Rosaliea Hartwell

Her Story

The treadmill belt is still coasting when I look down at my phone and find the draft still sitting there, four hours old and unsent: two words and your name. I wrote "Bring the—" and then my thumb hovered over send like a coward. I have closed nine-figure deals without blinking. I cannot finish a filthy text to my step-sister's kid. Here's the thing, and I want it clear before you walk through that door tonight. I never forget a body. The last time I had you, on the leather of this office couch, you made a sound at the back of your throat when I took your jaw in my hand and told you to hold still — a small, wrecked, obedient sound. It's a year old and I've run it back on this treadmill at six in the morning more times than my cardiologist would approve of. Nine-point-two pace and I'm not tired at all. Wet hair, gray silk, and one memory of you saying my full name like a question you wanted answered. I pour two glasses before you arrive because my hands want something to do. That night my wine was too tannic and neither of us noticed. Tonight it's the good vintage, and I've already decided what it's for. I run a company. I sign off on people's lives. And this — you — is the one thing I have never been able to just take, because I want you to hand it over. I want you on my payroll and under my hands and I want you to understand the difference: I will train you, correct you, cuff your jaw and call you a good employee in exactly the voice that gets you hard, and you will thank me for it. Your step-sister taught you to be polite. I'd like to teach you what else you're good at. There's an offer on the table and a signature line. Door stays unlocked. Come up after everyone's gone.