me that, not yet, but I hope that, before too much longer, she’ll be screaming my name in the throes of passion.

I turn and head out the door before I completely lose my head, my feet carrying me through the crowd, searching for one man, and one man alone: Jeff Thompson.

Jeff Thompson is standing with a group of low-level workers from his department, laughing, their drinks nearly empty and not for the first time from what I can tell. They are certainly inebriated. I stand back and study them for a while, planning how to say what I need to say to Thompson without losing my cool. Standing this far away from him, looking at him with my expensive liquor in his hand, wearing off-brand shoes and a suit that he’s worn nearly every day since he started working for me, just changing out the shirt under the jacket, I can’t help but wonder what he does with all of the money I pay him. He certainly doesn’t spend it on his wife.

But then, I’m pretty sure I already know. It is my understanding that he has a pretty serious addiction to pornography. That can get costly, once a person is entangled. I can’t help but wonder if perhaps he is also paying for sex.

Why he would do that when his wife is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, I can’t say, but he has never struck me as a particularly intelligent person. In fact, judging simply by his work recently, it stands to reason that Jeff Thompson is an idiot, one of the stupidest people I’ve ever met.

I stare at him for a long time before anyone in his little circle looks up to see me. Then, they are suddenly all serious. No more laughing or carrying on. No more stupid, obnoxious jokes.

“Mr. Merriweather,” one of the other suits, a fellow I just hired about six months ago named Reggie Carter, says. “How are you, sir?”

I am obligated to respond, so I do. “Fine, Reggie, thank you. And you?”

“Good, good,” sir, he stammers. My attention is back on Thompson.

I clear my throat. “Can I speak to you a moment, Jeff?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound like I am about to lower the hammer on him. The hammer does need to be lowered, but this is a social event, and I remind myself of that as I step aside, certain that Thompson will follow me.

Stepping into a small alcove off to the side of the main room, near the bathrooms, I turn and look at him. He is obviously drunk, and I wonder how much of what I have to say to him is even going to stick in his head by tomorrow morning. I pause for a moment before I speak, afraid that what I might say could come out confrontationally, and that’s not what I want, not yet, anyway. “Thompson,” I say, looking down so that I can see into his eyes as he is much shorter than I am. “As you know, I wanted you to invite your wife to this social gathering. I think it is important that the company include family whenever possible.”

“Yes, sir, I know,” he says, his words slurring. “She’s here… somewhere.” He looks around, as if she has just wandered off, not as if he has told her to stand outside because he is ashamed of her.

I nod. “I am aware, Thompson. I found her standing outside by herself and invited her back inside.”

His eyes widen in surprise but then shrink again as he oscillates between what he wants to say and what he thinks I want him to say. Eventually, he settles on, “I’m so sorry she’s causing you problems.”

I take a deep breath through my nose. “On the contrary. Your wife is delightful. Unfortunately, she missed the dinner I had prepared for all of my guests.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately, Julia is not so good with punctuality.” He blames it on her.

I know it is not her fault. “Is that so?” I ask, my hands pushed deep into the pockets of my suit pants as I rock back and forth, trying to keep my temper. It is difficult for me to keep my patients with people like Jeff Thompson.

He sort of shrugs but since he is drunk, he nearly falls over. “I’ll make sure she gets something to eat when we get home.”

The way he says that makes me think he might be talking about something sexual, and it sickens me. “I’ve made sure she had dinner,” I assure him. The laugh that was about to come out of his mouth catches in his throat, and I can see now that he understands this is not funny to me. “I just wanted to make sure that you understand that the reason she came inside and is currently sitting in my suite, eating the same dinner everyone else was treated to, is because I insisted that she come. You wouldn’t be upset or angry about that, now would you, Thompson?” I ask, daring him to say that he would be.

“Of course not, sir,” he says, his eyes wide.

“Good. Because I want you to know that I do not appreciate men who belittle their wives. I don’t tolerate any sort of abuse or negativity of any kind, and if I were to find out that you were to go home and do something negative to your wife because of my insistence that she come inside and have something to eat, I would be… very distraught about that. I hope I’m making myself clear, because Thompson, you must know, if anything were to come of this, I would most certainly find out.”

He stares at me wide-eyed as he considers all that I’ve said, and I think there is a good chance he is hearing me, but I’m not convinced that he will follow what I am saying. He takes a deep breath and says, “I am always kind to my wife, sir.”

I nod and try to believe that, even though the exchange seems to convey to him that he’d better not yell at his wife when he gets home, I am not convinced. “Tomorrow morning, I would like to speak to you in my office at nine, understand?” I rest my hand on his shoulder to get my point across, not because I particularly like touching him.

He nods his head. “Yes, sir. I will be there.”

I pat his arm and move away from him before I am tempted to pat him harder. I know Thompson. Even if he was sober, he wouldn’t remember what I have told him. He most certainly will not be there at 9:00 in the morning, but in case he decides to take his frustration out on his wife, I will make sure that they are followed home so that I can check on her tomorrow. It simply won’t do to have a small, idiotic man like Jeff Thompson blaming his beautiful wife for his shortcomings.

I see several people who want my attention so I excuse myself from Thompson and head back across the room to speak to people I truly want to spend my time with.

Julia

I am not very hungry, even though the steak and potatoes Cindy has kindly brought to me taste wonderful. I make myself take a few bites as she sits on the sofa near me, making casual conversation. She has asked me about when I met Jeff and where we moved here from, and I have answered her between bites. Now, after four or five pieces of steak, I am nearing my limit. I’m nervous, and it’s difficult to eat something so heavy on a jittery stomach.

“Mr. Merriweather was very kind to provide dinner for me,” I say, thinking it might be time to set my fork aside. I look her in the eyes to see if she understands what I am getting at.

“He is very thoughtful,” she agrees. “Don’t feel obligated to eat all of it, though. If you’re finished, I’ll have it taken away.”

“Do you mind?” It seems so strange to me to have someone waiting on me. I’m not used to it at all. I can’t remember the last time anyone did anything for me.

“Not at all,” she says with a smile. Cindy stands and goes to the door she’d left earlier, not the one to the party but the other one. A moment later, a gentleman in the same outfit the other servers are wearing comes and takes away my plate. There’s still a lot of food on it, and I feel bad for wasting it, but being in Braxton Merriweather’s presence earlier has done this to me. The fact that I am still in his suite, that his bed is just on the other side of the room, has my pulse racing, though I know this is not his actual apartment, and I doubt he’s ever used that bed for anything.

But then, I can’t help but wonder if maybe he doesn’t sometimes bring a woman in here from a party. He has a bit of a reputation as a playboy and has been seen with all sorts of models, actresses, and famous singers. I look at the bed, and for a moment, I can imagine Braxton Merriweather naked on top of some woman, both of them grinding against one another, panting, groaning. My face goes red, and I have to look away.

If Cindy has noticed, she says nothing. “Would you care to rejoin the party?” she asks.

Remembering Jeff’s warning, that I needed to stay outside on the balcony, panic wells up inside of me again. What if he sees that I haven’t done what he asked. I check my phone and see that he is not looking for me. At least, he hasn’t sent a text or called. “Oh, uh….” I’m not sure what to say to Cindy.

“It’s fine, I assure you,” she says. “You can walk around with me. I can introduce you to some people. Mr. Merriweather has gone to let your husband know that he has invited you inside for dinner.”

My eyebrows shoot up. Jeff will be furious. Even though he will not let on to his boss that he is embarrassed by me, he will let me know the moment we are in private how disappointed he is in me. I hope that he will not strike me, but there’s no guarantee. Sometimes, he gets so angry… I know it is coming.

Cindy seems concerned. “Are you all right?” she asks me.

I nod. “I’m fine, thank you.” I take another drink of my champagne and end up draining the glass.

With a smile, Cindy offers her hand, and I take it. “It’ll be fine,” she says again, and I nod, even though I know that it won’t be. I can’t tell her that, though. I have my wrap now and I adjust it around my shoulders, remembering what Jeff said about showing too much cleavage.

“Such a lovely gown,” Cindy says, patting my arm. “You should show it off.”

I smile at her but can’t explain why I am wearing the shawl the way that I am. Someone like Cindy will never understand my situation.

We walk back out into the party, and across the expanse, I see Jeff. He looks angry. He’s standing with his friends, clearly drunk, swaying a bit as he speaks.

Then, my eyes fall on Braxton Merriweather, also standing with a group of people, but gentlemen and ladies. He also looks perturbed, though he is hiding it much better than my husband is.

Mr. Merriweather sees me staring at him, and I know I should look away, but I don’t. Cindy is introducing me to someone. I hear my name, but I don’t look away from Braxton’s eyes that seem to be peering into my soul, not until a man in a suit is standing between us, his hand offered for me to shake.

I have no idea who he is, but I shake it anyway and say, “It’s lovely to meet you.” He could be the King of Spain or the garbage collector, I have no idea. The only man I can pay any sort of attention to at all is Braxton Merriweather, and that makes my situation even more dangerous than it did before, when Jeff was the only man I was concerned with that might hurt me. Jeff could strike me, but Braxton had ways of hurting a person I couldn’t even register, especially a vulnerable woman like me in desperate need of attention from a strong, good looking man like him. He could ruin me in ways I hadn’t even thought of yet. And if I kept looking at him the way I had been a few minutes ago, before this person inserted his way into my line of vision, I had no doubt that Braxton Merriweather would do just that.