Page 39 of Hired Help

“I just wanted to explain,” she says, her chest hitching between every word. “I never meant to—”

“To what? Never meant to hurt me. To embarrass my son. To treat us both like worthless pawns in whatever game it is you’re playing.”

I push past her, topping up my drink again and pouring her one to feel better about my consumption.

She takes a sip, wrinkling her nose, then opens her throat and downs the entire glass, holding it back out to me for a refill. I oblige, biting my bottom lip to keep from speaking. An endeavour that’s instantly thrown out the window as I realise shereallyshouldn’t be here.

“How do you know where I live?”

She gives a lopsided shrug. “My dad employs a PI. I gave him the few details I had on you and asked for more.”

“When?”

Her eyes flit to mine, then drop to her glass. She takes a sip, licking her lips afterwards like she can’t stand to waste a single drop. “Before I met up with you for the first time. I wanted to make sure you weren’t…” She ends with a shrug.

It makes sense someone with her resources would be cautious but it’s another sting. I thought it was such a big deal to tell her my real name but all along, she knew exactly who I was.

“Nice to know I passed your test.”

“Harrison hurt me. I wanted him to tell me why.”

“And now you’ve hurt me, too. I’m so happy you dragged me into your vendetta.”

She takes another sip, her knuckles white with the force of her grip on the tumbler. “I didn’t know you.”

“You didn’t know me a month ago,” I correct her, my white-hot fury receding into a bubbling morass of despair. “You sure as shit knew me four hours ago when I suggested we could go to a movie instead.”

Her jaw clenches hard, nostrils flaring, but she doesn’t cry. Her eyes seek mine out, holding the gaze steady, taking ownership of what she’s done.

It would be admirable if I didn’t want to wring her tiny neck. Maybe in the morning I’ll be able to think of it that way, but not right now. Not while I’m still reeling from shock.

“Once you’ve finished your drink, I want you to go,” I tell her just in case she had other ideas. “I’m exhausted.”

“I can’t go back to school. Not while—”

“Then book yourself a hotel room. You’ve got the funds.”

Her face crumples in on itself in slow motion, starting a tremor that soon vibrates through every limb. She gulps the last of the drink and I take the glass from her fingers before it can drop and shatter on the floor.

“Please can I stay?”

I shake my head. “Even if you haven’t irreparably fucked things for me and my son, I never want to see you again.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath. “I’ve still paid you for the rest of the week.”

For a tiny moment, I think I’ve misheard. I think she must have said something witty, a light joke to ease the mood, but my brain untangles all the separate syllables and reworks them, unable to find another way they fit.

“You’re kidding me.”

She shifts her weight, cupping her elbows again. “I paid through Wednesday. We have a contract.”

I shove my glass onto the counter and grab her arm, pulling her towards the front door, picking her up when she tries to drag her feet and unceremoniously dumping her outside.

“I’ll refund your money. Now, fuck off.”

It doesn’t go far towards giving me reparations, but I get a small measure of satisfaction when I slam the door in her face.

The locks go back on, and I retreat to the kitchen, tidying up and tipping the bottle out in the sink to stop me drinking more. The evening keeps repeating on me in rancid burps, flurries of sounds and images.

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