by Lily Maxton
“I was an art major,” I said with a stifled yawn. “I haven’t painted in months.” I admitted. I didn’t know why I’d told someone I barely knew something I hadn’t told anyone else. The alcohol, most likely.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” I murmured, and then paused for a minute, losing my thought. “I don’t know if …”
But I never finished whatever statement I’d been about to make because sleep came for me. Sometime in the night I thought I felt a chaste kiss, pressed against my temple, but I was drifting in and out of a dream. I didn’t know what was real and what was illusion.
Chapter Five
When I woke up, daylight was working its way past the curtains, and I was alone. I pushed myself up.
“Ahh,” I groaned, pressing my palm against my forehead. As though that would stop the headache. It was like putting a Band-Aid over a gunshot wound.
I slunk back down to a horizontal position, my stomach clenching.
So this was what it was like to be hung over. As far as getting drunk went, I didn’t think the pros outweighed the cons.
I blinked against the light, noticing some items set out on the side table that hadn’t been there before—a couple of water bottles, a sleeve of saltine crackers, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a can of ginger ale.
And a note.
I reached out a shaky hand to grab it.
I’ve gathered some hangover supplies for you. Sorry I didn’t stay the whole night—there was a Star Trek marathon I wanted to get back for.
—Evan
“Oh no,” I moaned.
My head fell back against the couch cushion.
If I’d been worried about facing him before, how in the world was I going to face him now?
*
“I can’t go back to work,” I told Alyssa, curled up on the corner of the sofa with my water bottle. Maybe if I rolled up tight enough I would vanish. No more hang over. No more embarrassment.
“Of course you can,” she said. She leaned back on the recliner with Princess. The cat lazily flicked its tail back and forth and eyed me from my roommate’s lap. Maybe I imagined it, but the damn animal looked disapproving.
Some help she was—couldn’t she have leaped out and scratched me last night? Or him. Anything to stop me from making a huge mistake.
“You’re both mature adults.”
Evan might have been. I didn’t feel much like a mature adult, more like a fish flopping around on the dry beach of adulthood.
Or maybe a stone in water was a better analogy—I had this awful premonition I was going to sink.
I plucked at the sleeve of my dress; it was the same work dress I’d worn the day before, crumpled beyond recognition and stained with beer. “Does alcohol make sex better?” I asked the question quickly, my face heating.
“I wouldn’t say it makes it better.” She laughed. “It makes you more prone to have it though.”
“Are you sure? Like the quality itself doesn’t go up?”
She tilted her head to the side, bemused. “I don’t know; maybe it’s different for some people. Was it that good?”
“Well we didn’t … you know, all the way.”
“Right. But obviously something about it caught your attention.”
“No,” I said. “Not really.” I regretted bringing it up in the first place. There was no way I wanted to rehash the details of what had happened with Evan.
She glanced at me skeptically. “Whatever.”
“How was your date?” I asked.
Her fingers stroked over Princess’s head as she started to tell me all about it. “Fine. We went to a dance club.”
“Was he a good dancer?”
“He was awful.” She smiled slightly. “Remember when you bumped into that guy at the club and he spilled his drink all over the place? He was really pissed off.” In college, Alyssa had managed to break me out of my shell enough to get me to start going to a dance club near campus. Now that she mentioned it, a memory of a drunk guy yelling at me started to emerge. I thought drinking was supposed to make people happier … it must have backfired for that dude.
“Ugh … I think I tried to forget him. Wait,” I said after a second, “are you saying I’m an awful dancer?”
“You’re just as good a dancer as anyone else. I think you get caught up in your head too much.”
I sat up a little straighter, which made my head hurt. “What does that mean?”
“Like you have trouble going with the flow.”
I glared at her. “I didn’t realize you were such a dance goddess.”
She laughed. “I just know when to let go of distractions.”
“Yeah,” I said, and snorted. “I did that last night and look where it got me.”
“Uh, almost having hot rebound sex?”
“With a coworker!” I exclaimed. Oh, bad idea. Loud exclamations made me feel like I was going to throw up. I pressed my hand to my stomach. “Which wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t put the idea in my head. I’m beginning to think you’re a bad influence,” I told her, more quietly.
Then my phone rang loudly, piercing my skull. “Uh,” I moaned.
The phone was on the coffee table. Alyssa leaned forward to see who was calling. “It’s your mom.”
I reluctantly took the phone from Alyssa, and she went into the kitchen as I answered.
“Hi,” I said. Or more like croaked. Oh God, I sounded awful.
There was a pause that seemed to last about ten seconds.
“Did you just get up?” my mom asked.
“No,” I lied, after I glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost noon. “I just have a bit of a cold, I think.”
“Do you feel all right?”
“Yeah, I don’t have a fever or anything. How are things there?” I asked quickly.
She started to tell me about her latest patient—a cat who’d somehow eaten like half a ball of yarn. My mom was a veterinarian, so she had all kinds of weird stories like that. It also meant she wanted me to be as successful as she was and hoped I would go back to school and get into veterinary science. She’d never forbid me from getting an art degree or anything like that, but she’d made it pretty clear she hadn’t thought it was a very good choice.
Not that it had been much of a choice. I’d been undecided for the first two years, until I realized most of the classes I was taking were art classes anyway.
“How’s SLQ?” she asked casually.
I knew it was forced casualness. “It’s going really well,” I said brightly.
“You’re not bothered that it’s a low-level job?”
A little bit, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. “Nope,” I said, shaking my head for emphasis even though she couldn’t see me.
“Do you see Drew much?”
I’d told her about me and Drew breaking up. She said his name really delicately, like she didn’t want to startle me. I didn’t think I was that messed up about it. “Not too much.” I paused. “I actually went on a date last night. A guy I met at work.” Well, it wasn’t really a date, but she didn’t need to know that.
She hesitated. “Isn’t it a little soon?”
I felt like banging my head against the wall. I’d hoped she would take a date as a good sign. Like I wasn’t dwelling on the breakup. I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.
These conversations were part of the reason I’d moved out. I always felt like a failure when she started asking me this stuff and that hint of worry crept into her voice. I could just imagine her peering at me if I was home.
“It was just a casual thing,” I said. “We probably won’t even go out again.”
“What’s his name?”
“Evan.”
“And do you know much about him?”
This was starting to feel like an interrogation. I was just waiting for the bright lights to shine in my face.
If she was concerned for my safety, it was unnecessary—I couldn’t have been safe
r with Evan. I’d thrown myself at him with a handbag full of glow-in-the-dark condoms, and he’d still managed to walk away. He was responsible.
Or not that into me.
Chapter Six
Walking into the office on Monday morning was like walking to the front of the classroom for a speech. I’d hoped when I’d graduated college that horrible my-palms-are-clammy-and-I-need-to-pee feeling had been done away with for good.
I was wrong.
This must have been punishment for drinking too much whiskey.
When I arrived Evan was already in his office. He didn’t look at me as I scurried by, nearly stumbling in my haste to get to the cubicles.
I kept my head ducked low as I typed. And when, a few minutes after I’d sat down, my computer dinged to indicate I’d just received a new e-mail, I jolted in my chair.
My fingers tightened over the mouse when I saw who had sent it.
Hope you felt okay Saturday morning. Has your fondness for whiskey subsided?
My finger automatically clicked Reply. And then I slumped at my desk in a panicked daze for another five minutes before I decided to send a response instead of deleting the message.
I didn’t feel okay on Saturday morning—more like someone hit me in the head with a baseball bat. It’s a good deterrent—I doubt I’ll ever drink that much again. And I now loathe whiskey with the white-hot fury of a thousand suns. How was your weekend?
Send.
Damn, damn, damn! I’d ended the e-mail with a question.
Not as painful as yours, I’d guess. Did the stuff I left help at all? I wasn’t sure if you’d have more of a headache hangover or a my-stomach-is-rebelling-against-me hangover.
-
Unfortunately, I had both. Thanks for the supply kit—it did help. Where did you go to get all of that? I don’t think I’ve had ginger ale in years.
-
Another question! It was like I wasn’t capable of putting a stop to this … my stupid finger just kept hitting Send.
I went to the convenience store on the corner. My grandmother was a firm believer that ginger ale could cure all stomach ailments. So I didn’t think a hangover kit would be complete without it. Speaking of which, there are some insane-looking people at convenience stores late at night … I felt like I should have bought cigarettes or alcohol to up my street cred. Or maybe a weapon.
I laughed out loud before I remembered I was at work. I hoped Evan couldn’t hear me from his office.
Hmm … I suppose you could use a can of ginger ale as a weapon—you could shake the can and then spray it at someone.
-
I’ve never thought of such awesome possibilities. All joking aside, there’s a question that’s been weighing on my mind quite a bit, and I just hope I don’t get sued for sexual harassment for asking it: Has the red thong ever made a work appearance?
My mouth opened; my hands floated over the keyboard; and then, some aspect of myself I’d never recognized pushed me to respond.
I almost called my lawyer just now, you’d better be careful with the kind of e-mails you send. I’ll have you know I’m entirely professional—the red thong stays at home. Unless … you don’t want it to make a work appearance, do you?
I leaned back in my chair after I sent the message, heart thumping a fierce a rhythm.
A message showed up in my inbox less than two minutes later
Do I even need to answer that? It’s an emphatic yes. Wear it tomorrow with a dress.
I blinked. And I was a little ashamed to admit that at some point during our e-mails, a faint ache had begun between my legs. I crossed them under the desk, squeezing my thighs together.
Demanding, are we? What if it’s cold?
-
Wear a coat. Or not. I can keep you warm.
I sucked in a breath. What in the world was I getting myself into? A workplace flirtation was a bad idea … but I still couldn’t quite manage to refuse his demand outright:
I’ll think about it. Now get back to work before you get me in trouble.
*
When I stopped at my closet the next morning and knelt in front of the underwear chest, I still hadn’t decided what to do. My hand reached to the back of the drawer and closed on a skimpy piece of lace.
I withdrew it, staring down at the offensive red garment. But it didn’t seem so offensive anymore.
Next to the thong was a traditional pair of white briefs.
It would be a much safer choice. Safe was good. I’d thought Evan was safe, but now I wasn’t too sure.
I grabbed the briefs, ignoring the flash of—was it disappointment—that settled in my stomach. But I wasn’t the girl who acted on impulse, who entertained thoughts of wearing a thong for a guy she barely knew. I needed to get back to myself.
Back to safety.
I picked out one of my nicer dresses, a dark blue that stopped at the knee and had tight, full-length sleeves, and rushed to the bathroom to take a shower, my respectable Tuesday outfit in tow.
*
In the morning, while I waited for my computer to boot up, I went to the break room and heated a mug of water in the microwave. I kept my eyes focused straight ahead of me as I walked past Evan’s office. Nerves might have been tightening my stomach, but I wasn’t going to let him know it.
I opened a new box of tea and propped my elbows on the counter as I watched it steep.
But I straightened abruptly when I saw long, strong fingers reach for the empty tea packet.
“Irish breakfast,” Evan commented.
“I ran out of Earl Grey,” I said, more shakily than I’d like. “I thought I’d try something different.”
“Which do you like better?”
We were standing side by side. Evan was closer to the doorway, facing the counter by the coffeepot. He reached for a to-go cup from the cupboard.
“I’m not wearing it,” I muttered.
He cast a sidelong glance at me. “Did you want to?”
No was on the tip of my tongue. But I hesitated. Too long. When I finally said it, it didn’t even sound convincing to me.
“It’s not a good idea,” I added.
“Probably not,” he agreed.
And then I opened my stupid mouth again. “I mean, I would have worn it, and then what?”
Evan tilted his head. “I would have wanted to make sure you were wearing it. I probably would have started with something like this.”
He stepped closer, so I was nearly tucked into his side. I felt his hand graze the inside of my leg, just above my knee. And then it settled more fully, his hand and fingers flexing, his thumb tracing a gentle circle on my inner thigh.
“Oh.” My cheeks felt hot.
“You never answered my question about the tea.”
“I … I like them both …”
Pushing him away would be the right thing to do. It really would. The sensible thing. There wasn’t any universe where getting felt up in the break room by a coworker was a good idea. But this heat radiated from the spot where we connected, where I could feel the outline of every finger pressed to my skin, and I liked the heat a lot more than I should.
I swallowed. “Earl Grey is milder,” I continued. “If you like mild.”
“I don’t,” he said.
He slipped his hand farther under my dress. Just another inch or two and he would graze my underwear. My fingers curled around the mug as I fought the urge to grab his wrist and guide him higher. To settle him fully on the place where I ached.
“Evan?”
“What?”
“Don’t tease me.”
Our eyes caught. My mouth opened on a sharp breath and he followed the movement. But what did I mean? Did I want him to stop? Or did I want him to go ahead and touch me?
“Evan!”
The contact withdrew. It was an abrupt absence. My skin tingled painfully where his hand had been.
Natalie swept into the break room like she owned it, coming up to stand right beside E
van.
“Hey, Natalie,” he said. Maybe I imagined it, but I thought I heard an edge of irritation to his voice. Unless I transferred my own irritation to him.
I fumbled with my tea. It felt like my face was on fire. Along with some other, more private, places of my anatomy.
“I was wondering if you could help me with something. I just put some new software on my computer and it’s not working right—oh, hi Danielle, I didn’t see you back there.” Her voice had changed from slightly husky to coolly polite in the blink of an eye. Unless she was blind, or I’d somehow turned invisible, I was pretty sure she’d seen me.
“Hi,” I said. I didn’t think I was a violent person, but at that moment I wanted to do some serious physical damage. “Did you call the tech support guy?” I suggested mildly, taking out my tea bag. The beverage in my mug was inky black from being steeped too long.
There was dead silence in the room for about ten seconds.
“But Evan’s so good at things like this,” she said. “And you like to help, don’t you?”
“Yeah, it’s no problem,” he answered.
My hands clenched. I breathed through my nose and counted to five, but it didn’t work.
He grabbed his cup and hesitated. “We’ll talk later?”
But I wasn’t feeling very charitable. He’d not only started something he couldn’t finish, leaving me aroused and unsatisfied, he was about to go off with a woman who wanted to make him her next conquest instead of staying to tend to my needs.
It was his fault I even had needs right now—at 8:15 in the morning in the break room of SLQ.
“That won’t be necessary,” I said, as crisp and professional as I’d ever sounded. If I wasn’t so mad I might have applauded myself.
Evan’s face remained impassive as he turned toward Natalie. And the farther he walked away from me the more pissed off I felt. By the time he exited the room I wanted to scream.
I took a long sip of tea and then spit it back into the sink. I had no idea how long it had been steeping, but it tasted too bitter to drink.
I dumped the rest of it down the drain and went back to my cubicle, ornery, un-caffeinated, and wanting.
*
Even though I’d been furiously covering ground trying to put as much space between us as possible, Evan caught up to me on the sidewalk after work.