She didn't wake up until the clock hit nine, drowsily waking up from sleep.
Pushing herself up, she looked around, spotting Marke on the couch watching the TV and scrolling on his phone. Two cups, one before Marke and another to his side, waited on her, steaming hot.
Marke had reheated the coffee thrice now.
But he wouldn't tell her that.
Mrs. Olivarez then looked over herself.
"The shower's open," Marke said, side-eyeing her. "I'll heat the coffee up for you when you get out."
With a nod, she got off the massage bed, Marke returning his attention to the TV lest he see her buttocks and grow horny again.
She walked behind him, smelling of sweat and perfume, and bending over, gave him a peck on the cheek. "Can you get me some clothes?" She asked. "Thank you." She ambled towards the bathroom, hips swaying extra as Marke turned around.
"Hey," he called out. "I want to talk to you about something after. Are you free?"
"Sure." She nodded. "What about?"
"Some business," he replied. "Just a heads up."
With a wink and a nod, the woman was inside the bathroom.
The woman knew she was desired.
People who knew their value walked with an aura of self-sufficiency, Marke had noted. Admittedly, there were those who had no value that still carried themselves with arrogance, but Marke always steered clear of those idiots. "Nothing but trouble," his mother had told him, but he never lent her words much credence since she spent her life with the same kind of person she told Marke to steer clear of.
Now that he was older, he thought that was humorous. Spouting jargon to him was the only time he ever saw the woman smile.
No. No. He shook his head to get rid of the train of thought.
Today was a new beginning, and there was no place for the dead and wretched here.
He went to his room and picked out some clothes for the woman.
—————
Marke heard the door click open and turned.
Out hopped Mrs. Olivarez, all the makeup washed off, wet hair held by a towel, another towel covering her body, thighs like trunks.
It was different from the woman that had surgery done—on naturals, the proportions matched.
Just knowing that any part of a woman was fake, at least exterior-wise, bothered Marke when it actually got down to sleeping with them. Else, he was the same old Marke to anyone and everyone.
She smiled, crow's feet crinkling beside her eye.
He grabbed the plain black hoodie and soccer shorts—this wasn't the first time Mrs. Olivarez had stayed longer than planned, so he knew what she liked—and tossed them towards her.
She braced herself like a receiver waiting to catch a football, eyes focused with an intensity Marke rarely saw outside games.
A chuckle fled his lips as she caught it.
"What?" She asked with raised brows.
"Just drawing parallels between you and a receiver," he said.
"I receive it better in a lot of ways in comparison to those in the league," she said with a teasing smile, going towards the room to his left.
"That's true," he nodded amusedly. "That's hard to argue with. Anyways, do you want some toast and grapes? And coffee?"
Before the door, she turned around with a bewildered expression. "Why?"
Marke was stumped. What kind of response was that? "What do you mean, 'Why?'" he asked. "Because you might be hungry?"
"Why do you want to cook for me? Is what I mean." She replied sternly. "You never did it before." She sighed, shaking her head. "All right, let me be straight with you, Marke," she stared at him. "Except for sleeping together, we can have nothing else going on, and I mean nothing. You understand, right?"
What the fuck is this bitch yapping about? Marke wondered in annoyance. Just because he offered food, he was being accused of flattery in an attempt to win her heart; that didn't sit right with him. But he held himself back, an edge of his lip lifting in an attempt to form a snarl, returning to a flat line instantly. It was the only indication of the fury that had flared within.
And in the back of his mind, something whispered that this disrespect stemmed from his position, which was certainly lower on the social and economic ladder. If he hadn't been a good lay and the type to not fall in love with every woman he slept with, Marke would be in no position to even consider asking for what he was about to. He knew that.
At the end of the day that was all it was—those with money stood tall while those without trudged with backs hunched.
Marke wanted to stand tall.
And to stand tall, he needed Mrs. Olivarez; so, Marke didn't say anything.
Marke threw his arms up in the air. "Hey, my bad," he chuckled. "I just thought you would be hungry once we get to talking business."
"Oh." She owlishly blinked. "Oh, I'm so sor—Oh, why did I say that? You know how thoughts play in your minds while in the shower. I just presumed—"
"It's fine," Marke said. "Get dressed first, then we can talk."
He kept a flat expression.
The one reaction you can control is yours. Was the saying, and the one principle Marke ascribed to wholeheartedly.
"Again, I'm sorry," she apologized. "Are we good?"
"We're good," Marke smiled.
"Okay," she nodded and entered his room to get changed.
It's nothing. It's nothing. Marke told himself to calm the sudden anger coursing within. She didn't mean it like that.
Marke didn't like feeling anger, or rather suppressing it, as doing so caused it to linger, assaulting him with feelings of shame at random nights. He should have done something, said something, he would think in those moments, but Marke knew himself and knew he would take only the best possible option for him to achieve his goals in moments where he felt he was being looked down upon.
For an entire two months, Marke had been financially content once, these moments of anger and ineptitude rare in that period of life.
That was the benchmark he not only wished to reach but also to exceed.