My skin heats with a mixture of guilt and desire. It’s a strange combination.
“We’re not together, Julia and I. It was all a joke. You’re the only one I want. Let me see you.” Maybe that’s what he’d say.
I let my shirt fall open, and watch him study me, let him reach out and touch the lace of my bra. Run his fingers along the hem of the cups where it meets my skin.
I’m one of those girls who could snap off my bra from the back without trouble. And that’s what I do. A small undoing of a clasp and my straps fall over my shoulders and down my arms. I let it drop to the floor without care, without inhibition.
Maybe Nate’s knees would lower to the floor next. Maybe he’d kneel in front of me and lick my nipples, and kiss his way slowly down my stomach. He unbuckles my pants and slides them down my hips and thighs along with my panties. He kisses just under my belly button. The scruff on his face tickles so much I have to run my fingers through his hair and fist the strands.
His eyes gaze up to mine and he moves his mouth lower, just over my hipbone, kissing me. His hands graze up over my ankles and calves up to my thighs. They slide over the front of my legs and meet in the middle of my body, gently spreading me open. He lowers his head and brushes his tongue over me, and slips two fingers inside me. Slow and deep.
“Jane? Jane? Are you okay?” Someone’s calling my name.
I open my eyes and Nate is standing in front of me, concern written all over his expression. A low moan escapes past my lips and I’m beginning to feel dizzy. I want to close my eyes again. I don’t want to face reality. I want to snuggle up to the thoughts in my brain. I want his pants off, his hands on me, his cock in me, and no thoughts of Julia anywhere. In my fantasy, the perfection that is Julia never existed.
“Jane? Are you okay? You look like you’re going to faint.”
“I’m fine.” I dart my eyes around, unable to remember why I needed to come down here. Did I need copy paper? Pens? What? “I just…I haven’t eaten today. Low blood sugar.”
“Oh, okay. Do you maybe want to get a bite to eat after this?” he asks.
Going out to eat with him without Julia, I wouldn’t feel comfortable. Being in this small room with him is uncomfortable. “I’m not sure that’s a great idea.”
“Why not?” He steps closer and the room spins faster.
“What would people say?”
“It’s none of anybody’s business. It’s just two friends going out for a quick bite to eat.”
“What would Julia say?”
“Julia doesn’t have to know.”
His words are like an icy splash of cold hard reality to my face. If he’s saying Julia doesn’t have to know, it’s not the right thing to do. “Actually, I just remembered I have to meet someone for a thing.” I look down at my watch, or the place my watch would be if I actually were wearing one. “And I’m going to be really late if I don’t leave right now. But, thank you for the offer. Maybe a rain check for dinner, yeah? We could get Julia and a bunch of other people there too.”
He takes another step forward and he smiles a little too widely. “Sounds like a plan.” Then he slowly leans forward and reaches just past my shoulder. Heat flushes over my entire body and I stiffen, waiting for the moment I’m going to have to push him away and break my own heart so I don’t hurt Julia’s. I even squeeze my eyes shut. I’m so torn and turned on by the fantasy I just had, I hope I have the integrity to say no, even though I really, really want him.
“Just need to pick up a few of these,” he says.
I open my eyes immediately and tilt my head up. He’s grabbing something off the shelf and showing it to me. It’s a box of those graphic pen nibs. My body floods again with warmth, this time from humiliation. He’s not trying to come on to me in any way; he’s getting something he needs for work.
“Oh wow, I need these for my apartment. I haven’t been able to find them anywhere.”
And he’s stealing stuff to take home.
He shifts behind me now, angling himself closer to the copious amount of tempting and tantalizing office goods. Nate stuffs his pockets full of paper clips and post it notes. His fingers zip across all the shelves, helping himself to various items.
No wonder they keep the supply closet door locked. Nate looks like a toddler loose in a candy shop, his hands are everywhere and his pockets are jammed full.
“I really have to go now,” I say in a whisper. My Mr. Perfect is a kleptomaniac. I wonder if his apartment is filled with useless items. Maybe it’s decorated with dozens of staplers, paperclips and assorted erasers. I bet he steals the utensils when he’s out on dates with Julia. I’m suddenly feeling awkward and sweaty standing there, waiting for him to stop. “Nate?” I whisper louder. “I’m really going to be late and I have to lock the door behind me.”
“Oh, right, yeah.” He smiles at me wickedly. “Did you take anything good?”
“Um, no. I just needed the ink for the office printer.” I instantly remember and grab it off the shelf.
“Oh, come on. You know UPCLOSE makes a ton of money off our creativity. We’re allowed to take this stuff, it’s free for us to use here, and how much work do you take home?” He’s got a point; it just isn’t a good one, and I find myself glad he’s got a flaw, maybe it’ll get me to stop liking him so much.
“One of my first articles I ever wrote for UPCLOSE was a compendium clarifying which corporate property theft is widely acceptable, and which ones were Class A felonies punishable by up to fifteen years in prison and thousands of dollars in fines.”
“You’re really are funny,” he says, laughing. “Okay, so what’s the most stolen office supply?” He walks to the door and my shoulders feel less tight.
“Paper clips, of course.”
“Of course?”
“They’re the gold standard in office supply theft, too numerous to track and lack any individual value to pursue disciplinary action for.”
He laughs loudly as we walk out of the stockroom, and I quickly lock the door behind us.
We walk in silence back to the elevator and once we’re inside I feel somehow emotionally and physically drained.
“So what I’m hearing it that you, Ms. Jane Nash, are a good girl.” He whispers it like it’s a dirty thing, a dirty thing he likes.
I need a manslation. What the hell does he mean? Is being a good girl a good thing? Does that mean he can take me home to meet his parents? Or is he picturing me in a schoolgirl outfit swaying around the office, doing naughty things to get spanked?
My brain is goo.
The elevator door opens and Dex is standing on the other side. He gives Nate a curt nod of the head and me a suspicious, accusatory face which twists into a smirk. At his friendliest, he’s an abrasive arrogant asshole. Now, the moron is probably thinking about what Nate and I could have been up to this late in the elevator. I want to slap him. Right now, I could really go for slapping both of them.
“Dex,” I say tightly when we exchange places, he on the elevator and me stepping off. “Can you just hold the elevator for a second, I just want to grab my stuff.”
The Neanderthal grunts.
I rush for my things and say goodnight to Nate. He gives me a little wink like we have this big secret we’re sharing and a wave. I throw myself back into the elevator, almost tumbling right into Dex. I need alone time to process everything that just happened.
And by process, I mean drink wine.
Dex looks me up and down then chuckles to himself. “You look flushed, Nash. I guess staying late for some people blows.”
“Shut up, assclown.” But I didn’t get the implication of what Dex meant until I was in the subway, tucked on the A train, with no one to witness me turn bright red.
When I get back to my apartment, I knock on Julia’s door with a bottle of Merlot. She lives in the apartment next to mine. The building is one of those transplant ones for companies who make their employees transfer from one state to another. I want to talk
to her about things, about men, and life.
But all she can talk about is Nate.
And how much she likes him.
I keep my mouth shut the entire time I’m there, only opening it to insert wine.
Chapter 8
A quick, jolting knock against my cubicle wall has me spilling yet another coffee, this time down the front of my shirt. “Hey,” Julia slams her fist into the pointless divider between our workstations. “She wants you in her office. Now,” Julia says.
I immediately try in vain to dab a fistful of napkins into my caramel latte-ed clothes.
“What? Why?” I ask, stalling, and continuing to pat my shirt, which now has tiny pieces of wet napkin stuck to it. I’m hung over from listening to Julia all night talk about how much she likes the same guy I like. And if I hear any more about the size of his dick, I’ll tear my own ears off.
“I don’t know. She’s pissy about something today,” she replies, popping her head up over the flimsy wall.
“Just today?” I laugh. When is there ever a day where our editor-in-chief isn’t full of piss and vinegar?
“What the hell is that all over you?” she asks, walking into my cubicle and pointing directly at my chest.
“That was my breakfast,” I answer, standing and trying my best to wipe my shirt down and look somewhat presentable to walk into my boss’s office.
“Maybe you should switch shirts with me,” she offers, making me burst out in bitter laughter.
“I think walking into her office with a shirt three sizes too small might make things worse, no?” I say, dryly. What is it with skinny girls thinking anyone should be able to squeeze into their clothes?
“Okay, well, just don’t look straight into her eyes…” she teases back.
“Knock, knock,” a man’s voice calls out. Julia and I both turn around to see Dex, who’s wearing a belt with a large wooden stick jutting out from the center of it. On the very tip of the stick, hangs a green plant with little red berries all over it, swinging freely back and forth. He flinches and scrunches up his noise when he sees me, “Oh, it’s you. Gail wants to see you.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard,” I say, turning down the screen of my computer. There is no way in hell I’m walking out of this cubicle with my work displayed out in the open; trustworthy is not a word in Dex’s vocabulary.
When I stand up, there’s barely any room left in the small space that is my so-called workstation. The three of us are all inside the tiny enclosure and Dex is smirking, leaning crotch first under that stupid looking… “Ew, is that mistletoe?” I ask, appalled.
“Fuck yeah, it is. Hey Julia, you wanna kiss me under the mistletoe?” he asks, pointing to his crotch, chuckling.
“Like you have anything there to kiss,” Julia laughs, shoving him out of the small space.
“You’re disgusting,” I say narrowing my eyes at him.
“You’re just jealous I didn’t ask you,” he smirks.
“Dex, the only time I would ever even think of your invisible dick and diseased nutsack is if I wanted to use it for a punching bag.”
“You’re so weird and aggressive,” he says, backing away with his hands up. “Hey Jules, I gotta joke for you,” he says following Julia into her cubicle. “How do you know when there’s a snowman in your bed?”
“Good luck, Jane,” Julia calls over the wall, and then laughs at whatever the answer was to Dex’s joke.
“Right, sure,” I say softly as I flatten down my clothes and drag myself into the hallway.
With each step I take, my stomach rolls with a strange unwanted dread. I know this impromptu meeting isn’t going to be about work. I’m one of the best writers at the magazine. It’s more likely to be about the sullen change in my attitude in the office lately. Well, ever since the whole “One Night Stand” article. Or the fact that I complained to HR about Dex one too many times this month. How am I supposed to remember he’s writing an article on sexual harassment in the workplace?
Taking a deep breath, I knock softly on Gail’s open door and step inside. “Julia said you wanted to see me?” I ask, clearing my throat.
Gail’s large bird eyes widen dramatically as they roam from my toes to somewhere two inches above my head. I sigh quietly at her idiotic expression. I mean, I get it. I understand what it must look like. I am in oversized sweatpants and a tee that has shit-colored coffee stains where my nipples should be, and a pair of ripped Converse that I’ve owned since freshman year of high school. There is a well-chewed pencil sticking straight out of my messy bun, and when I say messy bun, I mean a giant knot of unwashed and uncombed hair on the top of my head. There’s some sort of serious dreadlock thing happening up there. People need to give me space, I’m mourning the loss of Mr. Perfect and I can tell no one about it.
Gail clutches her chest and gasps theatrically, as if she’s going for an academy award. “What is that? What happened? Did someone die? Did you go through a bad breakup or something?”
Oh, God if you only knew.
“No, my love life is in shambles, and the last time I had a date, it was a Tinder special that was tweeted live, remember?” I snap. I’ve been trending since the article got published. I even have a fan club.
“What did you want?” I ask, leaning my back against the frame of her door.
“Your hair brushed. At the very least,” she bites, gesturing with her hands for me to sit down in one of the chairs that faces her desk.
Ungraciously, I trudge to the seat and slump into it like a sulky teenager.
“You haven't responded to the invitation to our annual costume ball,” she says directly to the coffee stain on my shirt with a curl of her lip.
“No, I haven't,” I say, defiantly folding my hands across my chest.
“Well, you’re going,” she snarls, wrinkling her nose.
“I don't think that's—”
“You are going,” she interrupts, leaning forward and squinting her bird eyes at me.
“I really don't—”
“Yes, you don’t, but you will,” she snaps, slapping her palm over her desk. “My holiday extravaganzas are simply the best. And you’ll forget all about your failed Twitter interlude.”
“No way. I’m not going. And I won’t be forgetting the most embarrassing night of my life any time soon.”
“What you need is to do more out-of-the-box stuff, Jane. You lack personality and fun.” She claps her hands excitedly and nods. “Trust me. This is coming from someone who has taken more than a few proverbial dips in the company pool. My costume parties are perfect for tapping workplace ass and no one will ever know. Your Twitter boy will be quickly forgotten. Dex? Gavin? Oh my, Gavin has the biggest, thickest—”
“Ew! No, no no! Gail, stop. I don’t want to go. You can’t make me go.”
“Who pays your salary, darling?” she growls, viciously.
My face heats. It must be bright red. Her eyes seem to soften a tinge, and she tries her best for one of her fake smiles. “Look, Jane, dear. I know you’ve been distraught since the whole social media fiasco.”
“Oh really, do you? How could you tell?” I ask in a sharp tone.
“Oh darling, you learn a lot about someone when you read through their personal emails,” she says, winking at me.
What?
“You need to look at the bright side of this little snafu,” she smiles.
“Oh yeah, what’s that?” I ask, dryly.
“Look at all the requests for dates you received on Twitter alone.”
“Ha. You would call them dates,” I say, rubbing my brow to ward off the freight train of a headache I feel coming on.
“Okay, so hookups. You say tomato, I say—”
“Please stop,” I sigh.
“If I was your age…How old are you again, thirty-nine?”
“Thirty-two!” I snarl as heat flushes across my chest.
“Really?” she asks, lifting a single eyebrow.
“Yes,” I huff, angrily.
“My God, if I were thirty-two again, then I’d rent out an entire football team and social media post the fuck out of all the debauchery I’d have done to me.” She looks off into the distance behind me as if she were seeing the aforementioned debauchery right before her eyes. “Some of those perky cheerleaders too…” she trails off. “Definitely one of those animal mascots.”
“Did you, like, see some inappropriate sexual content at a young age with some strange uncle who smells like broccoli that warped your entire view on the reality of sex?” I ask.
“Oh Jane, can it be that you are still upset with me about putting you on that article instead of Dex?” she asks in a sing-songy voice. I never wanted to punch someone so much in my life. “You’re letting it overwhelm you. I mean, just look at you! You’ve been coming to work, walking around looking like a before picture ever since the live feed.”
“It was his pitch. He was much better suited for that kind of piece than me!” I huff, standing up angrily. “Consider my view on this, Gail. To millions of my female readers and followers, who read my column for sexy eye shadow trends or hottest novels to masturbate to, I committed the heinous crime of live posting a sex date while in possession of a vagina,” I stammer angrily, grabbing the still-damp-with-coffee crotch of my sweatpants. “A simple Tinder hookup—something thousands of people do every day. And because the Internet is such a shitty place that would reek of two-week-old sour milk if it had a smell, I got coined a harlot for doing it live. I went to college for journalism. I don’t need this—” Before I could really go off on her, a fist rapping on her door stops me mid-sentence. I turn to see who is cutting me off from my self-loathing tantrum. And who still uses the word harlot? Me, that’s who.
“I’m sorry, Gail, am I interrupting something?” a deep sexy voice dances along my skin.
In one perfectly sculpted hand, he holds a stack of photo ads from the marketing department and in the other, a water bottle that I am strangely jealous of. His clothes literally hug his muscles, and his flawlessly chiseled face is the stuff of legends. He is so perfect that you don’t know where to look first; you want to take every inch of him in. And I mean every inch of him. His name: Heath. His occupation: newly hired fucksicle in the advertising department. The rumor is he makes it absolutely impossible for anyone in the vicinity to concentrate when he’s around. Even Julia isn’t immune to whatever panty-melting pheromones he gives off. I watched her walk headfirst right into a pole last week because of him. Even Gail seems smitten, sitting behind her desk twirling her hair at him and squirming in her seat.
Are You There, Karma? It’s Me, Jane.: A laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 5