The Lineup

by Quinn, Meghan

  She doesn’t answer, but instead pulls her phone out from her purse and starts holding it up in the air, searching for a signal.

  “It’s cute that you think raising the phone higher will grant you service. We’re in a metal box surrounded by concrete, sweetheart. I never get reception in here.”

  “Damn it,” she mutters, stuffing her phone back in her purse.

  “Looks like you’re stuck here with me until someone figures out the elevator broke, so it’s best you get comfortable.” I sit on the floor and then pat my lap. “You can sit right here.”

  “I’d rather lick the elevator floor.”

  “There’s a disgusting visual. Suit yourself.”

  I get comfortable and start rifling through my bag of food. Thank God I grabbed dinner before this, because I’m starving, and if I was stuck in this elevator with no food, I’d be a raging bastard, bashing his head against the metal door from pure hunger.

  Low blood sugar does crazy things to me.

  I bring the term hangry to a new level.

  There’s only—

  “Why are you smiling like that?”

  I look up at her. “Smiling like what? I’m just being normal.”

  “No, you’re smiling like you’re having a conversation inside your head and you think you’re funny.”

  How would she know that?

  “Well, I am funny.” I pop open my to-go box filled to the brim with a Philly cheesesteak sandwich and tons of fries. Staring at it, I say, “Oh yes, come to papa.”

  I lift half of the sandwich and bring it to my mouth just as Dottie says, “It’s rude to eat in front of someone who doesn’t have food.”

  “Are you calling me rude?”

  “Yes, I am.” She folds her arms over her chest, staring at me as if I’m minced meat.

  “That’s funny. Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”

  Her eyes narrow. “Are you saying I’m rude?”

  I laugh. Does she really have no clue? She has been mean and ill-tempered every time we’ve spoken. In fact, there hasn’t been a moment where she’s been . . . nice. Although my teasing hasn’t helped her surly attitude, I’m sure. “Babe, you’ve been rude to me since the minute I walked into your office.”

  “Because I needed to work and couldn’t afford the distraction.”

  I shake my head. “No, because someone was doing something nice for you and instead of saying thank you, you ignored them, took their food, and then kicked them out.”

  Her lips work to the side and I can see her mulling it over. Huh, maybe I actually got through to her and penetrated that thick, leathery exterior and truly made her consider the way she treats people.

  “You were rude by not adhering to my wish of leaving, therefore, I had to be rude to get my point across. I didn’t want you there.”

  Fucking businesswoman, what a spin. I’ve got to hand it to her—mentally claps—she really dug deep for that one.

  “Yeah, okay, I was rude first. Sure.” I roll my eyes and then take a giant bite of my sandwich. The cheese seeps into my taste buds, and if Dottie wasn’t here right now, I’d be eating this sandwich naked . . . while gripping my cock. That’s how good it is.

  This is a cock-gripping sandwich—or pussy-cupping sandwich if you’re a lady. I’m an equal opportunist, after all.

  “Are you really not going to share that?”

  I look up, sandwich halfway to my mouth. “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. I’m hungry too; who knows how long we’ll be stuck in here.”

  “After everything that has happened between us, you really think I’m going to share my sandwich with you?”

  “If you are the decent man you claim to be, then yes, you will.”

  Isn’t she just a joy to be around?

  * * *

  The pop of fingers being licked and sucked echoes off the small walls of the elevator as I stare blankly at Dottie. She just devoured half my sandwich and three quarters of my fries. I’m currently sitting here with a bellyache from having to shovel my sandwich down fast enough so it wasn’t snatched from my grasp in the midst of her treating my dinner like her own bitch.

  And despite seeing cheese drip from her chin, and watching her carnivorous teeth break apart the cheesesteak meat as if it was dust, I still got hard taking in what I can only describe as a spectacle—Dottie eating a meal.

  With a dainty lift of her napkin, she pats the corners of her mouth and sighs.

  “Was that good?”

  “Yes.” She glances at me. “Thank you.”

  Well, would you look at that, a thank you. I’m not sure I’ll ever hear those words drip from her lips and be directed at me again, so I’m going to savor them.

  “What are you doing? Why are you holding your chest like that?”

  “Just committing your ‘thank you’ to memory, as I’m not sure I’ll ever hear it again.”

  “Doubt that you will,” she says, her surly attitude resurfacing.

  I set the empty to-go container in the bag and off to the side. I take a sip from my water and watch as she surveys it like a hawk, eyes trained and focused on snatching away my drink.

  Groaning, I hand it over to her.

  “Thanks,” she says with a smile, looking like a completely different woman. She downs the rest of my water and then smacks her lips together. “Now I can pass out.”

  “You’re going to pass out in the elevator?”

  “What else am I going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Talk to me?”

  She gives me a slow once-over and then rests her head against the wall of the elevator. “Think I’ll pass out.”

  Look who’s rude now.

  * * *

  “You’d be much more comfortable if you used my lap as a pillow,” I say, after five minutes of her shifting from side to side. There’s no passing out in here if you’re unwilling to spread across the floor, which she is.

  “I’m not into tiny pillows.” She gives up her attempt to sleep and stares straight ahead instead, resting her hands on her lap.

  “Clearly you haven’t seen the towel bulge picture.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see the smallest of smirks pull up the corner of her lip. Or maybe she has seen it . . . interesting.

  When silence falls between us, I try to think of things I can talk to her about, but anything that pops up into my head is quickly turned down, because they’re questions about her life and I’m pretty sure she’s not going to answer them. She’s pretty closed off, so I have to warm her up first.

  And yeah, maybe I should just not talk to her since she does seem to have a protective wall erected all around her, but I’ve never been that guy to give up.

  So . . .

  (Are you cringing? Hold on to your tits, I’m going in.)

  “So, you’re cranky most of the time.”

  You’re cringing now, aren’t you? It’s all about causing a reaction to get her to start talking. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.

  “You sure know how to win over people, don’t you?” she says with a disdainful side-eye. God, there is something about a woman with hard edges that really gets to me. Because I suspect, deep down, they were hurt somehow and they deserve happiness. They deserve someone to be nice to them, to help smooth out those rough edges. Most men would label her as a bitch and walk away, but I see past that façade. I want to get to know her, what has made her so brash and hard, and I want to see if I can unlock her sensitive side. I know it’s in there, I just need to find it.

  “Were you like this in college?”

  “Like what?” she asks, lulling her head to the side to look at me.

  See . . . it’s working.

  “Easily ignitable.” I tack on a smile to the end of my sentence.

  “Are you saying I have a short fuse?”

  “Well, you sure as hell aren’t easygoing and relaxed.” I chuckle, really trying to lighten the mood and when she responds, I t
hink it might work.

  “It’s hard to relax with a job like mine,” she admits, shocking me with her sullen voice.

  “Why’s that?”

  She plays with the fabric of her shirt. “Everyone needs and wants something from you. There’s no stopping, and one slip-up can cost you a multi-million-dollar deal.” Her voice fades and right there, I see it. The vulnerability. It’s small, but it’s there. From what I learned about her from Google—and from Emory—she wasn’t given her position on a silver platter. She’s fought her way to the top. Well, it’s her family’s company, so she’s more than likely worked hard to get where she is, and that’s commendable. But that sense of sadness makes me think she’s disappointed people along the way. Unintentionally. And she’s judged herself more harshly for it than she would others. Perfectionist. “I have to be tense and rigid for a reason, because the second I let go, I could mess up a lot of jobs for a lot of people.”

  I nod and gently say, “I can understand not relaxing when you’re at work, or in the conference room, or at a business dinner, but when you’re alone, in your apartment, you’re telling me you don’t let loose a little?”

  “Never.”

  I laugh. “You’re such a bullshitter.”

  She chuckles and I whip my head to the side, catching the humor in her face. “Holy shit, you just laughed. Wait.” I hold my arms out as if to still the air. “Are you . . . relaxing right now? Right this very minute?” I cup my hands around my mouth and shout with my booming voice in the small space. “Ladies and gentleman, Dorothy Domico is relaxing.”

  “You’re obnoxious,” she says when I lower my hands.

  “Obnoxious in a good way?” I ask while batting my eyelashes.

  She stares at me for a few seconds and then answers, “No.”

  Sheesh, tough crowd.

  * * *

  “How long has it been?” Dottie’s leg is shaking and she’s looking impatient. Oh shit, does she have to go to the bathroom?

  “Thirty-six minutes,” I answer, looking at the time on my phone.

  “Only thirty-six minutes?” She groans. “Feels like three hours.”

  “Time sure does fly by when you’re having fun, huh?” I say sarcastically, eyes trained on her leg that doesn’t seem to be able to sit still. “Do you have to pee or something?”

  “What? No. Why?”

  “Because you’re bouncing your leg, and it’s annoying.”

  “Oh, I’m annoying?” She points to her chest. “This coming from the guy who doesn’t seem to get a hint.”

  “Oh, I get them, I just choose not to accept them.” I nod at her leg. “So why the bouncing? Are you claustrophobic?”

  “Not really, but I don’t like being suspended in the air by cables, wondering if we’re going to plummet to our death.”

  “Now that you put it like that, you have me slightly shaking in my skivvies. Can you hold me?” I stretch out my arms, giving her easy access.

  “You’re pathetic. If you want a piece of me, you’re going to have to try harder than that.”

  “You think I want a piece of you?”

  “It’s so obvious, Jason.”

  There’s a light air about her right now, as if she’s forgotten that she hates me. And it’s funny, watching her almost . . . flirt. There’s still a stiff set to her shoulders and robotic movements with her hands, but there’s a smile that wants to peek through and I’ll be honest, I’m here for it.

  Also, yeah, I want a piece of her. She’s confident, sexy, and even though she prefers to keep the fun side of her away from the public eye as much as possible, I see it in her, and I want to expose it.

  “And if I asked you out on a date? What would you say?”

  “No.”

  Oof. If she didn’t follow that comment with a tiny glint in her eye, I would be taking a beating to my ego.

  “What if I asked you out with my shirt off, would that change your mind?”

  She glances at my stomach and then back up at my eyes. “I’m not really into beer guts.”

  Oh, she’s fucking fresh.

  “I know what you’re doing.” I wag my finger at her. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? But I see right through you, Dot Dot.”

  “Call me that again and I will kick your dick off.”

  “Yikes, woman.” I laugh and she smiles back at me. “No nicknames, I get it, but your off-color threat doesn’t distract me from finding you out.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asks, exasperated.

  “Saying I have a beer gut. You and I both know that’s not true. You’re just trying to rile me up so I take my shirt off. Oh yes, I see right through you, lady.”

  “I really couldn’t care less if you take your shirt off.”

  “See?” I point at her. “There you go again. Reverse psychology. It’s not going to work on me. I’m smarter than you think. I might be a jock, but I’m not a dumb jock. I was an engineering major.”

  “Okay, whatever.”

  “You know what?” I stab the floor with my finger. “I’m going to prove you wrong. I’m going to take my shirt off because I want to, not because you told me not to. I’m reversing your reverse psychology.”

  She looks puzzled. “Uh, I don’t think that’s a thing.”

  “It is. Watch.” From behind, I reach and pull my shirt up and over my head then neatly fold it and set it on my lap. I turn more toward her and give her a good flex.

  But when I catch her facial expression, it’s completely blank. No googly eyes, no shocked expression, no admiration. Just blank.

  Well, shit.

  Chapter Nine

  DOTTIE

  If I had cell service, I would be texting Emory right now telling her we’re no longer friends.

  Oh, don’t worry, Dottie, Jason won’t be there. He’ll be on vacation.

  Lies. All lies.

  And now I’m stuck in an elevator with the man, the guy who hasn’t left my mind since that godforsaken email Lindsay sent. Two weeks. Yup. Two weeks of me thinking about Jason Orson in inappropriate ways, of searching his name on the Internet and envisioning what it would feel like to run my fingers up and down his rigid abs. Two weeks of wondering what his voice sounds like in bed. Two weeks of trying to hold back the smile that crosses my face when I see him.

  It’s been draining, to say the least. I’m a tough girl, I know that, but I’ve never been . . . nasty. And honestly, some of the things that have come out of my mouth when talking to Jason would horrify my parents. Hell, they’ve horrified me when they’ve come out. They didn’t raise me to be sharp-tongued and vindictive. Quite the opposite if I’m honest. But this man? He pushes my buttons, and not always in a bad way like my behavior would indicate.

  So why don’t I just give in and go out with him? Because we are all kinds of wrong for each other. Jason always had a harem of girls around him in college, but he wasn’t one of those assholes that led girls on and then fucked and dumped. As I’ve thought about him—a little obsessively—I recall how kind he was. Funny, idiotic, but not conceited. I mean, I had a crush on him for a reason. He’s a romancer, a gift giver, the type of man you cling on to and never let go.

  You know what I’m talking about . . . the kind of man you take home to your parents.

  Sounds great, right?

  Well, I had that with Nick.

  And he screwed me over, broke my heart, and left me in pieces I’ve had to pick up and tape everything back together.

  I’m not going to do that to myself. So even though Jason is tempting, I’m not going for it.

  But I will say this, Jason with his shirt off in a broken elevator? It’s not a bad end to my day. He’s a vision to behold with his shirt off: tan, not a jersey line in sight somehow, chiseled and sculpted like a marble monument with a tiny splattering of clipped hair in the middle of his chest.

  If I did let myself go and give in to temptation, I would start with that chest hair, letting my fingertips glide over the
incredibly short strands, then travel over his thick pecs and down his torso where I would spend an almost indecent amount of time fingering his abs. I would glide my digits through the ridges, coming close to his waistline but never close enough. I would enjoy seeing him squirm, watching him ache with need. It would be such a turn-on that I would straddle him and, without a second thought, begin to ride his lap, letting our centers collide and—

  “Are you okay?”

  “What?” I ask, snapping out of my thoughts.

  “It didn’t seem like you were breathing. Are you breathing? Oh wait, I get it.” He dramatically shakes his head. “You want me to give you mouth-to-mouth. Once again, very clever.”

  He’s ridiculously cute, and it’s frustrating.

  “Yup, that’s it.” In a begging voice that is entirely fake, I clasp my hands together and say, “Please, Jason, will you please, please give me mouth-to-mouth? I can’t seem to find my breath anywhere; I need yours to replenish my depleted lungs.”

  “Damn, girl, I had no idea.” He lunges toward me, lips puckered. “Open up.”

  Before he can close in on my lips, I halt his head with my palm, just as a wave of his fresh cologne surrounds me. Ugh, why does he have to smell so masculine? It’s unfair that men’s cologne can induce an orgasm, or at least get pretty close to it.

  “I was kidding.”

  “I’m not,” he says, his lips brushing against my palm as he speaks. “You’re turning purple. Quick, lie down; I got you, babe.”

  I give him a shove and he laughs, sitting back against the elevator door and putting his shirt back on.

  Damn it, he could have kept that off.

  “You know, the attraction you’re feeling for me is too strong, so it’s best we just stay as friends. I don’t want you falling in love with me so hard that I can’t catch up to your feelings. Friends is really where we should stay.”

  “Friends aren’t necessary.”

  “Oh, now you’re just trying to protect your heart. I get it, Dottie. I really do. So after we’re let out of this tin box, I say we go our separate ways, our hearts intact.”