Switch

by Megan Hart

  "Put your suit jacket on, Paul. And go to your meeting.

  And tomorrow, instead of coffee, you'd better drink water

  until you can be less clumsy." I didn't say it lightly. I wasn't teasing.

  I was testing.

  He closed his eyes briefly and when he opened them, I

  saw relief and something else. A little shame. A little

  excitement. I felt the sting and swirl of it, too, but I lifted

  my chin and tried not to show it.

  "Now," I said, "go to your meeting."

  He put on his suit jacket and left.

  There was nothing overtly sexual about what had

  happened. I didn't want to fuck my boss. Until today I

  wouldn't have believed he wanted to fuck me, either,

  beyond the fact that most men would like to fuck most

  beyond the fact that most men would like to fuck most

  women. Yet something had passed between us, something

  charged and tense and arousing.

  Alone in Paul's office I had to bend and put my hands on

  his desk, my head down so I could catch my breath. I'd

  fainted twice in my life, and this didn't feel like that, the

  gray-red haze taking over my vision, the ringing in my ears.

  This light-headedness was more like the breathless rush

  that comes just before orgasm, when every muscle

  clenches. When the body takes over and nothing the mind

  can do wil stop the inevitable.

  It was synchronicity again, or maybe serendipity. Like

  when you've never heard a word before and suddenly you

  see it in every book you read, or how you've been craving

  ice cream and the ice-cream truck rounds the corner just

  before you go inside. Three men, similar but different. I

  might not have noticed a few months ago, but now it was

  al I could see. The notes had done that. Opened my eyes

  to that need. Theirs and mine, too.

  Last night, learning about Eric had rocked my world. This

  morning, discovering I was about to lose my lists had done

  it again. But now, just now, with Paul, I'd learned

  something so basic it had been with me al along. Only like

  something so basic it had been with me al along. Only like

  Dorothy with the Scarecrow, Tin Woodsman and

  Cowardly Lion, I simply hadn't seen it. I thought of lists

  and notes and what they meant to me. And what I wanted.

  And I knew what I had to do.

  "Paige." Miriam gave me a broad, crimson-lipped grin. "So nice to see you. What can I do for you today? A gift for

  someone?"

  "No. Today I came in for myself."

  I looked to the shelf where the boxes of ink, pens and

  papers had been, but they were gone. Miriam came

  around the counter and saw me looking. She tugged gently

  on my sleeve.

  "In the back. Come with me." She'd set the boxes on an

  eye-level shelf, each displayed with its lid open to show off

  the papers inside. "Not so many people wil see these

  back here, but if they take the time to look, I believe they

  wil be unable to resist."

  I already knew the one I wanted. Red lacquer with blue

  and purple accents. The paper inside bore the watermark

  and purple accents. The paper inside bore the watermark

  of a dragonfly, and there was enough to last a number of

  weeks even if I wrote a letter on it every day. The brush-

  and-ink set interested me less. I didn't intend to write in

  caligraphy.

  "This one." I closed the lid and slid the smal wooden clasp through the loop of ribbon to keep it shut. I turned to

  Miriam and stopped at the look on her face. "What?"

  "I knew you would find something to write on that paper,

  that's al." She was already leaving the room and gestured

  over her shoulder for me to folow.

  The box was heavier than it looked because of the marble

  stamper, also featuring a dragonfly, and the porcelain

  container of ink paste inside. Heavier, too, because of

  what I meant to do with the contents. The wood slipped

  against my fingers as I carried it to the cash register. I

  didn't want to let it go long enough for Miriam to ring it up

  and put it in a Speckled Toad bag, but I did.

  I was sweating a little, my stomach and throat buzzing with

  anticipation. Colors seemed a bit too bright and sounds

  too loud. I was already thinking of a quiet room and

  candlelight, and the scritch-scratch of a pen on the paper.

  I already knew what I was going to write.

  Miriam rang up my purchase and wrapped the satin box

  liberaly in tissue paper, then slid it into a bag. She peered

  at me over her half glasses, her mouth pursed, and tapped

  the countertop with her crimson nails. "You need

  something else."

  I was already spending too much. "I don't think so."

  Miriam ignored me and turned to the glass-topped display

  case next to the counter. She leaned over to look at the

  Cross and Mont Blanc pens inside, each snuggled in its

  own cradle of velvet. She ran her finger over the glass,

  drawing my attention to each of the pens I'd lusted over

  since discovering her shop. There was a Starwalker

  rolerbal pen in black and one in blue. There was a

  Meisterstuck Classique Platinum rolerbal in classic black

  with silver accents. She even had one of the special

  limited-edition Marlene Dietrich pens I'd seen online that

  cost the earth.

  "Mont Blanc doesn't cal them pens, you know," she said

  in the reverent voice of an archeologist unearthing

  something precious. She didn't look at me as she unlocked

  the back of the case and ran her fingertips over the velvet.

  the back of the case and ran her fingertips over the velvet.

  "They're referred to as writing instruments."

  Her fingers closed on one, a slim black piece with the

  signature six-pointed star in the cap. She drew it out and

  laid it flat on her palm the way the jeweler had done with

  the diamond ring Austin had bought me. The pen in

  Miriam's palm wasn't quite as expensive as that ring, which

  I stil had locked away in my jewelry box…but it wasn't

  much less, either.

  I itched to take it, but shoved my hands in my pockets

  instead. "Yes, I know. I've been to their Web site."

  Now her gaze, cool and amused, flicked to me. "I'm sure

  you have. You look at these pens every time you come in,

  Paige."

  "They're beautiful pens."

  Miriam puled out a smal square of velvet and laid the pen

  —the writing instrument—on it. Then she folded her hands

  and tilted her head to look at me over her glasses again.

  "Let me ask you something, my dear. Would a plastic

  surgeon operate on someone's face with a rusty butter

  knife?"

  knife?"

  "I sure hope not." I grimaced.

  Miriam smiled indulgently. "Would an artist try to paint a

  masterpiece with a box of watercolors from the dolar

  store?"

  "If that's al the artist had, why not?"

  "My point is, my dear, that in order to create real, true

  things of beauty, a person needs the right tools." She

  waved a hand over the Mont Blanc.
r />   My soul strained toward it. "I'm not an artist."

  "No?" Her perfectly plucked brows lifted in unison. "That paper says otherwise. Tel me you intend to use it for a

  grocery list, and I'l cal you a liar. What's more, I won't

  sel it to you. It would be a sin not to use that paper for

  something special."

  "I plan to use it for something special." My mouth curved

  into a smile on the words.

  "Good. But what about the instrument? Don't tel me you

  plan to use a half-chewed pencil stub with no eraser."

  plan to use a half-chewed pencil stub with no eraser."

  I tore my gaze away from the Mont Blanc to look at her.

  "I have a nice fountain pen my dad bought for me for my

  colege graduation."

  I didn't tel her it tended to stain my fingers in addition to

  blotting the paper with ink. Miriam sniffed. Her fingernails

  ticktocked on the counter, timing the seconds before her

  response.

  "It's not a Mont Blanc. Or even a Cross. Is it?"

  "No. But it's what I have."

  Miriam sighed and shook her head. "Paige, Paige, Paige.

  Pick up that pen and hold it."

  I didn't want to—putting it down would be so much

  harder. But when Miriam puled a piece of cream-colored

  paper from beneath the counter and slid it toward me, I

  did what she'd said. If you've never held a realy good pen,

  you don't understand how the weight distributes itself so

  evenly in your palm. Or how the fit of it in your fingers

  makes writing even the longest documents easy. How the

  ink slides from the tip without effort.

  I wrote my name.

  "Oh…" I breathed and with reluctance, set down the pen.

  "It's so nice."

  I'd put it down at once so I wouldn't be tempted to run

  away with it, but Miriam lifted it and held it toward me.

  "Buy it."

  "I can't afford it." I hadn't even looked at the tiny, hand-lettered price tag attached to the pen's box stil in the

  display case. I didn't have to see the numbers to know I

  couldn't buy it.

  "Are you sure?" Miriam asked calmly. "You might be

  surprised."

  "I doubt it, Miriam. I know what those pens cost."

  "My dear," she said. "Aren't you worth it?"

  Chapter 21

  This is what I wrote on that expensive paper with my

  exquisite writing instrument.

  The time has come to reevaluate our relationship.

  You will send me your exact schedule, work and

  pleasure, for the next ten days. In addition, you will

  write ten things that excite you. You will send them in

  an e-mail to me at switch1971@gmail.com no later

  than 6:00 p.m. the day you get this letter. You will

  include your cell phone number so I can text-message

  you my approval. Or not.

  Things are going to change for us both.

  I'd stepped it up, but unlike my last interlude with Austin, I

  didn't wonder if it had been too much. I wondered,

  instead, if perhaps it hadn't been enough. There were

  several messages in my Inbox when I got home from

  work. One of them was from a friend from colege,

  another from my mom. And the last was from an e-mail

  address I didn't recognize. Eric.

  He detailed his schedule as I'd requested. Working

  twelve-hour shifts in a three-on, four-off pattern. I hadn't

  asked him what hospital he worked at, but he'd included

  varying drive times, so I thought he might fil in at several.

  His attention to detail pleased me. Clearly he'd done

  something like this before…but then, I was guessing he

  was more used to this sort of thing than I was. I liked his

  list of things that excited him even more.

  • 1. Standing in the rain

  • 2. Roller coasters

  • 3. Knowing I'm being watched while I make myself

  come

  • 4. Serving a woman on my knees while she ignores

  me

  • 5. Tacos!

  • 6. Lingerie (on a woman, not me wearing it)

  • 7. Being told exactly how to please the woman I'm

  with so I don't have to guess

  • 8. Clean sheets

  • 9. Monty Python on DVD

  • 10. Lists

  Lists excited me, too. I loved that he had a sense of humor

  about it and was self-confident enough to show it. I also

  appreciated that he'd responded in time—5:55, by the

  time on the message. I didn't know if I'd have had it in me

  to punish him for failure.

  I never wore leather and I'd never cracked a whip. I liked

  high heels, but the thought of using them to step on a

  person squicked me out big-time. I'd always thought of

  men who got off on "serving" women as pussies, though

  Eric had impressed me as anything but.

  I didn't know how much of a mistress I was going to be,

  or how long I could get away with the impersonation. I

  could have pretended I'd taken this on for his sake—the

  thought of losing those daily lists had sent me into a mind-

  spin, after al. But I knew it was realy for me. Those lists

  had given me something I hadn't known I needed.

  Writing them, I discovered, fulfiled me even more.

  Writing them, I discovered, fulfiled me even more.

  This is what I left in his mailbox.

  Tonight when you get home from work, you will eat

  your dinner. Then you'll shower. After that, you'll go to

  your bedroom and leave your curtain open.

  When you jerk your cock, know that I'l be watching you.

  "Cute shoes." The woman whose name I didn't know but

  whom I always seemed to bump into at the mailboxes

  sounded as if she meant it. "Enzo Angiolini?"

  I looked down at the chunk-heeled pumps in classic black,

  tied across the top with a tasseled leather strap. I'd picked

  them up at the thrift store for three bucks. But yes, they

  were brand name and nearly brand-new. "Yes."

  "Nice. I have a pair almost like it but in navy. I never wear

  them, though. I couldn't ever find anything to go with

  them." She gave the rest of my outf it a critical look. "I'd never have thought to put them together with a flared skirt

  and tapered top like that."

  For months I'd agonized over what to wear to work each

  day and she'd looked at me as though I were something

  she'd scraped off the bottom of her enviably fashionable

  shoes. Today, caught up in thoughts of slipping Eric's note

  into the mail and what it would lead to, later, I'd thrown on

  the first outfit I'd grabbed. I looked at my shoes and

  swirled slightly to flare my skirt around my knees. My

  smile had nothing to do with her compliment, and I didn't

  thank her for it. Okay, so I can be a bit of a vindictive

  bitch. I never pretended otherwise.

  I looked her up and down from the chiffon scarf she'd tied

  at her throat to her feet in the same pair of Kate Spades

  I'd seen several times already. "Realy?"

  One word. So many layers of meaning. She blinked

  rapidly, and then her mouth quirked into a grudging smile.

  We understood each other the way women do and men

  never wil.

  "They're havi
ng a great sale at Neiman Marcus next week.

  I'm on their preferred buyers mailing list and got a

  postcard about it," she offered.

  "Thanks. I'l check it out." I waited until she'd gone before putting my letter in Eric's mailbox.

  When I had, I leaned for a moment against the wal, my

  breath whistling through parted lips. Beneath the skirt she'd

  so admired, I wore lacy, silky lingerie. Sexy things to make

  me feel pretty al day, and to remind me of what I intended

  to happen later. As if I could forget, I thought with a secret

  smile I kept with me al day.

  Paul noticed it. The smile, not the panties, which rubbed

  me deliciously each time I crossed or uncrossed my legs.

  He stood over my desk with a sheaf of files in his hands,

  but he waited until I looked up to acknowledge him rather

  than simply addressing me the way he had in the past.

  Oh, how so much had changed in so short a time!

  "You look nice today," he said.

  In this era of sexual-harassment suits, in a time where I'm

  an executive assistant and not a secretary because of some

  misbegotten notion that a title means more than the job

  itself, his compliment wasn't realy appropriate. I leaned

  back in my chair to give him a nice long look at my legs as

  I crossed them high at the knee. And he looked, Paul did,

  without pretending he didn't.

  "What do you need, Paul?"

  He offered the files. "These have to go out today."

  I didn't take them. Power thriled through me as he set

  them on the desk but didn't go. Was this a dangerous

  game? I didn't think it was so risky. I didn't even count it

  as flirtation, realy. I had no intention of fucking my boss.

  Of becoming my mother.

  "Al right."

  We stared at each other. Paul cleared his throat and

  rocked on his heels a bit. I took the files and set them in a

  tidy pile in front of me to show him I would, indeed, get to

  them. Not at that instant, and I wasn't jumping through

  hoops to do it, but it would happen.

  "Paige, there's something else I'd like to talk to you about."

  I studied him for a second, trying to gauge what it could be

  about, then nodded. "Sure. What about?"

  "Can you come into my office in about ten minutes?"

  He asked as though he was afraid I'd say no, even though

  technicaly we both knew I didn't have a choice.

  "Absolutely."

  "Thanks." He'd always been polite, but he was nearly

  dancing now with some hidden anxiety.