Corsets and Quartets

by DeSimone, Mercy

  Groaning, I realize that I'm committed to drinks with yet another blind date tonight. I don't know why I continue to torture myself. Not a single one has been anything but awkward and disappointing; some have even been humiliating. My cheeks burn as I remember the date with Robert, which sounded so promising in the beginning. I haven't had the courage to share with Emma what happened in the aftermath of that one, because it's just too embarrassing. Maybe one day when it isn't so fresh in my mind, I'll be able to laugh about it. Today is not that day.

  Instead, I find myself more disenchanted than ever. I would have bailed months ago, if I hadn't paid upfront for a year's subscription to ESoulmate. Luckily, my year of indentured servitude ends in another three months. While I'd like to ignore it all, I refuse to waste my money and not look at profiles daily, even though ninety-five percent of the guys who continue to message me are one long roster of nope, not even, and hard pass.

  I'm not certain why I thought an online dating site might help me get out of my slump and meet more eligible guys. Maybe it was all the happy commercials featuring hipster singles who looked normal if unoriginal. It's not like I was searching for an international multi-millionaire rock star physicist. I'd happily settle for a normal white-collar guy, who makes enough money to survive and doesn't live in his mother's basement. Okay, and someone whose kisses don't require my wearing a wetsuit. An internal shudder racks my body at a newer memory. Nobody likes a sloppy kisser. If this guy was interesting and even remotely cute, I'd consider it money well spent.

  So what should I wear? Does it matter? Damn, I can't even remember who it is that I'm meeting. Clark? Clint? Noooooo…Cliff. I don't know that I've ever really met any Cliffs in person before. It's not like it's a popular name. I might be stacking the deck a bit, but surely if anyone was going to get along with Daisy, you would think it would be a veterinarian. Besides, his picture was promising, he had beautiful eyes. I should actually be more excited about this one, because he sounded intelligent and shared my love for books. Instead, it just gives me more anxiety, because that's usually when I find myself most disappointed.

  Glancing at Daisy lying peacefully on my chest, I close my eyes once more and try to take a few cleansing breaths, which is difficult to do when your lungs are being compressed by fourteen pounds of complacent kitty flesh. Morning meditation is my latest attempt to start my day with calm instead of the dread of bills, customers, and my lack of progress on my current manuscript.

  Daisy's purring begins to lull me into a peaceful state as I attempt to clear my mind. It's rare that I reach a level where my mind is completely empty. Instead, I attempt to settle for a creative space. Trying to envision words as building blocks, I attempt to stack them into sentences and ideas that will translate to the page.

  The batting of a paw against my lips snaps my lids apart once more as I glance at the clock and gasp in horror. Damnit! How did I lose an entire half hour? Now I'm going to be late, and it's my day to open the store. Fuck a duck! That means I have no time to shower.

  Daisy's indignant yowl registers her protest as I sweep her aside with the covers, springing from my bed and glancing in the mirror at the rat's nest of my hair. Looks like I'll have to rely on a quick triage as I quickly switch on my curling iron and rush into the closet, pulling out and discarding clothes as I go. Where are my favorite black leggings? You would think that I could find at least one pair since I have three!

  Emma always laughs at my propensity for buying things in multiples, but I refuse to apologize. When you're a larger size, it can be difficult to find things that fit right and are comfortable, so when I find something I love, I have a tendency to buy another as a back up. I consider it insurance, so that if I ruin the first one, I won't be left crying in my wine…which has happened.

  I was absolutely inconsolable when Daisy accidentally snagged a claw through my favorite cashmere sweater, shredding it. She slunk around for a week, looking at me reproachfully, as if she knew I blamed her.

  It seems silly, but I have a tendency to get a bit attached to things which give me comfort. So much so, that Emma eventually got me to release the ruined sweater long enough to have someone make it into a pillow. I now get to snuggle up next to it on the couch when I write.

  For whatever reason, Daisy won't go near it. She just stares at it balefully, as if she resents its presence as a reminder of her transgressions. I have to move it if I want her to lie next to me.

  This is only one of the many reasons I can't allow Emma to PA for me. Just like with her beta comments, she never fails to take every opportunity to advocate her cause by saying that if I understand having back ups available for my favorite inanimate objects, then I should better appreciate the concept of having several men on the roster. No matter how many times I try to explain that it's not quite the same thing, she just laughs and calls me a hypocrite. How do you argue with someone who uses such flawed logic? Clearly, a man and a pair of pants are two totally different things.

  A small yowl interrupts my frantic searching as warm fur entwines itself around my ankles, forcing me off balance, until I pitch head first into my closet, grasping for something to catch my fall. The sound of fabric tearing assaults my ears, and I stare in chagrin at the remnants of a knit shirt dress now hanging raggedly above me as I roll over to stare at the ceiling.

  "Damnit, Daisy. If you're going to attack me for snacks first thing in the morning, you could at least bring me coffee!" Honestly, I might be losing my mind.

  More plaintive yowls echo from the corner where Daisy retreated as I fell like a tree in the forest. Can this day get any worse? Pushing myself to my feet, I wince at the pain in my wrist, realizing I must have really jammed it as I fell. Shaking it gently to relieve the numbness, I continue to flex it in concern.

  The mewling increases as I stumble across the room to the nightstand, where I keep a small stash of cat treats, and carefully shake a few onto the hardwood floor. As Daisy eagerly crunches away, I glance toward the hallway to ensure that her water fountain is full before turning my attention back to my own morning routine.

  Splashing water on my face, I load my toothbrush and wince again at the twinge of pain in my wrist. Typing is bound to be challenging until this heals, and I may have to switch to dictation for a day or two. It will work, but the editing that's necessary after my phone autocorrects words sometimes takes me hours to unravel. I often have to read sentences aloud phonetically multiple times to figure out what the hell I was trying to say. Well, it can't be helped now.

  Glancing at the clock again, I begin to calculate time, distance, and my ability to do hair and makeup before I need to get out the door, knowing I'm going to come up short. I suddenly realize that means I'm going to look like hell for my date, since I don't have time to really pull myself together now. Maybe I can sneak out at lunchtime and run home to refresh.

  I realize that's my best bet—just put up my hair, do a light makeup, and fix it all a couple hours from now. If I get everyone set up for the day, I should be staffed well enough to get away. Let the sprint begin.

  * * *

  Jumping off the bus with only minutes to spare, I rush toward the door and yell a quick "Good morning" to my team as I sprint past them with my keys. The mall is very strict about opening on time. We get fined if our gates are not up when the mall opens, so I continue unchecked on my forward trajectory, allowing the others to straggle in behind me as I flip on lights along the way.

  The opening chimes sound through the empty corridors of the mall as I lift the security gate and wave at Joi unlocking the jewelry store across the hall.

  "Rough night?" Her light laugh drifts toward me as I skid to an abrupt stop, turning the key to move the gate upward. "I hope it was worth it."

  "Not even close. More like a rough morning." My tone is wry as I shrug my shoulders before turning back to my team waiting expectantly behind me. Where is everyone?

  I do a quick head count, and realize that both Jason and Kenzie are
missing.

  "Where's…"

  "Kenzie called out sick." Maria rolls her eyes at me as I groan internally. That's the fourth time this month, and it's only the sixteenth. I know I'm going to have to fire her soon, but I hate the paperwork that entails so I keep people longer than I should. What can I say? I have major avoidance issues.

  "What's wrong with her now?"

  "She has a case of chronic RBF," Marco says with conviction.

  "RBF?"

  "Resting Bitch Face," Maria says, smacking Marco upside the head as Max snorts. I can tell Maria is trying to hold in her own laughter, and I duck my head, coughing into my hand to disguise my chuckle. It's bad form to speak about an employee in front of the others, but honestly, they're not blind. It's pretty obvious to everyone that she's trying to get herself fired. It's stupid to pretend otherwise.

  "What about…"

  "Jason called to say that his wife was supposed to chaperone his son's field trip, but she got called in to work. He had to fill in for her or they didn't have enough parents to go."

  Damnit! Jason's a great worker, but his wife makes the money. That means that if it comes down to one of them needing to stay home with the kids for any reason, he always gets the short end. Or rather, we do. It's hard to resent a guy for being that devoted to his family, but I have to hide how distressed I am by how that's going to screw up my entire day.

  I immediately start shifting the workload in my head, realizing that until the afternoon crew comes in, I'm going to be stuck on the floor running my ass off. Pasting a plastic smile on my face, I turn to Marco, Max, and Maria, who all gaze at me sympathetically as I try to rally the troops. Hearing the slam of the back stockroom door, I know that also means I'm about to be saddled with today's shipment.

  "Max, Maria, you're on registers and floor duty. Marco, you're on inventory with me. I've got the three M's as my dream team, so let's roll with it!"

  With the false smile pasted firmly in place, I head back to the stockroom with Marco on my heels. I really need some coffee and a few aspirin to get through this day. Being understaffed means I'm no longer going to be able to sneak home at lunch time. In fact, it means I'm not going to even be able to stop for lunch, since I'll now have to cover everyone else's breaks. Cursing Kenzie under my breath again, I'm shocked to find three pallets sitting in the stockroom waiting for me. What the hell? Doing a quick calculation in my head, I realize there's almost forty-eight cartons of new merchandise.

  Marco looks at me in puzzlement as he stares at the sea of boxes before us.

  "Are holiday shipments coming in already?"

  "No! This has to be a mistake. We shouldn't be getting holiday goods until the middle of next month." For God's sake, it's still September.

  "Hold on, let me make a quick call."

  Some days, it doesn't pay to get out of bed. What I wouldn't give to be able to simply walk back out the door and not have to deal with any of this today. I want to lose myself in my characters and write until my fingers are too numb to tap the keys.

  That's why I'm fascinated by the Regency period. It must have been wonderful to wake up in the morning and have your maid bring you your morning chocolate. To have someone else dress you and do your hair. To visit the modiste and hat maker to order new frocks, or sit in the morning room and wait for visitors each day until it was time to dress for dinner.

  Of course, that's if you were part of the aristocracy. I probably would have ended up as the poor companion or scullery maid who spent their days catering to the needs of the ladies of the manor. Forget the arranged marriage; I was more likely the poor orphan struggling to escape a life of servitude as a governess. The one who fled in the middle of the night only to meet a dashing highwayman…

  "Hello? Is anyone there? Helloooo—" Chagrined, I realize my mind has wandered at a very inappropriate time.

  "Hey, Patsy, it's Josie. Good morning, sorry about that. Someone walked in and…"

  "Hi, Josie." Patsy sounds amused on the other end of the line, and I can almost see her smirk as I sputter to an embarrassed stop.

  "What's up?"

  "Well," I say uncertainly, "the warehouse must have seriously screwed up this week's order, because I have three pallets of new merchandise in my stockroom as we speak!"

  "Damn. Let me check with Serena," Patsy says as I let out a breath of relief. "I'll try to find out when the other two are arriving."

  "The other two? Why would I need three palettes of anything, let alone five? That can't be right." My dismay must finally have registered with Patsy, because her next question sounds peeved.

  "Josie, have you been reading your emails?"

  "Of course I'm reading emails. I mean, I wasn't here yesterday, but I'm sure I checked them on Tuesday." Did I? I vaguely remember challenging Nate to a round of rock paper scissors as we battled to see who was stuck with the paperwork this week.

  "I chose you as my Christmas prototype store. You're doing a holiday fit out for the GM and buyers to walk through next Friday."

  "Friday!" I can't contain the note of horror that shades my tone as a whine builds. "Why my store? Patsy, please tell me this is a joke. I thought you liked me. Can't someone else do the prototype set? "

  "I thought you'd be pleased. They wanted to do the walkthrough in this region, and I thought it would give you some great exposure to the suits. You never know when another regional position will come up—this is your opportunity to show off how you built your store ranking and dazzle them."

  I love Patsy. She's a great regional manager and always helpful, but she has this fantasy that I want to follow in her footsteps. Like I need or want more stress and hours. It's great to be one of the top stores in my region, and we're known as the premier place to shop for kitchen supplies, but how do you admit to your boss that you don't actually want any more responsibility than you already have without sounding like a slacker? Just the amount of culinary classes that my store hosts adds so much extra work than the stores without kitchens have.

  "Patsy, how big is this holiday setup? I'm already running low on staff. I don't know how I could ever pull this off."

  "Don't be ridiculous, Josie. We both know your staff adores you—they'll do whatever you ask them to do. I emailed you the planograms late Tuesday, they have all the details you need. I'll be there for the walkthrough as well. Maybe we can have lunch after, if I'm not forced to drag everyone back to the train station. Usually, they're just eager to get out of town and head back to New York. I'm going to stay in the area for a few days and visit some other stores. We'll catch up then. See you on Friday."

  "But…" Dead air greets me as I suspect I am now well and truly fucked, and I put down my phone before firing up my computer.

  Scrolling quickly through my emails, I realize that I saw the preview but never opened it because I wasn't ready to think about Christmas yet. Well, ho-fucking-ho. I groan, realizing that I need to do an entire floor move in less than seven days.

  At least I don't have to worry about finding time to change clothes for my date now. It looks like I'm going to be spending the rest of the day unraveling this mess.

  I sigh, my thoughts already shifting to floor plans and staffing. I hate to cancel plans with such abrupt notice, but it truly can't be helped this time around.

  Oh well, he probably wasn't interested in me anyway.

  Chapter 3

  Hello Pussy

  Peeling the remnants of price stickers from my fingers, ink stains my fingertips, and I find myself wondering if worker's comp covers the carpal tunnel I have no doubt acquired after four hours of squeezing out labels with the price gun. Honestly, I have a new appreciation for the challenges so many guys have with their grip. At least they get rewarded with orgasms—I only get a headache.

  Wiping the sweat from my brow, I groan at the ache in my lower back and thighs. I really need a workout regimen. My body isn't limber enough for the million bends and squats I've had to do in the last eight hours as I unpacked,
unwrapped, and unstacked what seems like millions of plates, cups, trivets, cookie cutters, glasses, and holiday accessories. At least it's early enough in the season that I'm not stuck listening to the incessant charm of nonstop Christmas carols.

  Marco was a big help, but eventually, I had to send him out to the floor and soldier on alone. Luckily, I had him do most of the heavy lifting, which is always fun to watch, but not particularly appropriate to stare at your employee's arms and abs while indulging in naughty fantasies.

  Thank you for calling Cougar's Anonymous. Please dial eight to file your sexual harassment complaint with HR. I huff, blowing some stray hair out of my eyes as I give myself a firm lecture. "Josie, do you need anything else before I head out?" As if summoned by my thoughts, Marco's head peeks around the corner of the stockroom door, searching for me among the stacks of inventory. I suddenly realize that I have stacked so many things around me as I unpacked that I've cornered myself with no way to get out.

  Reaching a hand over the stacks I gesture for Marco to take it as I step up on top of my office chair, which twirls precariously, the wheels sliding slightly. Only Marco's hand anchoring mine keeps me from falling off and embarrassing myself. Balancing myself in a half squat, I gingerly step up on the corner of my desk, testing my weight before adding a second foot and quickly shuffling to the edge to jump off the other side, knocking Marco down like a bowling pin. It's a good thing he's young and buff…and has a good sense of humor.

  "Sorry about that." I grin at his laugh as he dusts himself off and jumps to his feet, offering me his hand again to pull me upright. How embarrassing—at least he didn't yell 'timber' as I fell on top of him.

  "That was very creative. Lacked some finesse and originality. The German judge gives it a seven." The waving back and forth of his hand in a so-so gesture earns an eye roll.