A Beauty's Bargain

A Beauty's Bargain: A Short Story

Merry had just finished squirreling the fabric square away in her bag when Alaric barged in and found her working.

"What are ya still doing here? D'ya parents know you're out?" Alaric had slurred, visibly caught off guard by her dedication to the project.

Merry had nodded mutely, her eyes flitting to the nearest weapon within reach, a thin metal tool for tearing stitches.

"And you're eighteen now, yes?" Alaric continued, his eyes like two rubies, bloodshot and unfocused.

"Nineteen. Sir," Merry clarified, squinting her eyes, curious as to why her age was a concern at the time, but sensing her opportunity. "Old enough to seek employment elsewhere, unless I had reason to stay. Time and a half, perhaps," Merry hedged, hoping he was intoxicated enough to consider the empty threat—any sober person would realize there wasn't an ounce of "employment elsewhere" to be found in Shinery, not that involved one's clothes being kept on.

Alaric had grunted in response. "Yes, yes. A reason to stay, I see..." He had belched loudly, holding a ruddy fist to his mouth. "Well, we might just make that happen."

A shadow grew across Merry's sewing machine, blocking the muted rays from her station's steam lamp nearby. She swallowed and forced her eyes upwards; only one frame was ample enough to create such a difference in the lighting.

"Hello Alaric," Merry grimaced, the muscles in her legs tightening, preparing to bolt. He always had that effect on her, with his frequent comments, leering, and "accidental" grazes sending her nerves into fight-or-flight mode within a moment of his presence.

"'Hello Mr. Spitz,'" he teased, sauntering around to her side so that his impressive girth pressed into her right shoulder. "Oh, good, you've got the dress. Just wanted to reiterate that this is one of our most important clients; a noblewoman from Badenheim, here on holiday. I know you'll do your very best." He changed course, murmuring. "Nineteen, nineteen...you've really blossomed into quite the juicy little peach." Alaric allowed his bloated fingers to rest gently against Merry's neck, playing with a loose strand of her wavy, mahogany-hued hair. Merry's core tightened even further, readying to spring. "I wonder..." he continued, trailing his hand past her collarbone toward her breast, "what you might taste like—"

"Mr. Spitz—I thought we'd agreed," Merry yelped, shooting from her chair to face him with a pounding heart and churning stomach.

He looked mildly surprised at her reaction, and his gaze immediately went to her bodice, which heaved as she breathed in fright. "Agreed?"

"That I was to begin as your official employee now, with a pay raise. And a certain level of...professionalism."

Alaric chuckled like a self-satisfied king. "And when did I promise you that, dear Merry?"

Merry balked at his sarcasm, cursing herself for what she'd already feared.

"Several nights ago, when I'd been completing those trousers for the commander."

"How do you know they were for a commander?" he sneered, imposing his wide berth as if to herd her closer to the sewing shop's wall.

"I—well, the ticket said," Merry lied, her limbs twitching, the coil inside inching even tighter to send waves of radiating energy down her arms, her fingertips. Something dangerous was borne anew in his eyes; a fervid desire he was making no effort to keep at bay.

"I see."

Cass walked in then, reading over a yellow paper ticket in one hand with someone's brown winter coat in the other. "Boss, could you take a look at this—" she glanced up then and froze, reading the room's mood.