What's home, if not the first place you run away from? What's love, if not that unexplainable, blazing feeling which comes after a period of hate?
Reputable for her catchy appearance, her over-niceness, her obsession with cartoon animations and her...
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Ariana Grande - supernatural.
~
I'M STARING AT THE MASTER'S BUILDING like if I stare hard enough, it'll probably - hopefully - sprout wings and fly away. Maybe then I won't be burdened with the task of going in to check up on my boss.
Not because I care, no far from that, it's because doing so will be in my best interest. If I don't go in there, I might be walking out of our compromise without even knowing it.
My eyes dart to my house and my legs itch with the desire to run towards it, straight into my room to lock it behind me and go to bed in relaxation from all the chaos my mother and grandfather unleashed tonight.
But no. I have to speak with him.
Few minutes. Three minutes tops.
Mr. Ash, is our compromise still on?
Yes.
If so, I jubilate.
In case of a negative response from him, well...he won't touch me unless I fuck up, so I'll justhave to not fuck up.
Christ. This compromise has been such a breath of fresh air for me.
Like yesterday, when he got back from wherever-the-hell and rejected dinner, I mistakenly - accidentally - let the word "asshole" slip from my lips. He froze on his way upstairs, turning slowly to pin me with a grave look.
The Grim Reaper appeared out of nowhere and waved at me.
But I didn't apologize. We stared each other down for heartbeats before he tore his gaze away from mine and quietly walked away.
The power of compromise.
Without it, I don't know what would have happened to me last night. I get goosebumps just thinking about it too.
I swallow a ball of saliva for courage and step into the mansion, steeling my spine and muttering Psalms 23 for effect.
Past the foyer...into the living room...three more steps to reach the stairs.
Two more steps.
One more...
I tense up, my steeled spine faltering and the words from The Bible dying sorrowful deaths on the tip of my tongue when I spot my boss in the kitchen. I thought he would be in his room.
Mr. Ash is grabbing the edges of the sink with his palms, flexing his biceps in the process and staring at the wall in front of him like he wants to punch a hole in it.
She's mine for five more months...
My breathing picks up speed.
He's still angry. And to be honest, I don't blame him for it. I signed the contract; my family had no right coming in here to disrupt his mundane peace, although he deserved it and a whole lot worse.
