Crushed (Crystal Brook Billionaires) (35 page)

I can’t move my feet. Was Mr. Mulroney just
nice
to me?

Or was he only temporarily reining in the sexual assault that’s sure to soon return?

He’s just trying to get you to like him. He’s manipulating your emotions.

I run a hand through my hair. It doesn’t matter. Whatever game he’s playing, I won’t be a player.
Or a pawn.

Daniel, Dana, and Chuck arrive and we get busy for the day. Apparently, most of working for Mr. Mulroney involves taking messages, making appointments and phone calls, and running errands. It’s fine by me. I don’t quite know why the man needs four assistants all to himself, but whatever.

At ten, his office door opens. He walks through without looking at any of us. “I’m leaving for the day,” he announces. A second later, he’s gone.

From Dana’s desk, where I’m busy writing addresses on thank you notes for some past event at the modern art museum, I stare at the empty doorway. So that was it? No goodbye? No even looking at us? And yet, why am I surprised?

I lick my dry lips. Just because he told me my hair looks good doesn’t mean his whole attitude has suddenly changed.

Across the room, Daniel closes his laptop. “I’m taking lunch early.”

“Me too,” Chuck says.

They both stand up.

Dana shoots them a dirty look. “Who’s going to take that script to Murakami’s house?”

Daniel shrugs. “You?”

“Why can’t you email it?” Chuck asks, not even looking at her.

Dana sighs and drops her face in her hands. “Because the guy is super old fashioned. He still thinks it’s, like, nineteen sixty-five or something. He expects everything to be hand delivered to him.”

“Bummer,” Daniel says. “Have fun with that.”

He goes to the door and holds it open for Chuck.

Dana turns to me and pushes her glasses to the top of her head. “Dumb asses. I’ve been trying to get Mr. Mulroney to can them for months, but he seems to think they’re useful.”

I give her a sympathetic look. “Sorry. Maybe it’s some kind of secret bro loyalty thing. You know, like the Freemasons.”

She purses her lips. “It’s typical. I’m going to have you take the script.”

“Okay. Where is it going?”

“To this house in Beverly Hills.” She hands me a post-it note with an address written on it. “You can just drop it off with whoever answers the door. They’re expecting it. Here.” Out of the top drawer of her desk, she retrieves a manila envelope, thick with the script.

“Be back soon,” I promise. Although it’s not going to be
too
soon. A chance to escape the confines of the office for a bit can’t be squandered.

Once in the car, I plug the address into my GPS. With traffic, it will take around thirty minutes to get to the house, so I turn the radio to my favorite alternative station and crank it up.

The whole drive, only one thing is on my mind. One person, really.

I hate myself for not being able to stop thinking about Mr. Mulroney, for not being able to quit always trying to figure out why he does what he does. Most aggravating of all is the way he was actually nice to me this morning. It’ll be hard to continue disliking him if I can’t count on him doing something seedy or creepy each day.

“The man is a pig,” I whisper out loud, in order to remind myself. He proved just as much on the very first day.

I just want to know why.

I turn the music down when I get to the Beverly Hills neighborhood. As I get closer to my destination, the houses become bigger and the cars parked on the streets nicer and nicer. I drive slowly past the address, taking note of the closed gate leading up to the two story white house.

I nibble my bottom lip, uncertain about whether to try the gate or not. Opting for the street, I park in a spot a couple houses down, then reach for my backpack and the manila folder on the seat.

My hand freezes. For the first time, I’ve noticed the name written on the front. John Murakami.

Dana said the script was going to a Murakami, but I hadn’t really put two and two together until now. My heart beats faster and I nervously clutch the envelope.

I wouldn’t say John Murakami is one of my absolute favorite directors, but I’ve seen all his films, and he’s pretty hot shit. Just the idea of talking to him makes me anxious.

I exhale heavily. “Okay. Just chill.”

Climbing out of the car, I straighten my posture and head down the sidewalk. Suddenly, the task I’ve been given seems incredibly important. What
is
this script Mr. Mulroney is sending John Murakami? Are they talking about producing a new film together?

There’s a smaller gate next to the driveway leading into a garden. I unlatch it and cross the threshold. The yard is simple, with lots of bright green grass and a stone walkway leading straight across it. Smoothing my hair, I head for the front door.

The second I ring the doorbell, dogs begin barking from somewhere deep in the innards of the house. A female voice shushes them, and then the door opens.

A small woman with tan skin and brown hair looks at me expectantly. “Yes? Hello.”

“Hi,” I say, smiling brightly. “I’m from Mr. Simon Mulroney’s office. I’m dropping a script off for Mr. Murakami.”

“Oh.” She humorously taps the side of her head. “I forgot that was being delivered. Come right in.”

She ushers me into the foyer. In a doorway to the dining room, two large golden retrievers sit, wagging their tails excitedly.

“Stay,” the woman commands them before turning to me. “This way, honey. Come into the kitchen.”

“Okay,” I say, drawing out the word.

Being invited in was something I did
not
expect. Surreptitiously taking in the surroundings, I follow the lady down the hallway and into a kitchen overlooking the backyard.

“I’m Marie,” she says, going to the stove. “John’s wife. Have a seat. I’ll make some tea.”

“Thanks.” I drop my backpack on one of the bar stools at the kitchen island and sit down next to it. “I’m Sydney.”

“Sydney,” she coos, sliding the name over her tongue. “That’s pretty. Are you a student?”

“I just graduated.”

“Oh.” She fills up a tea kettle and sets it on the stove, then turns to me. The smile on her face is odd, but not easily placed. Is it… strained? Sympathetic? “And how do you like working at Mulroney Pictures?” She crinkles her nose as if she smells something bad.

I hold back a laugh. So apparently Simon Mulroney’s reputation can’t be understated enough. “This is my third day, but I like it very much.” I smile back at her.

Marie cocks her head. “Well good. That’s nice to hear. You’re such a trooper.” She turns again, busying herself with gathering mugs and tea bags.

“Is Mr. Murakami around?” I casually ask, setting the envelope down on the counter.

“He won’t be back until this afternoon.” The tea kettle whistles and she pours the water before setting a cup down in front of me.

“Thank you.” I don’t drink much tea, but the warmth of it is comforting, even as hot as the day is. I wrap my hands around the mug and desperately try to think of something to say next.

Marie blows on her tea and leans against the counter. “John’s done two pictures with the company since Simon took over.”

“Oh,” I say, nodding to the kind woman. “Cool.”

“Do you want my advice?”

“Um, okay.”

Her face is carefully blank. “Watch yourself around him.”

You don’t have to tell me.

However, I’m eager to know whatever Marie does. “Regarding what, exactly?” I ask.

Marie’s laugh is as dry as the desert. “Everything. Here’s the thing about your new boss. He’s not trying to be a bad guy; he just doesn’t know quite how to be a good one.”

Now I’m intrigued. “You think?”

“It’s not a surprise, of course. With his past and everything, you can’t expect much more.”

I want to ask Marie if sex games in the office are part of what she’s talking about. I bite my tongue, resolving to not drop
that
bomb.

She mentioned his
past
though… which has me super curious. Before I can ask, a buzzing fills the air. I look down at my backpack. The top of my phone peeks out from the side pocket, lighting up as it rings. “Sorry, I should check this.”

I pull the phone out and frown at the screen. It’s Dana. Have I stayed away from the office too long? Maybe Chuck and Daniel haven’t returned from lunch yet, and Dana is swamped with… with what? A sudden delivery of two dozen ferns?

As I ponder the multitude of possibilities, the phone stops ringing. I missed her call.

“I should probably go,” I slowly say. Not that I want to. If I had my choice, I would be rooting around in John Murakami’s living room, seeing what books he reads and looking for clues as to where his inspiration and talent come from.

Marie wrinkles her nose. “Sorry. I kept you too long.”

“Oh, no!” I quickly say. I bite my lip, debating how to continue. “Thank you for telling me about, you know… for giving me advice.”

She puts her mug down. “I’ll walk you out.”

The moment is gone. If Marie was going to drop additional juicy tidbits on my boss, she isn’t anymore. Maybe she even regrets bringing the topic up.

I let her walk me to the front door. She waves as I open the gate and then goes back inside. Smiling to myself, I hop to the car.

Damn, what a nice woman.

Maybe if I’m lucky, Mr. Murakami will be old school about emails as well, and I’ll end up delivering hand written notes to his house on a daily basis.

Once I close the door, I call Dana back, but she doesn’t answer. My heartbeat picks up. Maybe she’s mad at me for not answering. Maybe she’s freaking out, trying to handle the office without anyone else there.

I drive ten miles above the speed limit the entire way back, nervously checking my rear view mirror for cops every twenty seconds.

Dana is anything but overwhelmed. Instead, she sits at her desk with her legs stretched out across the surface. She’s swiping across the tablet in her hands, but whether she’s looking at this week’s schedule or playing a game, it’s hard to say.

“Hi,” I say, the word heaving from my lungs. I really need to run more often. I’m in terrible shape.

“What took you so long?”

“Did I take a long time?” I feign surprise. “Sorry. Mr. Murakami’s wife wanted to talk a little bit. I didn’t want to be rude. Where are the guys?”

Dana shrugs and plops her feet back on the floor. “I imagine they’ll be back when it suits them.”

“Oh.” I give her statement some thought. “You all seemed so busy the first day I came in here.”

“That’s because You-Know-Who was here that day.”

“Oh. Got it. You mean Voldemort, right?”

Dana laughs and I grin back. She leans forward against the desk and studies my face. “He likes you, you know.”

I freeze, my backpack half way off my shoulders. “What do you mean?”

She rolls her eyes, and the pink tips of her blonde hair swings as she sits back in her chair. “Mr. Mulroney, he likes you. He would have gotten rid of you by now if he didn’t.”

My lips are extremely dry. “That’s good. Right?”

She smiles. “Right. Of course it’s good.”

I clear my throat. “Good.”

Do not read into that statement, Sydney. Do not do it.

“He likes you too, then,” I say. “And Chuck and Daniel as well.”

She makes a face. “He likes us, all right.” She pauses and chews on her bottom lip. “Maybe I’m using the word ‘like’ too loosely. I guess I should say he
tolerates
us.”

So I was reading into it.

“So,” I slowly say, looking around for some emergency filing. “Is there anything I should be doing right now?”

She shrugs. “You could water the plants.”

“Cool.”

Dana chortles and pulls her phone out of her pocket. “The watering can is in the closet at the other end of the hall. Have fun.”

*

Thursday and Friday creep by with no signs of Mr. Mulroney. Chuck and Daniel show up for work but leave early both days. I stay with Dana until five o’clock, even though she runs out of menial tasks to give me long before the end of each day.

On Friday, I collapse onto the couch the second I get through the apartment’s front door. My face down into the pillow, I take a deep breath. Beat isn’t exactly the right way to describe how I feel. The last couple days have been anything but taxing.

Emotionally, though, I’m a different story. The last two nights, Mr. Mulroney visited my dreams. Each morning, I woke up, hoping to see him and afraid of seeing him at the same time.

I reach for the remote on the coffee table. The bathroom door opens and Eryk walks out. Except it’s not actually Eryk. It’s a tall, lithe man built a lot like Eryk. The difference being this guy is pale with black hair. Oh, yeah. And he’s buck naked. I bolt up into a sitting position, not sure whether to scream or laugh.

Eryk was right about rapists,
is the first coherent thought that flashes through my mind. A second later, I realize how stupid it is to think a rapist is walking around the apartment naked, just ready to go.

“Hey,” the guy casually says before sauntering across the rug, heading into the hallway towards the bedrooms. He’s a little too friendly to be the raping type.

As I have that thought, the front door opens and Eryk enters carrying two paper bags of groceries. “Hi-ho!” he sings out. “What’s up?”

“There’s a naked man in the apartment,” I whisper through gritted teeth, hoping said naked man can’t hear me.

For a second, he looks confused, then understanding washes over his face. “That’s just Brian.”

“Brian?”

“Yeah, you know. We’ve gone out a few times.” He winks at me. “He spent the night last night.”

I blink rapidly, the anger rising in my chest. “Eryk, it’s five-thirty in the afternoon. It’s almost night time. Why is he still here? And better yet,
why
is he naked?”

Eryk’s perfectly arched eyebrows bunch together. “We just woke up a couple hours ago. You know I close on Thursdays. Why are you in such a pissy mood?”