It's 9:30 p.m. I've already washed the day off and curled up beside a stack of fashion magazines on my bed just waiting for my body to slip off into the dream world. As soon as my eyes begin fluttering shut, my phone lights up and buzzes.
"Good evening, I need you to meet me at my penthouse? The one in Encino. It shouldn't be too far from your house. I'll send the address. My nose seems . . . off."
"Off?"
"It feels off, but I'm too scared to look."
Mr. Fabrizi always acts like a child when it comes to being sick or dealing with minor injuries. His nose is probably just bruised—but I'm the one who caused it, so guilt nags at me as I reluctantly start getting up. When he texts the address, I end the call and throw on the first outfit I can find, a mismatched pairing of baby blue and yellow.
I've dropped him off at this penthouse before but was never invited inside. I always wondered what it looked like at this place. Knowing his tastes, based on his Beverly Hills home, it's probably bland. And I'm right—though bland is too kind. The space is practically empty, bordering on unlivable. When he first opens the door, I don't notice how pale he looks against his black long-sleeved pajamas until he steps under the LED lights in the walkway. The decor may be dull, but the view steals my breath: Encino stretched out beneath us, neon signs glowing and car lights threading the always busy streets. I want to walk toward the massive windows, but the tired walk of Mr. Fabrizi catches my attention as he makes his way upstairs. I follow—my eyes tracing the absence of tanning across his face and neck as I match his pace to his room. I wonder why he stopped tanning. He's clearly missed more than a couple of Sunday appointments. My curiosity dies when he collapses against his headboard, exposing the full view of his bruise across his nose.
"I'll be right back," I say, and head back downstairs.
The freezer drawer is nearly bare, but I find an ice pack. When I return to his room, I place it right by his hand. He doesn't move. Instead, he watches me with that stubborn expression that says he won't ask for help. With an annoyed sigh, I pick it up and press the pack gently against his nose, steadying his head with my other hand. The moment my fingers graze his hair, a jolt of something—electric, unwanted—shoots through me.
"Ouch," he exclaims, dramatically.
"Sorry," I whisper, easing my touch.
The angle is awkward, my arm cradling his head feels too—intimate. Adjusting my crouched over position, I shift my body to the edge of the mattress; keeping an appropriate space between us.
"The back of my head hurts. Can you move your hand?"
As I adjust my hand, I notice something—a bulging scar carved into the back of his scalp. His eyes are closed, so I take the opportunity to lean in. Before I can stop myself, my thumb traces it. The raised line is old, ugly, and I've never read or heard anything about him being injured in my ten years of working for him. His eyes snap open. I know immediately I've crossed a line.
He pulls up against the headboard to hide the scar, and I retreat, focusing once more on his nose and my other hand holding the ice pack. When I lift it away to look at his nose again, my eyebrows shoot up.
Oh shit. I think it's broken.
He'll definitely never let me fix it. But I bite my lip, go with my gut, and place my fingers firmly around his nose.
"Ouch!" he yells out, his expression horror-stricken, as though I'd stabbed him.
"You're welcome. Your nose was broken, and I just fixed it."
"You sure you fixed it?"
Instead of arguing, he flips on the television, landing on some random show to distract himself from the pain. I expect silence to settle between us, but then he shifts a bit my way and says,
"You were good at volleyball. I didn't know you could play. Even though you went a bit crazy later on."
Crazy I thought. What does he mean by that?
"You did tell us to win. I'm sorry about spiking the ball into your face," I mutter, keeping my gaze glued to the screen.
"Well—that part too. But I meant how eager you were to win, to the point where flirting with the other team seemed necessary."
I sit up, glaring at him.
"Flirting with the other team?"
"With that man from Nylon. You two were practically in each other's arms. I'm surprised no one thought you were dating."
Andrew? Is he really talking about Andrew?
"Standing next to a man doesn't mean we're dating. And we were not in each other's personal space," I state clearly and a little too loud.
More silence until an ad pops on.
"Really? Didn't look that way when he was on top of you," he mutters, glancing at me before looking back at the TV.
I open my mouth to explain Andrew's fall, but then I notice his leg press moving until it stops an inch from touching mine. Then he takes the ice pack from his nose, sets it aside, and locks eyes with me.
"Is this okay for personal space," he whispers.
I want to laugh.
Is he really testing me right now? And what's with his sudden whispering?
When I don't respond, his leg edges closer—now making contact.
"Is this not invading personal space?" he presses, watching the screen.
"No, actually it's not," I fire back. "I've stood closer in an elevator with coworkers. If you think this is invading someone's personal space to the point you think someone's dating—then you're obviously lacking innocent human connection."
I shouldn't have said that because in one deliberate move, he slides all the way against me, his shoulder and back pressing into my side. I freeze, alarms screaming inside me, but my voice fails. My silence must sound like consent, because he shifts even more, one hand braced behind my hip that's already beginning to slip off the bed. And then—my whole balance tips, and I tumble off. Unfortunately, he was so close to me, he also fell. His weight hovers above; elbows planted by my ears to keep from crushing me. For a moment, we're face to face, caught in some spell neither of us breaks. Then a drop of blood from his freshly reset nose splatters against my cheek. I shove him away and scramble upright.
"I'll get tissues. Your nose is bleeding again," I stammer out.
Downstairs, the pristine kitchen offers little that I can offer as a distraction—no food, just drinks, a box of tea, and whiskey bottles shoved into a cabinet corner.
When did he start drinking?
I finally found the paper towels in the guest bathroom. And then I stay there. Not trapped physically, but trapped by embarrassment.
What the hell just happened upstairs?
When my heartbeat calms, I drift to the dining table by the wide windows and lose myself in the city lights. Later, when I feel like enough time has passed, I creep back upstairs. He's fast asleep in bed. Knowing how late it is, he probably already took a melatonin gummy.
Carefully, I wedge a paper towel into both nostrils and turn off the TV. Then, I grab the ice pack and head back downstairs and set it into the sink. I should leave—but I can't for some reason.
What if he needs me when he wakes up?
But the other part of my brain screams out, Who cares? He's a grown man for hell's sake.
I return to my seat at the table—simply admiring the view from way up here. My phone suddenly buzzes and I hit silence; scared the ringer will wake him up. It's Summer calling. As soon as I answered, she couldn't stop talking about Vegas. She's so excited to share which celebrities she bumped into at this one casino, she doesn't notice my hushed responses back. By the time we hang up, I realize the time: 12:30am.
Crap. I should leave.
I'm almost out the door when a groan drifts from upstairs.
"Is he up?" I whisper to myself.
"No!" His voice rips through the air, raw and unnatural.
I freeze.
"Stop," he cries suddenly. "Help me, please!"
His voice doesn't sound like his own.
"Mr. Fabrizi? Are you okay?" I called out.
No response. Against every warning for me not to do it, I creep back upstairs. He's standing at the edge of the bed, eyes closed, teetering forward.
"Ennio," I scream out.
His head jerks toward the sound, but he doesn't wake.
Is this some type of prank?
I reach out carefully, brushing his arm and then he screams! The sound shatters me into place as he stumbles backward, thrashing, reaching for something unseen. When I'm able to move towards him, I find his eyes shut way too tight; clenched so tightly the skin around them creases deep. I steel myself, press my hand to his—and then unexpectedly—a sharp slap explodes against my cheek. My face burns. My mind goes silent.