Kindled Hearts

11// Some gin won't be so bad.

Nicole smelled lavender, a raw taste to her mouth, rough in texture and something beyond seductive. Repulsive. Her stomach churned and she heard the whizz of her breakfast, loud and destructive, it almost rose to her throat.

Nicole clipped more of the oddly repugnant detergent into the silver metallic mop bucket, her legs askew, distant and alert, as though a wild witch roamed her trail. Her upper lip soothed her nose as she wrung the mop against the bucket, willing its bristles onto the dust clawed alabaster concrete floor.

Janitress?

She had come to hate the name. A loathing that dug holes into her heart and reminded her of the nights when the winds would slash through the eaves, bearing strength to her father's angered voice. Let's see where life takes you.

Nicole dragged out a gutteral laugh, bitting the insides of her cheeks as it made way to her lips in strong doses. Her arms and legs shook noodly, her laughter a sizzle of palm oil.

Father. How he should see her now, working on the floors when he'd raised her better, cradled in the arms of nannies and maids.

Nicole let out another laugh, but this time she felt her eyes begin to tear. Father was right, he was always right. She had played with her future, kicking the ball like the world was under her feet when in reality the world played her a dangerous sonata, watching the way she edged her decisions.

Was it wrong to pursue writing rather than law?

The only thing that Nicole has to show for are the deep crevices rooting on her bones and father would be more than happy to add insult to her injuries.

Nicole fixed her grip on the mop handle as she continued to scrub the floor, a task that teemed sweat onto her forehead, trailing kisses to her sharp cheekbones. A pair of black heels on an umber skin stood before her mop and Nicole contemplated skirting the distraction but instead she looked up, anger drooping her eyelids.

"Excuse me," she said tersely, her eyes locked on a familiar face. Brown oak eyes, slick-hewn face, black braids trapped in a clean bun. She had seen her somewhere, probably in the washroom when she would clean the bathroom.

Loathe.

That same feeling clung to her throat, hitching her breath. No. She won't cry. At least not in front of anyone.

The woman carried a smile to her face. "You've got balls." Nicole noted that the woman's voice didn't hold any sharpness to it, if any she sounded amused.

"What?" Nicole quirked a brow.

"That day in the conference room, I heard you speak." The woman's eyes, a beautiful brown storm, twinkled, and Nicole caught sight of gold specks barely blurred. "Even though you rubbed people the wrong way, more so Mr. Wayne Bajuu, you actually spoke more sense that anyone else in that room."

Nicole hummed, seemingly taken back by the woman's plain honesty. "Thought maybe my opinion would help."

Her revised version. Did Wayne read it?
What did he think of it? What did he think about her?

"Maybe? No. It did help..does help," the woman mumbled, the same smile looped to her lips. "Come on Miss Nicole, I want to show you something."

Nicole still held the mop handle, eyeing the woman askance. "You want to show me something?"

The woman donned a nod to her face. "Well yes, I do have something to show you. You can call me Linda." She turned and began to walk away.

Nicole, deep-seated with her nerves on edge, watched Linda's gait, her black heels a trill to her mind, loud, she felt the swirl of her thoughts as though poised on a thin thread. What was it that she wanted to show her?