The Plan

by Qwen Salsbury

  * Note to Self: Find Cheesecake Factory suggestion box. Submit pineapple cheesecake.

  * Reindeer Games: Is that what you kids are calling it these days?

  SO MUCH SEX. I feel limp. Like I should move to a Boneless Chicken Ranch.

  5:02 p.m.

  * Lather: Rinse. Repeat.

  * Condoms: Soon the way of the dodo.

  AN ODD GRAY AREA now settles between us. Too intimate for small talk. Not intimate enough for talk of bigger concepts like relationships, futures, curtains.

  How do you start a casual conversation after you’ve been fornicating like the survival of the species depended on your successful efforts?

  Hey, hun, did you like the mount up I did on you last night?

  Yes, yes. I’ve been stretching. Trying to keep limber.

  Today is a holiday. Canon is wearing Baby Jesus’s birthday suit.

  Well, at least he says it is. I recall some business about swaddling clothes and something else about men being wise. And we know that men are no such thing. But “holiday” with Alaric seems to translate to some variant of “wall sex,” so…well…who am I to quibble with trivial matters such as accuracy and facts?

  We have been enjoying a little celebratory SOS—Shoes-On Sex.

  They say practice makes perfect, but that doesn’t seem to apply. If so, I’d have a doctorate. An FMP PhD.

  It isn’t Valentine’s Day for a couple more months, but that doesn’t stop my heels from piercing Alaric’s heart.

  If by “heart,” one means “dick.”

  “Are you prepping me for some sort of genital piercing? At least let’s discuss that sort of thing first.”

  “Do you mean an apadravya?” I try not to snort at the idea of this stiff and proper man with such an ornamentation.

  “Apadravya? Any intent to plunge a steel rod through…there…best begin with ‘Abracadabra.’” He exhales sharply, cupping himself like a baby bird fallen from the nest, and shudders.

  I snicker. He looks nauseated. If I ever broached the subject again, I’d be better off to just go straight for Avada Kedavra.

  A piercing like that isn’t anything I really want, but I can’t help myself when he’s like this.

  “I hear it’s very pleasurable,” I say as innocently as possible, running two fingers over the sheet in slow, swirly patterns. His eyes follow their trek.

  “It’s done in one quick session when they pierce the mea—”

  “Emma, I swear on a stack of balanced portfolios, if you finish that sentence, we are never having intercourse again.”

  Oh, dear. Instant mute. Just add threat of celibacy.

  Hour: Late. Or early. A matter of perspective.

  * Snow: Sheets.

  * Actual Sheets: Mostly near the lamp base.

  * Condoms: Completely exhausted.

  * Us: See above, re: “Condoms.”

  I AWAKE TO NEAR DARKNESS, the moon’s effects shy behind murky clouds. Fat snow obscures the silent cityscape. Norman Rockwell would be proud.

  The only sounds I can discern are the soft, even breaths that accompany each rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek. If there had been an actual zombie apocalypse and we were all that remained of humanity, I would still be content. Right up until the special of the day was my brains, anyway.

  We’re wrapped up in one another…finally. Not only physically—with his strong arms encircling me and holding me to his chest and my legs warm underneath the one he has draped over me—but emotionally as well. He had let me know as much in no uncertain terms.

  I love you, too.

  When he said the words, the feeling that overtook me was indescribable. Like the physical answering of a prayer unfurled in my chest and rapidly seeped out to the farthest points of my body. An incorporeal warmth in places I hadn’t even known to exist within myself, as though my very soul heated and healed.

  I’m still my whole person, but with this special new addition.

  All that, but more, better. New and improved: Now with more sex.

  At that time, for a split second, I had opened my mouth to tell him that I wasn’t sure how I felt, that I wasn’t sure I was ready to confess it was Real, True Love that had snuck up and came about when I was busy ogling his ass. But his phrase rang in my ears. “…too.”

  He wasn’t waiting for a response; he responded to me.

  “Um…Hey, Emma.”

  His chest vibrates with groggy words. I look up and can see that he’s still bordering on slumber.

  From between us, unbidden, my right hand ghosts up from beside me.

  I want to touch him.

  Everywhere and always.

  I can see my hand’s shadowed outline, fingers like dark tree branches against the window’s scant light, Each one carved into the night with more distinction that would’ve been noticed under the midday sun. They rise above the landscape hills of his side.

  The slope of his right shoulder is silhouetted against the midnight light that filters through the shade. The air warms briefly with each breath.

  He shifts, momentarily restless, only to gather me up closer still and hum as he falls back under sleep’s spell.

  My hand remains aloft. I let it descend and trace the outline of his form. First, up his sculpted arm, then around the bend of his shoulder, across his collarbone. Still, he breathes softly. Then, emboldened, I smooth my hand down his side, his hip, thigh, and around to his butt. Nice. My fingers run along his curves, his flesh pebbled under my touch. The whole area is addictive and oddly comforting to touch. Like a stress ball. Or dough. Really, really great dough. I began to gently knead it like I’m baking bread for the troops.

  Ass. It seems like a wonderfully crude word for such an amazing piece of…art.

  “Um, Emma?” Alaric’s voice, groggy but amused, breaks my musing. “What precisely is it you think you are doing?”

  Whoops. “Oh, sorry…I thought you were still sleeping.”

  “I would be concerned if I—or anyone for that matter—could sleep through that.” He kisses me with a practically audible smile.

  “Well, I was just…doing a little impromptu exploring.” I squeeze his cheek, and my index finger runs down the first inch or so between.

  “Oh, well, so be it.” He hums a bar and pulls me to him, my hand falling unceremoniously to his groin. He huffs. “I feel positively objectified.”

  My breath catches. He grows, more, under my touch, and he seems unaware, or unwilling, to stop his small tremors and rocking motions.

  “Emma,” he whispers and repeats and pulls me up into a kiss, his soft lips brushing over mine with every syllable as he continues to kiss me.

  Alaric dips further, heat pushing into me. My head arches back into the pillows, I incline myself.

  He slides fully. Throaty, deep moan.

  Everything is hips…

  and lips…

  and real.

  Only ever out partially, rejoin fully. A concentrated, delicious rocking motion. Scruff along his chin grazes my face and neck. I duck further into his embrace. Kiss the hollow of his neck; he tastes of sleep and sweat and…I can’t imagine ever getting enough. I dive in, kissing and biting and pulling him into me as much as I can with my softening limbs.

  Instantly, he stills inside me. All his movements halt, the caresses he had been trailing along my ribs, the rocking. He holds his breath.

  Eyes clench. Face unreadable. I’m unsure what he’s thinking, but I know I will remember this moment, that I will find the right time to ask what clamors inside his thick skull.

  Moments pass, voice still AWOL. He looks down at me in what seems like relief.

  “Oh, God…Em…Emma…” He rolls me over, holds me against him tighter than ever. Thrusts—frantic, possessive—names tumbling over then over again like a staggered ballad. We wrap around and hold on. Strokes, fan the flames.

  I resist the urge to dig into his back, instead fisting the sheets in one hand and holding on tight across his shou
lder blades with the other, straining my fingers straight to keep what little nails I had from scratching his skin, marking my territory.

  Find my voice. “I’m…I’m…” Stars, novas. Pop and burn.

  “Come on, Emma…Yes…let me have it.”

  Clenching, I cry out something close to his name. He falters. Shudders. Fingers clench hips. Stills. Moans low from the bottom of his lungs. His arms seem to fail him; his body crushes into mine, pressing. I feel covered, protected, even if I don’t need protecting.

  He flops beside me again, one arm still under me, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

  “That was…” His free arm does a solitary, boneless flop.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Yeah,” he breathes and looks toward the growing light of dawn.

  After a few moments, he rolls to kiss my forehead. “Looks like it’s about that time,” he says and inclines his head to the window.

  And just like that, our night is over.

  Probably a good thing. With our stockpile depleted, unless the Trojan man makes house calls, I shall henceforth be looking all gift horses in the mouth.

  “Emma, you are pouting.” His thumb plays with my bottom lip, and I suck it in quickly. He huffs an almost laugh, shakes his head once and rolls, sitting up on the edge of the bed.

  “Stay,” I hear myself speak before I have even thought the word.

  He leans back to me and sweeps what is probably a matted mess of hair over and behind my shoulder. “We will be together, right back here—together…in about ten hours.”

  That, actually, sounds like a dreadfully long amount of time.

  I do my damnedest not to pout again; the entire concept of me doing so is shameful in the extreme, but I fail. Alaric shakes his head and runs the back of his index finger along my lip. “What can I do?”

  “Stay.” I reach up, peck his lips.

  “Believe me, I want to. We can’t just skip work, Emma.”

  “I’m sure Diana will manage to contain her disappointment.” At least, better than she does her unruly bosoms.

  He says nothing, just a nod and a shrug before kissing my cheek again and bee-lining for the shower, leaving me with only the view of the same ass that started all this to comfort me.

  It does a fair job.

  Day of Employment:

  387

  12:45 p.m.

  * Temporary Desk: About to become “former.”

  * Probably: Not the most romantic word choice ever.

  * Canon: Alaric.

  THIS COMPANY’S FOREIGN ACCOUNT processes are not terrible, but they are not safe. Not in the current climate, that’s for sure.

  There are too many payments to get things going in certain countries that could be construed as bribery. Small things, like taking clients to dinner. Clients who happen to work for foreign governments.

  I know this info is not going to be welcome news. I know I’m not positioned as someone to take seriously on these matters.

  That doesn’t mean I’m not right.

  I’m on page three of my detailed report. In the end, the evidence will be irrefutable. They will have to believe me, despite the source. Despite the fact that I’m just a PA.

  “Just” associated with the term “personal assistant” doesn’t feel right. I’m just the ring-bearer. I’ve just gotta keep the bus over 50 MPH. I’m just gonna go fishing. Oh, and by the by, it just so happens to be for an egregiously ill-tempered white whale?

  Alaric has been in and out of the room all morning.

  Fact-checking. Finalizing. Looking fine.

  Now, he looks more relaxed. Open briefcase with papers scattered.

  “Would you like something to drink, Emma?”

  I know this game. “What can I get you, sir?”

  He looks up, eyes bright. “Well, since you offered…”

  I roll my eyes and push back my chair.

  He laughs softly. “Since you are going…I would probably like a Coke.”

  “Coke?”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  I narrow my eyes.

  “Oh,” he says, “could you probably get the transfer files?”

  I’m at the door.

  “And probably order lunch. Probably barbeque.”

  I spin around. He looks exceedingly pleased with himself.

  I’m back with drinks in just a few minutes, but the air is different. He’s on a call.

  He paces at the far corner of the room. “Yes, I will, Dad. And a happy, belated merry Christmas to you too.”

  The phone closes, but he doesn’t turn around. He studies the nothing of the wall.

  Slowly, I go to him and nudge the can against his arm. He twists, smiles weakly, and nods slowly in thanks.

  I’m back at my desk for a while when I hear him inhale deeply. I didn’t even realize I was staring at him until I noticed the change.

  “Cynthia.”

  I opt not to speak. I assume he knows I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  “She worked as my father’s administrative assistant for only a few months before everything changed.”

  His eyes stay trained on the bare wall. “When I was five I went to my father’s office building with my mom. Cynthia came out of his office looking haggard. Every hair out of place. Blouse half done.”

  His shoulders visibly tense. Even through the suit jacket I can see the change. I can practically see him dredge the memory up to the surface.

  “I didn’t understand the rage coming out of my mother that day. Cynthia was always nice to me. She was the lady who gave me candy and baseball stickers. I was enamored. So was my father.”

  I sit still, careful not to stop him.

  “My family changed after that. I don’t know how long it went on. It felt like forever, but time is relative, especially to a child. It might have been only a day or two. Every time a door closed, they screamed. They screamed and screamed. Every day. Every damned day, until my mom left. To go for a ride. I wanted to go for a ride too. She always took me. But not that time. I understand now. But then…then it felt like she didn’t want me.”

  He shifts and finds his chair, but never looks to me.

  “Then they called. I suppose it was something as simple as ‘There has been an accident.’ They said she may have been ‘distracted.’ I don’t know. What I do know is that all I can remember of my mother was her yelling…and then dying to get away.”

  His fingers drum without rhythm. “My father brought Cynthia around a few times later. I couldn’t even bring myself to look at her.” He looks up, at nothing in particular. His gaze cold. “I learned to hate when I was five.”

  He begins shuffling papers, and I try to focus on an appropriate response.

  Since it doesn’t look like one was coming, I go with this: “Are you telling me this is why you are a…um, demanding and hate distractions…why you are an…?”

  “You mean asshole?” His voice is lighter, the mood leaving with the memory.

  “Well, yes.”

  “No, I don’t think so. Maybe somewhat.” He stretches back in his chair. “God, who sits back and analyzes themselves like that?”

  “It might not be a bad idea…in some cases,” I say as playfully as I can manage.

  “There is a lot riding on my shoulders. People’s jobs, futures. Nice gets you friends. I don’t need friends; I need results.”

  I pop my can open.

  “So, Emma, maybe you would care to enlighten me as to why you seem so hesitant about us?”

  “You mean beyond the obvious drawbacks of being involved with a self-proclaimed and unapologetic asshole?”

  His mouth turns up. “Well, when you put it that way…”

  I take a swig. “No, it’s mostly me, I suppose,” I say and breathe deeply. “I’m used to being on my own. I control that. It’s comfortable. I never cared much if anyone came or went before.”

  He smiles, shuffles some papers. I think he’s trying to act nonchalant. “So you pr
obably care now?”

  “Okay, fine! It was a ridiculously inappropriate way for me to say it, and you deserve better, and I’m embarrassed about it if that makes you feel any better, but if you think you’re going to get me to declare I love you for the first time in the middle of this crappy office with printouts and empty Coke cans everywhere, you are going to be sorely disappointed.”

  As I rant, the smile on his face grows wider. The man is on the verge of openly laughing at me.

  “Oh, I’m not disappointed.” He folds his hands behind his head. “That will do nicely.”

  I huff an imaginary hair away from my face.

  Day of Employment:

  388

  8:15 a.m.

  * Location: Terminal B, KCI.

  * Bags: Holding my own.

  * Canon: Holding his.

  “SO YOU ARE CAPABLE of carrying your own things,” I begin and pull my suitcase along behind me. “Good to know.” Not that I’ve given much thought to such matters since throwing off the PA yolk. Canon has so very many great places to visit, but I don’t want to work there.

  He keeps pace beside me as we near security. “I have no choice in the matter, as I find myself currently without staff.” He’s closer to business mode today, but his voice, with me anyway, is markedly softer.

  “This process could not take any longer. It is as if we are all unwitting participants in a study for inefficiency.” He talks to no one in particular while we take off our shoes at the checkpoint. “Procedures implemented solely to instill a feeling of security in paying customers. There are too many reported accounts of items still being smuggled aboard to indicate that any of these measures are even the least bit effective. Has anything…” He continues to bemoan the sorry state of airport security while our bags are checked. One guard seems about to comment but sees something in the look Canon shoots him and thinks better of it.

  I’ve decided to consider him “Canon” when we are doing anything remotely work-related.