I calmly told myself, “It's just two weeks. Have some fun, earn some money, and make a few great memories. That's it. Two weeks.”
I freshened my lipstick, gave myself a winning smile, and left the washroom.
When I got back to the table, Smith was frowning at his cell phone. He held out his empty palm and said, “Dead battery already. Let me use yours.”
I handed him my phone from my purse and sat down, looking around at the wild décor. The sun was getting low on the horizon, making all the shadows long.
“I trust you found what you were looking for,” Smith said, and then he read out a few lines from the newspaper article I'd been reading about him.
“How dare you!”
I grabbed for my phone, but he pulled it out of reach. “Naughty girl. I'm confiscating this.”
“It's my damn phone, I'll look up whatever I want.”
He dropped my phone into a full glass of drinking water, spilling water over the edges of the glass.
I swore and grabbed it from the water.
“I'll buy you a new one,” he said. “I'll add the equivalent to your check. No, I'll double the replacement value, so you can't complain.”
I practically growled at him. “That was my phone. How dare you?”
Nonchalantly, he said, “It's in the contract. No accessing the internet for the duration of the contract. For my privacy and protection. It's a standard typist thing.”
“More like a power trip thing.” I shook the excess water out of the phone, wrapped it in my cloth napkin, and stuck the bundle in my purse. The poor thing seemed to be fried, but perhaps it would turn on once it dried out, or so I hoped.
“You agreed to the contract,” he said.
“You're an ass**le.”
He shrugged. “That's like calling a woman a bitch. It's meaningless. Yes, I'm a man. I do man things. Does that make me an ass**le, just because I'm not a woman?”
“Unbelievable.” I pushed back my chair. What could I do? Storm out? And then what? Sleep in the bus station that night until I could find a way out of town? No. Sleeping on a bench would only be punishing myself.
I'd return to the cabin that night and leave first thing in the morning.
Smith stood and walked out, not even waiting for me. I had to scurry to catch up with him.
Smith Fucking Wittingham, Asshole Novelist, kept up the brisk pace all the way back to the cabin. The sun was setting, and the last half mile was difficult to traverse in the dark. I kept stumbling, but refused to take his hand when offered.
“Fine, be that way,” he said with a chuckle.
Those were the only words exchanged the whole walk.
Back in the cabin, he put on water for tea and made himself comfortable on one of the three ample sofas in front of the large television. He started watching a new James Bond movie, and I was interested in watching the film, but couldn't bear sitting in the same room as Smith.
I went to my room, turned on my small television, and watched the cooking channel as I fumed.
In the morning, my rage had dissipated to a dull ache, like the lingering emotional hangover of a bad dream.
I accepted what I'd known subconsciously the night before: I would not forfeit my pay for the work I'd already done, not by leaving now.
I would stay the full two weeks and collect my pay. I would type the words, I would kill him with kindness, and I would not allow any further access to my body.
The day was gorgeous and sunny, just like the previous day. The air was moist, as though it had rained overnight. It was a fresh, new day, just waiting to be ruined.
Smith sat outside on the veranda, at a table set up with a generous breakfast for two, including the thick slices of ham I'd smelled as I was taking my shower.
I sat on the Adirondack chair adjacent to Smith and gave him my most sugary smile. “This is lovely,” I said through clenched teeth. “With all this wonderful food, we'll have a very productive day.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Decided the money was too good to pass up, did you?”
I poured a cup of tea from the teapot. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Just surprised you're still around.”
“Someone has to type your novel. Apparently, you're deficient in some way and cannot type it yourself.”
He laughed. “Deficient! That's a good one, Sheri.”
“Tori. My name is Tori.”
“Whatever.” He scratched his neck and gazed out at the small, tidy lawn and the trees beyond. He hadn't shaved since the first day, and the blond stubble gave him a disheveled, surly look.
He said, “You know what I'd really like? A Border Collie. They're smart and tenacious.”
“Do you have any pets back home?”
“I have no home.” He scratched his neck again. “I'd like a nice little bitch who comes when I call her.”
I nearly choked on the tea I was sipping. I set down the cup and filled my plate with scrambled eggs and toast, not commenting.
He continued, “A nice, submissive bitch. She'd roll on her back and show me her tummy like a good girl.”
“Sounds about your speed,” I said. “It would make you feel like such a big man to be around someone you're smarter than.”
“Maybe I'll get two, in that case.”
You're an ass**le was what I wanted to say but didn't. I crossed my legs, surprised by the feeling that was happening between my legs. I was actually getting turned on by arguing with Smith, imagining the tickle of his stubbly chin on my body, his face between my legs. Why did he have to be so infuriating and also so sexy?
He continued, “If I had a Border Collie, I'd treat her like a princess. I'd brush her long hair and stroke her all over. I'd kiss her on the nose and get her to sit on my lap, even though she'd be much too big for a lap dog.”
I recrossed my legs and crunched on my cold toast.
He kept talking about his imaginary Border Collie, and how much he'd love looking down at her on the ground as she gazed up at him with absolute adoration in her eyes.
After breakfast, we went upstairs to the office. The levers on the chair no longer amused me, and I couldn't get the settings quite right. The story was meandering, and I kept typing the word “um” every time he said it, much to his annoyance.
“The editor can take it out,” I said.
After an hour of this, and two dozen occurrences of the word um, he leaned over my shoulder and did a quick search-and-replace to remove them.
“There,” he said proudly.
After that, I had to get more creative with the vocal ticks, making each one different, such as errr, guhhh, and hrmm.