The Three Rs (13 page)

“You’re good at that. I still think a little more practice though, later on…”

“What?” I glance up at him, to catch his wicked grin. “Ah, right. You have a very dirty mind, Mr Parrish.”

“I did say I’d help you with your technique. And my dick’s so hard I could crack rocks with it, just watching you sucking on that ice cream…”

“Well, since it seems to be a health and safety issue.”

“Your concern does you credit, Miss Fischer. Maybe I could express my gratitude on your bare bottom later. Though your interest in spanking does somewhat suggest your tastes are not entirely vanilla.”

I shrug and can’t help shifting in my seat at the mention of another erotic spanking later. My buttocks clench happily as he continues.

“Yes, Miss Fischer, who’d have thought, under that unassuming exterior, you had such a kinky nature to go with your diligent attention to my welfare? You’re turning out to be an interesting asset to Parrish Construction. Who knows what your range of duties might eventually encompass?”

Who indeed? He’s yet to see my woeful attempts at running the Parrish Construction office. I suspect my duties there might soon be severely curtailed, unless I can find a suitable niche for myself. A long way from any of the paperwork he seems so hell-bent on shoving my way. I know it will be a disaster, but he just won’t listen. I’m not sure I entirely like the mention of my ‘unassuming exterior’ either, but I’d prefer to leave that stone undisturbed for now. I know my clothes are a little on the drab side, plain, ordinary. And above all, cheap. I don’t have a lot of spare cash to spend on good quality stuff. Actually, any spare cash I get goes on paints or canvases, and I’m happy with that. I don’t want to draw too much attention, I’m happy just getting along with my life. Or I was. Now, these things seem to matter. Before yesterday, I didn’t much care what Cain or anyone else thought of me. I’m here only because he insisted on it, or at least I was initially. But that’s changed. Now, I find I’m starting to want to stay. With Cain.

I’d like to find some way to…to what? To make this work? I really can’t see how though. I’m in no way qualified or suited to the role he seems to have envisaged for me, and apart from a mutual interest in pleasantly kinky sex, what else do we have in common?

“Hey, Abbie? What’s wrong?”

His concerned voice breaks into my thoughts, and I quickly lap at the large dollop of ice cream sliding down my fingers.

“Nothing. Really, I was just thinking.”

“You can think tomorrow. Today we’re having a day off. Let’s go walking.”

I turn to reach for my notepad. Cain’s ahead of me though and picks it up from the seat. He glances at me, one eyebrow raised in query, asking my permission before he looks. I see no reason why not, I’ve only been sketching the coastline and seabirds, so I shrug and gesture to him to go ahead. He looks at the picture I was just working on then glances at me, cocking his head to ask if he can look at more. I nod, and he slowly turns over the pages, studying my sketches and drawings. Some I took time over, most are just quick working sketches, things I saw and captured with a view to maybe using later.

He glances briefly at yesterday’s rendition of the Angel of the North then turns over more pages. He pauses over one particular drawing, and I lean around to see what it is. It’s him, a sketch I made the day I first met him, after he dropped me off at the art gallery. I forgot I’d done it. His face is clearly recognizable, though I’d certainly draw him differently now. In this picture his face is sharp, forbidding, uncompromising. He looks dangerous, angry, quite dark and brooding. If I drew him today he’d be laughing, definitely. Sexy, probably. Much more gentle, approachable. Likeable. Lovable.

He raises his eyes from the page to look at me. “Is this how you see me?”

There’s warmth in his gaze, his expression one of concern.

I shake my head. “At first, maybe. Not now. I drew that just after I met you. You—intimidated me back then. I think you did it on purpose.”

He glances at me sharply. “Yes, maybe I did. And now?”

“Not now. Especially not now. Not after…”

“Not after last night?” He smiles at my slight nod. “That’s a relief. A little healthy trepidation works fine, adds some spice to a spanking, but for what I have in mind for you, it really wouldn’t do if you were seriously afraid of me.”

My chin lifts. “I see. And what do you have in mind?”

“Later, Miss Fischer. Now, I’m still looking at your etchings. These really are good, you know. You’ve a serious talent here.”

“Thanks. I like drawing, painting. I wish…” I drop my gaze, wondering how much of my secret ambitions I can share. I can hardly tell him that my first thought, on learning I’d come into possession of over half his business, was that I might sell it to raise money I could use to set myself up as an independent artist and illustrator.

“What is it you wish, Abbie?” He reaches for me, cups my chin and tilts my face up to look at him. He holds my gaze, and waits.

Eventually, I give in. Partly.

“I’d like to be a professional artist. Maybe illustrate children’s books.” Especially very young children’s books as I can just about read those.

“So, why the job as a cleaner? Why aren’t you working as an artist then? Or going to college at least?”

Why indeed?
I shrug. “It’s just a dream, that’s all. I like cleaning too.”

I hold out my hand for my sketchpad, and he gives it to me. His expression suggests though that this conversation may not be over. As far as I’m concerned it is, so I shove my pad quickly into my rucksack and sling it over my shoulder.

“What about that walk?” I open the van door and scramble down to the ground. I start to walk away in the direction of some rough steps leading down to the beach, and he quickly falls in alongside me. I’m reminded sharply of our first meeting. He pursued me then, and I suspect he’ll continue to do so, until he pries all my secrets from me. Or until the determined Mr Stephenson finally hits on an exit route for us all. I’m not sure which I’d prefer. Meanwhile though, I make no comment as he reaches for my hand and we make our way slowly along the sharp, damp sand, parallel with the lapping waves of the North Sea, our fingers loosely entwined.

* * * *

We’re both stuffed from the massive lunch. Even our exertions plodding along miles of rough beach have done little to re-kindle our appetites. We arrive back at Cain’s house late in the afternoon, and apart from our habitual coffee, we’re not in the mood for much else. Well, not food, certainly.

“I have some emails to catch up with, and a tender to make a start on. Will you be all right for an hour or two? Unless you feel like helping me, that is?”

I feel guilty as I shake my head. I’ve nothing better to do, that’s for sure. He’ll think I’m just refusing to pull my weight, and I know his opinion on that already. He made it plain enough when he was insisting I come to Berwick and work for Parrish Construction. I think fast to come up with something resembling a good reason for ducking out of the paperwork.

“I have a bit of a headache. Maybe I’ll just go and lie down for a while…”

At once he’s all concern. “Of course. I thought you were rather quiet this afternoon. Can I get you anything? I must have some Anadin around here somewhere.”

“No. No, thank you. Just a lie down will be fine. I’ll use my room.”

“No, use mine. Ours. If you don’t mind, that is…?”

Now I do feel guilty. Not only am I lying to him, but I’m taking advantage of his kindness and concern. I slope off upstairs before he offers me anything else, any other evidence of his decency and compassion that I’ll find myself obliged to ungraciously refuse.

Once in Cain’s room, the curtains closed to lend an aura of authenticity, just in case he comes up to check how I am, I have plenty of time to think about my predicament. Later this evening I have no doubt he’ll be amenable to another torrid session of spanking, fucking and all points in-between. That’s rather my hope as well, but I’ll have to fake a miraculous recovery first.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow my promising career as a fraud really goes up a gear or two as I’ll have to try to convince not only Cain but also his efficient and loyal office manager, that I’m not entirely incompetent. I’ve yet to meet Phyllis Benson, but I’ve no reason to suspect she’s anything less than sharp. As is Cain. My deception won’t last long. Then what?

I’d be of limited use, even as some sort of laborer or apprentice. But in any case, Cain’s made it clear he has no need of that. No. I’m to learn the ropes as Mrs Benson’s assistant with a view to taking over her duties when she retires. I mull over the sorts of tasks that are likely to come my way, but I’ve only the vaguest idea what they might be. Filing? Possibly opening the mail? Cain mentioned finance, invoices, accounts. Apart from in the broadest terms, I’ve pretty much no notion what any of those things are, and certainly no idea what I’d need to do to make myself useful around the office. I could perhaps staple bits of paper together, or work a shredder, but that about sums it up.

Or I could come clean. I could explain why I’m so not cut out for this. Cain seemed fierce at first, not a man I’d choose to confide in, certainly not about something so personal. But now? Could I? I know him better now. I’ve discovered that he’s kind, gentle, fun, a tender lover and a pleasant companion. And I’ve also found out how absolutely serious he is about Parrish Construction, how completely driven he is as far as his business is concerned. If he knew I couldn’t read and write even as well as the average eight–year-old, he’d certainly not want me around his paperwork, messing with his admin, his financial records. The question is—would he want me anywhere at all?

He wouldn’t insist on me working for him, I’m pretty sure of that. In fact, he probably wouldn’t be able to get me out of there fast enough. He’d have no use for me. He’d be incredulous, stunned, as everyone is. Because everyone can read and write. Well, everyone I know, except me. There’s no excuse for illiteracy, no earthly reason for someone to get to my advanced age of twenty-two, unable to string more than a few letters together. It’s not as though I don’t have a decent vocabulary, I just can’t recognize the words when they’re written down. I like to think I’m not stupid. I can get by, pretty well, relying on my excellent memory and using other clues to fill in gaps. I recognize company logos, memorize them religiously, my mental arithmetic is really very good indeed. I’ve had to compensate, and although lots of things are hard for me, or just plain impossible, I do get by. Always have, and I always will.

Maybe, one day, if I get time, and if I manage to convince myself that I could stand the mortification of having to go to ‘special’ tuition classes, I might do something about it. I could read, probably, if I bothered. I could learn. I just—haven’t. And now, tomorrow, my chickens will be home to roost.

Chapter Eight

“How’s the head?” Cain’s voice is low, soft, as he crouches beside me in the semi-darkness. I must have fallen asleep, I never heard him come in. I struggle to sit up, and he reaches to help me, arranging a pillow behind my shoulders.

“Feeling better?” he asks me again, sounding concerned.

I nod, smiling at him apologetically and feeling like a total fraud. “I’m fine. Much better. Did you finish your work?”

“Enough for now. I was wondering how you were, and if you might be hungry yet?”

“A little. Not much. What about you? Maybe I could fix us a snack. We did agree I’d cook today…”

“No need. I’ve sent out for pizza. Are you coming down, or are we having a picnic in bed?”

A bed picnic?
My mother used to let me do that when I was little and ill. Really ill, obviously, not pretending like I am now. Back then, before the transplant, I was often too weak to come down for my meals. I imagine Cain’s version could be very different.

Not on this occasion, however. My just deserts for claiming to be ill are that he flatly refuses to contemplate even the mildest spanking on the grounds that there’s no such thing. He’ll do it right or not at all, and in his view, my currently delicate frame is not up to such exertions. And his view is the one that counts in this matter. Instead, he convinces me to get undressed—nightie optional—and to stay in bed while he sorts out food. Earlier I simply lay down fully dressed on the top of his duvet, not intending to stay here for very long. But now I do as he’s suggested, choosing to slip a loose T-shirt over my otherwise naked body and snuggle under the quilt to wait for my meal. Cain brings the pizza up on a tray, with a complementary two liter bottle of cola, a couple of tubs of coleslaw and some potato wedges. The whole thing is delicious. I’d have preferred the spanking, but this is a close second.

Also, it’s quite nice to feel cared about. Cain pampers and fusses over me almost as much as my mother used to, urging me to eat more, pouring my drinks for me, plumping up my pillows. He’s a regular Florence Nightingale, and I feel absolutely wretched that I’m lying to him. I’m taking advantage of his kindness and consideration. And this won’t be the last time. I’m going to be heaping lie upon lie in the days and weeks to come in order to conceal my shameful secret.

* * * *

Later, as I lie in bed waiting for sleep which is showing no signs of coming, I turn that prospect over in my head. I loathe the thought of the deception to come. It can only get worse. I’m basically an honest person—this doesn’t sit well with me.