The downside, or sinful temptation as I defined it, of living behind the man and being involved in everything from having groceries delivered, overseeing the few household staff he employed on a part-time basis, and having full access to his house and his finances was my life became inundated with everything Spencer Atreus.
The man was stunning. The fact he was also a straight cis movie star with people always wanting something from him or craving the man himself never went to his head, and I refused to be a sycophant.
Regardless of the images flashing behind my eyelids of the man with a gorgeous smile and beautifully sculpted body and what he could do to me in that bed, I locked all the fantasies down in the private recesses of my mind and drifted off as blackness descended.
A familiar, yet distant ring jolted me out of bed. I tried to blink the sleep from my eyes, but the gritty, dry discomfort meant I’d left my contacts in when I’d dropped off into slumber. Ignoring the irritation blinking caused and concentrating on the insistent sound, I scrambled toward it and on the fourth ring, I answered with a short, “What?”
All the years of daily reminders I’d given, lecturing at him about how much I hated being called by my last name, Spencer refused to call me anything else. But at that moment, I shoved back my irritation as the urgency in his voice caught me off guard and worst-case scenarios ran through my head.
“What’s wrong? Do you need me to pick you up?”
There was a shuffling, as though the phone was being wrestled away, and then another voice came on the line. One I avoided at all costs.
“Hey, sexy? Someone threw a punch, and it struck—”
“Where are you?” I demanded in a low growl.
I whipped around and strode toward the bathroom, holding the phone against my ear with my shoulder, and washed my hands. After I cleaned my fingers, leaving them wet, I yanked the dried contacts from around my corneas and sighed in relief. I added eye drops to clear up the redness and irritation. In a rush, I cleaned my glasses before I pulled on some jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. It was March in California and the nights could get cold.
He was still rambling about something that had nothing to do with the current location of one Spencer Atreus, so I barked, “Where?”
“At the house, but you—”
Not proud of my actions, I hung up on Spencer’s friend and constant flirt, Mason Dawes, and stuck my feet in sneakers before I snagged my keys and wallet, locked up, and started up toward the main house.
It wasn’t as though I didn’t like Mason. I hadn’t allowed myself to get to know him because something about the man felt… off, and so I avoided him. He was never serious about anything, aside from maybe his career, and I refused to tolerate his attempts at chatting me up. Although it’d never come up during my employment with Spencer, Mason spotted me at Bayou, a West Hollywood gay bar early in my employment. That night, I tried finding another man who’d allow me to get over the stupid fascination I had with Spencer, but it was one of several nights of turning down offer after offer before I understood I’d have to live without. There was no substitute for Spencer in my eyes. And as far as I knew, Mason hadn’t yet told his friend.