Page 33 of The Assistant
“Get up and walk to my room now or I’ll carry you,” Dawson demands. His voice is low and serious, which I’ve come to learn means I can’t disobey. I wouldn’t want to repeat what happened in the living room when he accused me of insubordination.
But everything I’ve been spiraling about for the past few hours replays in my mind, and all I can do is shake my head. “Dawson, this isn’t a good idea. What’s happening between us isn’t right, and I think we need to cool things down before it gets out of hand. Both of us have a lot riding on this relationship.”
Dawson doesn’t say anything as he stares at me in silence for a moment. At first, I think he is listening to me for the first time and actually taking in what I have to say. But then he just huffs and moves closer, tossing my blankets aside. Before I can ask him what’s going on, he picks me up and tosses me over his shoulder like I’m some kind of a rag doll.
“What the fuck, Dawson!” I shout as I squirm against him, trying to wiggle out of his grasp. Every time I move, he just squeezes me tighter, like a cobra with its prey. As he walks through the penthouse, I just give up. Why waste my energy fighting him?
He opens the door to his room and plops me down on the mattress as soon as we get there. I just sit upright and stare at him with annoyance in my eyes.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Dawson says with a casual shrug. “Now, be a good girl for me and lie down. If you try to get up, I’ll have to handcuff you to the bed.”
His eyes don’t leave mine, and my stomach twists at the demand. It’s an insane thing to say to someone, but I know he means every word of it. He doesn’t want me to leave this room tonight, and he’ll do everything in his power to make sure that I don’t.
I don’t know what the hell I’ve gotten myself into living here with him. It’s confusing and terrifying, but there is a part of me that finds it exciting. Dawson has a darkness to him that I never would have expected when I first met him. He’s shown me a side of himself I should be terrified of. But something about it intrigues me.
I want to know what exactly made him this way. He’s already told me about his mom, and I know that has to have contributed to it. But there has to be more. There has to be some reason I’m so drawn to him the way that I am.
Dawson smiles at me as I do what he says and slide the covers aside to warm myself up under them. When I’m lying down in the bed, I flash him a smile that silently asks him if he’s happy now, and he smirks before walking around to the other side of the bed. He doesn’t change into pajamas, only slips out of hisslacks and takes off his shirt so he’s in his briefs and nothing else. I try to ignore what seeing him like that does to me.
I’m about to roll over and close my eyes, but before I can, he pulls me closer and presses me against him. Once again, his arms wrap around me, and I feel every muscle in his body as he moves. It’s comforting while being a reminder of how much bigger he is than me at the same time. I don’t think it would hurt me, but as I’ve said, he’s unpredictable.
“Tell me about art school,” Dawson says, almost whispering it in my ear as he gently moves a few strands of hair from my face.
I look over my shoulder at him before rolling over to lie on my back. If we’re going to have a conversation, we should be looking at each other.
“I don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t gone yet,” I say with a shrug.
“What do you plan to learn from art school that you don’t already know? You’re a really talented artist. Is there really anything else they can teach you?” I know he means this to sound supportive, complimentary of my work, but every single person I’ve told about art school has said something similar. Everyone thinks you shouldn’t have to be trained to be an artist; it should be some sort of innate ability that you have.
“I already know how to draw, but I want to study the techniques and get better at it,” I say. “I want to be able to look at sketches from Leonardo da Vinci and Albrecht Dürer and see what their technique was and learn from them. Plus, I doubt I’m going to make a living just being an artist. I need the skills to market myself and figure out how to take my drawing technique and transfer it into the real world.”
“If you could do anything at all with those skills, what would it be?” Dawson asks, his eyes tracing my face as he watches me think.
It’s something I’ve thought about a lot. I love to draw, but drawing itself isn’t a particularly lucrative career. Of course, I could become a world-renowned sketch artist and have original pieces in galleries. I could open my own gallery and sell my work directly to clients. But then there’s the whole world of animation and design that my skills would be suited for.
“Honestly, I don’t know. I just want to be able to do what I love and make an impact on the world with my art,” I admit. Dawson nods and pulls me a little closer as he watches me, letting his hands roam against my body. “What did you go to school for?”
“Business, of course,” he says with a laugh. “I didn’t have much of a choice. My dad made it clear from an early age that I was going to be working at the business.”
“That’s unfortunate. Is there anything else you would have wanted to study?” I ask. Dawson thinks for a moment and shakes his head.
“I accepted pretty early on that this would be the life I have. Not that I’m complaining, it’s a pretty damn good life.” He laughs and gestures to the luxurious penthouse around us. A lot of people would kill for the life he has, and it’s comforting to know that he realizes how privileged he is. “I did take some elective courses in film while I was in school, though. Maybe I could have done something in production or talent scouting.”
I raise my eyebrows, surprised he would have an interest in anything so creative. He’s never struck me as a right-brain typeperson. I would have imagined he only thought about numbers and profit margins, things like that.
We spend a little more time talking, and I listen as Dawson tells me about some of the films he watched, and the impact they had on him. It’s interesting to learn about his favorite directors and listen to him critique the performances of the actors with such detail that I can see it’s something he truly does care about.
After a while, I can’t hold my eyes open anymore, and they flutter shut as he talks. Dawson just laughs before wrapping an arm around me and tucking some hair behind my ear. He gives me a gentle kiss on the top of the head before letting me fall asleep in his arms once again.
Chapter 17
Dawson
My alarm rings,and it jolts me out of my slumber. Sleeping next to Harper means I’m no longer being haunted by nightmares, but because of that, I have to wake up to the shrill beeping from my phone. It’s such an abrupt start to the morning that I almost wish the nightmares were back.
When I shut off the alarm, I look toward Harper’s side of the bed to see that she’s gone. I jump upright, feeling the panic beating in my throat, and I’m about to call her name when I hear water running in the bathroom. I let out a slow exhale as I realize she’s just showering.
In a brief moment, I let my mind wander, and I thought I’d lost her. Would Malik come in the middle of the night and take her from me? Would she run away, never to be heard from again? The thought of losing her makes my stomach twist into a knot, and I could be sick.
