The Assistant

Scarlett

The concert is still going when she stumbles into the VIP bathroom. It's the first time she's been alone today, that she's had a chance to look at herself in the mirror. And she knows when she catches sight of her reflection that she's fucked up very badly. Her raven colored hair is wild from all the head banging and dancing she's been doing. Her golden eyes are hazy and blood shot. Her signature red lipstick is smeared. There's a hole in one of the knees of her tights, revealing the scrape from when she fell earlier in the evening.

It's much too late to worry if anyone in the audience has snagged a photo or video of her already. In the age of iPhones and social media, any evidence of tonight will go viral by morning. She can already see her name and the pictures splashed on the news front page tomorrow, both in print and online.

20 years old, out on the town, drunk and high with your celebrity friends. She's not so scared of what the public will have to say for it, more so her parents. And instead of Matt Healy, now she's just hearing her father's disappointed voice, telling her she's ruining her reputation— their family's reputation for that matter— simply to have a little fun.

She reaches into her purse to retrieve her cell phone. She sways while trying her hardest to scroll through her contacts to find his number. At one point, she's seeing double the phone screen.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" He doesn't sound like he's just been woken from sleep though. But he does sound annoyed.

"I know, I'm sorry. I didn't know who else to call. I need a ride." She plugs her free ear in order to focus on his voice. She wonders where he is at this moment and pictures him in bed. He might be wearing a white t-shirt while he reads with a pair of reading glasses on. Even though she's never seen him with glasses, he's got 20/20 vision. The man sees everything. It's still nice to think about him with glasses. He could certainly pull them off.

"What's that noise in the background? Where are you?" There's shuffling on his end.

"We wanted to see the 1975," She explains. "It's a band."

"I know 1975," He sighs. She'd be willing to make a bet on his facial expression right now. It's probably the one he seems to reserve just for her, because he's always giving it to her: his blue eyes narrowed, his jaw flexed, a tsk on his lips. "Staples center?"

She has to think about it for a moment. "Yes."

"Are you drunk?"

"I might be." She hiccups.

Another sigh. "Don't move. I'll text you as soon as I arrive."

"Felicity, I've gotta get out of here." She informs her best friend when she returns to where their seats are on the balcony, among other celebs and VIPs at tonight's show.

"Really?" Felicity pouts her bottom lip. "Okay. Do you want me to come with you?"

"No, I'll be fine." Scarlett has to yell in order for her friend to hear her over the music and audience.

It's only 20 minutes later she gets his text. He's able to pull up to the back entrance of the arena, telling her to stay inside until he gets to her. So she stays in an area close to the back door, away from everyone else. She pulls her hood up to shield her face, in hopes that no one will recognize her or come up for an autograph or photo. She doesn't need more of a digital footprint of tonight's events.

I'm here, is all his text reads. Then she hears the back door open and she sees him.

Matthew isn't wearing his usual uniform of either a three piece suit or a nice button down with trousers. Instead he's dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a simple blue tshirt. She's not used to seeing him so casual. It's hot, like seeing the professor you can't have outside of school hours. His chocolate hair is swept back and there's shadow along his jaw and neck of a beard. He's got that determined glint to his blue eyes as he surveys the bystanders until he finally locates her. There's a flicker of relief she registers on his face. But it's only for a brief moment because in the next, he's taking in the rest of her appearance. She must look worse than she thought because disappointment spreads over his handsome features then.

"Scarlett." There's a lecture on the tip of his tongue. Why does he have to say her name like it's a curse?

"Yeah, yeah, I know." She grumbles, extending her arm towards him. "At least spare me the lecture until we're in the car."

His strong arm moves around her waist instinctively. "There's a few paps waiting outside."

"How many?"

"Four, maybe five."

Of course there are. "Do you have a flashlight?"

But he's already pulling one out from his pocket. This isn't his first rodeo.

She keeps the hood on and turns her head into his shoulder to cover her face. They walk together outside, greeted by the familiar clicking of cameras, even with her eyes squeezed tightly shut she can make out the bright flashes. The men and women there call her name, desperate to see her face or get a reaction. Matthew flashes the flash light towards them, ruining some of their photos, essentially making them unsellable. With his support, shes able to quickly slide into the passenger seat of the black Escalade. The windows are all tinted but she still hugs her knees to remain out of eye sight.

He climbs into the other side and curses under his breath as he has to honk at the crowd to move out of the way. Then the commotion outside disappears and she knows they're on the road.

Sitting up, she pulls her hood off, leaning her head against the head rest because she's suddenly dizzy. "Nice of you to make the drive. I know it must've been inconvenient climbing out of dad's ass at this hour."

"Must you be so vulgar?" It's all he says without taking his eyes off the road.

It's a normal interaction between herself and her father's right-hand man. She was only 5 years old when Matthew was hired. He had recently turned 20 and blew his interview with her famous father out the park. She remembers how nervous he appeared outside Maxwell's office, holding his resume with a shaky hand and adjusting his tie every few minutes.

Her attraction to Matthew Humphrey began soon after that. Once he was hired, she looked forward to seeing him every day. He would do the things her parents or brother should've done but couldn't be bothered with; drop her off and pick her up from school, make sure her uniform was dry cleaned, sneak a dessert for her after dinner when everyone else went to sleep. What started out as an innocent, school girl crush turned into the devotion of a love sick teenager. Part of the reason she even went into acting was to be near him more, because it forced her to be near her father, who relied so much on his assistant for everything under the sun. It was Matthew who watched her behind the scenes in between takes. He was the one who took her to fittings and said no to pushy directors. He was the one who helped her with homework once she moved to tutoring just so she could graduate early.

She hasn't exactly hidden her feelings for him. As a young girl, her mother would announce to everyone, "my little Scarlett has a crush on an older man, she takes after her mother." The humiliation she felt as Matthew would smile coyly at the fact whenever it was called out. He was always sweet and sensitive about the whole thing, promising her that they would always be best friends. As she became a teenager, she dreamt of marrying him. All she had to do was show him how perfect they could be together. Matthew was the only thing she wanted in this world that she couldn't have, and he remained that way her whole life.

Now she's the same age he was when he first came into her life, and he's 35. The crush hasn't gone away or faded in the slightest. The man ages like a fine wine. What has helped is busying herself with adult life and responsibilities. Her career. Feeding into the facade of this extraordinary family. The two's relationship has changed certainly. Now he's not one to spend time alone with her. Any time they're alone together, he seems to view her as poison ivy or something radioactive. He's taken on a much more authoritative, teacher like figure in her life. Or rather another father figure disappointed in her and the choices she sometimes makes. And she wishes that fact would allow her to move on but in her fucked up brain, all it does is deepen her attraction to him. It's an ongoing conversation in the therapy she attends weekly.

"I'm taking you home and you're going straight to bed." His tone dares her to test this.

"You can't take me home. Look at me. I'm drunk. I smell like pot. Hump, come on." She clasps her hands together in a begging motion.

"Where do you propose I take you then? Im not driving you all the way to Charles place and you're not staying in a hotel."

She shakes her head. "I don't know. Can't I just stay with you for the night?"

"Absolutely not. How would I explain that to your father?"

"I'll sneak in the same time you arrive for the day. He won't even notice. I usually don't leave my room until noon anyways." She hates that she still lives with her parents. Despite the house being a huge compound, being there makes her feel like a child. Charles was able to move out as soon as he turned 18, and he only lives two blocks away at his own mansion. Her parents won't let her leave until she's 21, which is only a few months away but it can't come soon enough.

"Please, Hump? I'm really tired. I just want to sleep. I promise you won't even notice I'm there."

"You're a mirror ball, Scarlett. It's impossible not to notice you." He remarks, rubbing his jaw. "Fine. I'll take you to my house. You will sleep this off in the guest room and be awake at 7, ready to go home. Understood?"

"Of course."

"No, you say: understood."

"Aye-aye, captain."

*

She's been to his place only a handful of times over the years. A nice little bungalow on top of a hill, only a 30 minute drive from the Middleton home. Inside, there's shades of white and beige every where. He's got it furnished nicely for a 35 year old bachelor. She's always relieved when she does come over and fails to find any female belongings. If she can't have him, she doesn't want anyone else to.

Why don't you have a girlfriend? She had asked him once when she was a teenager.

Because I know nothing of work- life balance. It was the only explanation he was going to give. Considering how dependent her family was on him, maybe it was the only explanation needed.

"Do you want something to eat?" He asks, having not let go of her elbow as they walk into the house.

She might be playing up the swaying so he's forced to touch her a little longer. "Hm, you know how much I do love your cooking. But no, I should be fine."

He's already pulling her with him into the kitchen, however. "Sit." He gently pushes her into one of the dining table chairs. "How much did you have to drink tonight?"

"Do people really keep count of the amount of drinks they have?" She props her head in her hand, watching him move to the pantry for bread.

He grimaces at her, which is enough of a reply for her to understand. He pops two slices of wheat bread in his toaster, already moving to collect a glass now from the cupboard.

"I don't know. It was a lot of shots." She tries to rack her head for the number but it remains a mystery.

"And then you smoked weed?" He wears his disappointment like his suits. Nicely tailored and custom for him.

"Yeah but that was like one or two hits max." She tries to justify.

"Do you know if it was laced with anything else?"

She blinks at the question. Mostly because she doesn't know, nor did she think to ask. It's California. Everyone smokes weed. It's the least consequential drug you could take here. She doesn't feel like it was laced with anything else. Addie had offered it to the group and she trusts Addie.

She shakes her head after a second. "Do you smoke?"

"No." The toast pops up from the toaster, now a golden brown color. He occupies himself with placing the slices on a plate and slathering them with butter. "Did anyone see you doing these things?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

"That's a yes," He sighs, bringing the plate to her and setting it in front of her. "Eat."

She does as he says, taking a bite of the toast. It's been a long time since she had carbs. The new movie she's working on is requiring her to look a certain way, and so she's been strict with her diet, only eating fish and veggies. Maybe it's that fact, or maybe it's that she's drunk and high, but this is the best fucking toast she's ever had in her life.

"Why do you care if anyone saw me?" She says between mouthfuls.

"Because someone has to." He brings her a glass of water and then sinks down into the chair next to her. "I'm just anticipating the PR nightmare we'll be walking into tomorrow if anyone did happen to see you."

"You worry too much." She tells him.

"And you don't worry enough." He pushes the glass of water towards her, gesturing to it. "Drink that."

Again, she follows his orders, bringing the glass to her lips. She gulps from it for several moments and then places it back on the table so now it's half empty.

"No," He shakes his head, pointing to the glass again. "I need you to drink all of it. You're going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow and this will help."

"Look at you. Always taking care of me." She muses, lifting the cup again so she can drink the remainder of the liquid. She messes up though and some of it dribbles down her chin and front of her.

He leans back in his chair in order to reach the towel hanging off the oven behind him, then he pulls his chair closer to her and wipes her chin off with the fabric. His blue eyes are focused intently on drying her off. He pats at her mouth, her chin, her throat.

Touch my breasts, she wills him to do in her mind. She's wearing a black dress that shows a nice bit of cleavage, and she tries to catch his eyes moving there. The way that most mens eyes do when they look at her, it's like they cant help it.

Except Matthew's eyes don't even flinch in that direction. They stay on her face. And when he leans back in his chair, towel still in hand, she feels that familiar sense of disappointment. It's a running emotion the two of them seem to have a knack for making the other feel.

"Thank you." She says in a quiet voice.

He doesn't acknowledge it. Instead, he glances at her plate with the crust left from the toast. He reaches for it and takes a bite without spilling any crumbs, unlike her. "Let's get you to bed."

He helps her down the hallway, past the master bedroom. She's caught a few glimpses of his bedroom over the years and it hasn't really changed. Gray bedspread, a lighter gray rug, a dresser. She's imagined herself climbing into that bed next to him so many times. It's such a big bed, he must feel so lonely in it. She pictures waking up the next day and her bare feet touching the rug, it's probably soft to the touch. He would bring her coffee and kiss her with morning breath. A luxury, a happiness, her money, nor her parents money, could ever afford.

They enter the guest bedroom, which is only across the hall from his room. The queen sized bed has a simple white comforter and more pillows than one needs in their lifetime. In the corner, there's a desk facing the window.

She sinks onto the edge of the bed with a huff. She's excited to fall asleep, her body is aching for rest. She reaches down to try to take her boots off.

He's already one step ahead of her, kneeling down and taking her foot into his hand so he can help remove her shoes. His fingers are delicate as he undoes them and then places them next to the door. His eyes move up her leg and for a second, she relishes in the thought that he's checking her out.

She can work with that. She can definitely work with that. Her legs are one of her best features. Last month, People magazine theorized that her legs must be insured for upwards of millions of dollars. She has good legs; soft, long, toned.

"What happened here?" His voice is soft as his fingertips brush the torn fabric over her knee.

She glances down at the scrape. It looks nastier than it feels in this lighting. She debates playing it up for his attention. She doesn't want him to leave yet. She imagines him kissing her knee to make it feel better, like he would when she was a child and crashed her bike. But she can't let her mind wander off too far into the make believe of things that will never happen.

So she tells him the truth. "I was chasing a boy." She smirks. It's truth, both literally and figuratively. The night had started at Addie's apartment, an excuse to go over lines together, when he caught her jotting down notes onto her script. The intensity of her note taking had peaked his interest and so he stole the script from her to read them. She chased him all over the apartment as the two laughed together. And then she slipped on one of his rugs in the hallway, which sent her sliding. They're laughing got more uncontrollable as they realized her injury.

"You need to stop chasing boys." Matthew says, bringing her back to the present moment inside his guest bedroom, where he's still on his knees looking up at her.

She wants to push her fingers through his hair. She wants to invite him to sleep in the bed with her. Let me thank you for everything, she wants to offer him.

Instead, she gives him a teasing smile and allows herself to at least say, "It's not like chasing a man for the last 15 years has gotten me anywhere, has it? Besides, isn't that what you told me once? That I need to be interested in boys my own age?"

That conversation is so clear in her memory, even now, years later. Maybe because it was the final nail in the coffin of this unrequited love story. The first time she realized Matthew would never be hers, that he'd never want her like that. That he'd grow up and find a woman who was old enough for him, smart enough, pretty enough, not his boss's kid.

It was the night after the Emmy's, one of her co stars had asked her to sneak away from her dad to go to an after party with him. She didn't go though. She was still in the early days of being America's sweetheart, the good girl. Instead, Matthew drove both her and her father home later that night. After dad had gone to bed, Matthew had caught her sulking in the kitchen, eating Icecream.

"What's got you down, kid? You're 15 and you just won your first Emmy. You should be celebrating!" Matthew said as he leaned against the counter.

Kid. It's what he always called her. And on that night, she couldn't listen to him say it. "Why do you still call me kid?"

"Because that's what you are."

"No, I'm not," She was defiant. "It's like you just said, I won an Emmy tonight. Im going to be graduating early. Im going to be driving this summer. Im not a kid anymore."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you," He had said. "You're absolutely right. Sometimes I forget with you. You're... well, you're becoming a young woman. Soon enough, you're going to be off to college, moving out, marrying a nice young man."

"Maybe I don't want a nice young man." She took a big sad bite of the Icecream, punished immediately with brain freeze. At least that pain was better than the pain of being in love with someone who refused to see you.

He chuckled and it felt like he was laughing at her. "You can have whatever you want, Scar."

Her whole family called her Scar, it was one of the first times he had. She couldn't tell if it was a good sign or bad sign for how he saw her, what she was to him.

"Maybe I want you." She said without looking at him.

Again, he laughed. "You don't want me. Trust me."

"Why not?"

"Because," He started and then stopped. She could tell he was being very careful in how he said his next few words. "I'm too old for you."

"Dad's like 10 years older than mom." At the time, it felt like a valid argument to make.

"That's different. They met when your mom was in college. They were both adults. Two consenting adults."

"So you're waiting for me to be in college?" She asked. "Or are you just waiting for me to consent to it? Because I can give you my consent if that's what you need."

The corner of his mouth twitched, he made a glance at the swinging kitchen door before shaking his head at her. "You should stay interested in boys your own age."

Now, 5 years later, she's looking down at him and wondering if he remembers this conversation. She wonders if he thinks about her the way she thinks about him. The storage file in her brain of all their little conversations and moments tucked away safely. At night, she plays them back, she expands upon them, she changes their history. In her dreams, Matthew is in love with her and wants her, and the only thing stopping him is the fact that he works for her father, not anything else.

He doesn't respond to this comment but she does catch his mouth twitch the way it did that night. He rises to his feet then and leans down, kissing her head. "Goodnight, Scarlett."

"Goodnight, Matthew." She says by the time he's closed the bedroom door behind himself and he's disappeared.

When she climbs under the sheets, she brings one of the thousand pillows into her arms and breathes in deeply. It smells like the detergent she smells on his clothes sometimes. And she falls asleep pretending that she is cuddling her father's assistant instead of a decorative pillow.