I keep house for Nick Rhodes.
That is to say, I'm his housekeeper. The agency sent me over a few months ago; I thought it might have been a one time assignment, as he's never really home, but he likes someone to come in everyday. So hey, that's easy, keeping a clean house clean. I have my routine. When I first walk in the door, I scratch Yag behind the ears. He's not a super friendly cat, but in the absence of any company, he has grown to tolerate me. I know he secretly likes me. Yag is a lot like his master, reserved, but secretly purring on the inside.
It gets kinda lonely though. I often dust the glass shelves, looking at the pictures of Mr. Rhodes and his family, his girlfriend, his friends. I imagine myself in the picture, sitting on the front row, at the club, getting out of the limo, the lights flashing. Why, yes, I would like more champagne. No, you look fabulous, daaaling. I swirl my duster around like a magic wand. Bibbitty, bobbitty, boo! My daydreams last throughout the boring day, propelling me through my mundane chores.
Mr. Rhodes is in the United States on his summer tour. I don't like to play his stereo too loud, so I bring my I-Pod to work and blast 80's dance hits in my ear. Today, it's a new song, "Get Low." "Get low, get low," I drawl out to the top of my lungs. My duster has become a whip. I am scantily clad in a leather outfit with thigh high crimson latex boots. I grip my pole, a brass side to a curio cabinet in the main hall, undulating carefully to the music. The disco lights are flashing around me, and I can see the hungry looks of the men in the front row. "Get low, get low," I mouth to them. They are hot for me. They want me. "Kelly," they scream. "Kelly. What the hell?"
Mr. Rhodes is standing in the front hall with his mouth open. His bags lay in a heap by his feet and his button down shirt is hanging sloppily from the front of his suit. Mr. Rhodes is home. I pull the earplugs out of my ear; the music is so loud that we both can hear Florida crooning through the hallway. I fumble for the volume. My duster has drooped like a shunned peacock.
Mr. Rhodes is staring at me with a funny look, like he has never seen me before. I stare back and tuck a stray curl behind my ear.
"Hello, Kelly," he says evenly. His face is expressionless.
"Hello, Mr. Rhodes," I say quickly. My face feels like it's on fire. I immediately grab the smallest bag and high-tail it towards the bedroom. "Is there anything in the kitchen?" he asks down the hall. I can hear him making his way towards the kitchen. You see, that's another one of my duties. I go to the store, buy the groceries. He's not home for dinner much and he doesn't expect me to cook, but before he left on tour, I started fixing a few vegetarian dishes and just leaving them wrapped in the refrigerator for him to heat up when he came home late. It wasn't in the agency contract, but I did it anyways.
Well, there is nothing in the kitchen. He hasn't been home in weeks. I bet even the bread is completely covered in green. I cringe. "I don't think there's much," I say with a lilt. Maybe it's not too late to run to the store. "Can I order you something?" I grab another bag and rush down the hall. No answer.
I have carried all the bags back. There is still silence coming from the kitchen. I pick up my duster from the floor where I left it and absently run it over the hall table. It is getting late anyway; I am usually gone by this time. I can see the dark through the curtains. I need to go through the house and pull the curtains shut and then I'll go.
"Kelly!" I hear from the kitchen. 'Kelly, come here, please."
It is the tone of his voice that immediately sets me on alarm. An even tone, but with an edge to it. Mr. Rhodes never yells, but I have seen him pretty unhappy. I'd stand better chances with Satan, himself. I'm in trouble.
I walk in and Mr. Rhodes is standing next to a high backed stool that pulls up to the bar. He locks eyes with me as I walk in, deep green eyes. Like a green ocean. The kind of eyes that somebody could drown in.
"What is this?" he asks, pointing to the chair. His voice is hard and even; I have memories of my high school principal. I look down at the chair. This must be a trick question, I think. I bite my lip. A chair? I want to say it, but resist.
"This!" he says. Now he might be close to yelling. I look closely at the cushion. At first, it looks like cat poo, but I can tell it is another one of Yag's hairballs that he coughed up. I squish up my nose, but remain silent. I think Mr. Rhodes knows it is a hairball.
"How long do you think it's been here?" he questions. I think I know the answer to this question. It looks pretty old. And I know why he's asking it.
He very adamantly told me months before he left that he wanted the kitchen cushions vacuumed everyday to suck up the cat fur. That was one thing that really bugged him-- getting ready to eat his cheese sandwich and finding a grayish hair stuck to it. He even added the task into my agency contract. But with him gone, I had been a little lax in vacuuming every day. OK, I hadn't vacuumed since the man walked out the door. I felt shame and guilt wash over me . I didn't know what to say. I hadn't been to the store, I hadn't cleaned the chairs. Maybe he would think that I sat around and watched soap operas all day. Well, I had looked at a few. All right, I was downright hooked on a few of them, and my TV was on the fritz. I couldn't look at him. I could feel the heat from his stare burning a hole in the top of my head.
He strides out the door, stopping at the edge of the kitchen. "Come with me." He heads down the hall.
I obediently follow him down the hall. Here he goes, I think. He's going to find my paperwork and tear it up in front of my face. "You're fired," I imagine him saying. On to another job. But maybe the agency would fire me after losing a high profile contract like him. I have skills, I think encouragingly.
But he doesn't stop at his office. He goes all the way back to his bedroom. In fact, he is standing in the center of his bedroom waiting for me to come in the door.
Now, I've been in Nick Rhodes bedroom before. I know that there are a lot of girls who would like to say that! I've changed his sheets countless times. But it looks different now. It's because he's standing in it. Everything looks different, more masculine, more HIS.
He quietly walks to the door and shuts it. He has cut off my escape route. The hair on the back of my head is standing up. He walks back and takes a stance right in front on me with his arms folded.
"What do you think I should do with you, Kelly?"
His low deep voice wraps around me. I stare into his eyes, unable to look away. My mouth opens and closes like a goldfish that has flipped out of its bowl. Maybe he's going to kill me, I think blindly. I am definitely afraid. My legs are starting to tremble, and I will myself not to pass out on the floor. I realize that I am still holding my duster, and I contemplate how I would use it as a weapon.
I cannot hold his stare, so my eyes drift downward. His arms are crossed and his hand is absently rubbing a spot on his elbow and I watch, mesmerized, the gentle motion of his fingers lulling me out of my fear and into a dream. His fingers stop moving, hovering over the spot on his jacket, the perfectly manicured nails floating as if suspended in midair. His hands are much bigger than one would think. That is one thing about Nick Rhodes- he has beautiful hands, quiet and still, until he speaks, and then they flutter like birds. I could see the muscles pull against the knuckles, making the pale skin ripple. There were light tufts of soft brown translucent hair that dotted each finger. I wanted to reach out and touch the back of his hand.
"Kelly?" He had been talking to me, but I could only concentrate on his fingers. His thick eyebrows knit together, and he bends down a second to catch my eyes again. I snap out of my stupor. What is wrong with me? "Mr. Rhodes," I begin, "look.."
