TEN: David Just Killed Someone In His Office

Over the next week, I get into a stride with both of my jobs. At the office, I work out a new dynamic with David, still being my usual self but holding back on some of the jabs, some of the banter, where the meaning could be a little dubious. I don’t want to be thinking that way around him in the day.

At The Red Room, David comes three times a week. Every time, he chooses something new, tests it, tests my reactions. I don’t refuse a single time. I find that I haven’t wanted to. He still hasn’t touched me again, not with his hands, instead using all the toys, whips and ropes available to him. I also restart my sub regiment of aftercare, ointments, electrolyte drinks, the works, anything that helps me recover faster, and help me to avoid anymore ‘squirmy’ moments at the office.

I no longer wear the wig, at his request. I’ve opted to have my hair tied up in a ponytail, as I never wear my hair up at the office, and I have to glue my mask to my face using eyelash glue. It seems to work though – he’s satisfied that he can pull my hair now, and he never makes a comment about how similar it is to his secretary’s.

I feel like I can do this. How long for, I’m not entirely sure, but at the minute, both David and I seem refreshed, and relaxed. So for now, I feel like it is working fine.

I left the office a couple of hours ago, and tonight is one of my nights off from The Red Room, so I treat myself to a smorgasbord of takeout while I go over the files for tomorrow. The initial Vance meeting is the big ticket item on tomorrow’s schedule, so I have to make sure that the files are edited, organised, and ready to duplicate in the morning. After my belly is adequately stuffed, I reach down for my bag, grabbing all the paperwork out of it and dumping it onto my coffee table.

As I start to shuffle it around in a rough organisational manner, I freeze when I read the header on one piece of paper.

Contractual Agreement: Whitaker Enterprises

I groan and smack the paper to my forehead. It’s the contract for the deal that idiot Owen has taken so long to get signed off, and I’m supposed to get David to countersign it today to post. Which now means that he needs to do it first thing.

I have no choice but to go back to the office and put it on his desk ready for the morning. David always gets to the office before me, arriving about 7am when I get there at 8:15. He used to say that he enjoys working for a couple of hours with no one bugging him, but I quickly realised that his mind is simply clearer then. Whenever I walk in at 8:15, he always has a list of things for me that need fixing, or rectifying, that he has spotted in his early hour focus session. So, over the months, I always make sure to always put the more complex, important tasks that he needs to review on his desk before I leave at the end of the day, so that he can do them when he first comes in. This contract is one such task, and I’m not going to be the one that causes any further delays.

So, I grab the rest of the papers for Whitaker, grab my jacket, throw it on over my jumper and joggers, pick up my badge and phone, and head out the door.

I wander the halls of the office in a bit of a daydream. It isn’t my first time being at the office at 10pm, but I don’t make it a habit. The silent walls and dark lighting always creep me out, so I always try to think of something else. As has been usual lately, my daydreams wander to my boss, and my evening activities.

Finally reaching David’s office, I rearrange the papers already on his desk, slotting the Whitaker contract amongst them.

Then I hear voices. My head snaps up to the door.

I can pick out David’s voice. Which means he’ll be coming into his office.

I already know he will not be happy that I’m here this late, and in his office. He’s always very clear on me finishing my work day at a reasonable hour, and the last time he caught me here, I could tell he was angry. Very angry.

I panic as they come closer.

I decide to slip into the side door, which leads to an ensuite bathroom, because of course, the CEO has their own private bathroom. I don’t shut the door all the way, because it isn’t shut to start with, and I don’t want to risk him noticing.

I stand behind the door, staring at the wall opposite, trying to slow my breathing down as I hear them walk in, but then I frown when I hear a scuffle. Grunting, and something shifting, dragging, almost.

I slowly walk to the edge of the door, peering round cautiously to see what’s happening.

Once the room comes into view, I see David standing in front of his desk, facing it, reaching down for something on top of it. Behind him, in the ‘guest chair’, is a guy with a terrified look on his face. He looks familiar, but I can’t think of his name. Around the guy are four other people – David’s own security guard, one of the guards from downstairs, and then two with their backs to me, so I can’t see their faces.

I make sure that my face can’t be fully seen, hiding in the shadows, and wait to see what will happen.

“Trent Hayes.” David says, but his tone of voice is strange. Low, similar to the one he uses with me in The Red Room, but there’s an edge to it this time.

An edge that makes my blood run cold.

“You were put in charge of the Linden shipping depot. You came highly recommended to me, and I was assured that you were more than capable of thwarting any threats. So, Trent,” David says as he turns round to the guy. “Tell me why I’d be so surprised to hear that we got hit, hmm?”

“I..I, Mr. Reid, it was... we were outnumbered.” Trent stutters as he grips the arms of the chair, and I hear David kiss his tongue to his teeth.

“But see, I had a look into that.” David says arrogantly as he walks around the room. “And it turns out that there was some kind of… scheduling conflict? Was that it, Marcus?” He asks one of the guys with his back to me, and ‘Marcus’ nods. “It seems that there were only 4 other guys on shift with you that night, when there are usually 10.”

10? That seems like a lot for a shipping depot. I can’t remember ever seeing any paperwork on a shipping depo either…

“I’m not sure what happened there, it–” Trent says, but he’s cut off when David puts his hands on Trent’s shoulders, and bends down to his ear.

I see David lick his bottom lip, a habit of his I usually find so fucking attractive, but the way his eyes are staring at Trent, this time it’s putting me on edge.

“Like I said, I looked into it, Trent. What happened was you scheduled less guards that night, knowing that they’d be coming to rob us of everything in those containers. Because you’re a fucking rat.”

“M-Mr. Reid I didn’t–”

“Because you’re working with them.”

“No, I’m not, I–”

“Bag him.” David orders, and immediately, the guards surrounding Trent move forward, one putting a bag on his head, the others holding his hands down.

My stomach drops. My heart speeds up as I watch Trent struggle in the bag.

It looks like…no…he isn’t going to…

Before I can finish that thought, David lifts a gun to the back of Trent’s head, and fires.

My gasp is covered by the sound of the bullet exploding out of the chamber, shattering through Trent’s skull.

I whip round, behind the door, and cover my mouth with my hand as my body starts shaking, and I try to breathe. I stand as still as I can, the tears forming in my eyes, as I wait, listening for any sound, any indication that my gasp is louder than it has felt in my head.

It is a painful few seconds before anything else happens in David’s office.

“Take him out of my sight. And get someone to figure out who else was working with him.” Comes David’s voice.

I hear more shuffling, the sound of something heavy dragging back along the carpet, and I feel myself crying. I bite my lip to keep the tears silent.

David just killed someone in his office.