EMERY
Earlier that Day
I've always wondered what it would be like to die. To actually die. The permanent kind of death that leaves loved ones grieving and acquaintances dropping fruit baskets at your parents' front door, somehow thinking that heart-shaped pineapples on skewers will fill the void left by your absence. Or maybe they'd bring mini muffins. Those are less perishable. The grieving often lack appetite. Or so I've heard.
My fingers trail the clean, faded scar in the middle of my chest as I search for a semblance of life in my eyes. I've already died three times. Left this plane of existence. Three times my heart stopped beating, but they brought me back. They always bring me back. This last time, when my soul reentered my body, I felt more on the verge of death than I did before I saw that tempting white light. The blood running through my veins is mine, but the organ pumping intrusive thoughts into my brain is not.
It can't be.
I stare at myself in the floor-length mirror in my bedroom, the reflection a stranger. A mousy, ordinary, dull woman looks back at me. Who are you? Do I know you? She nods. A slow, solemn nod that churns my stomach with depressive reality. She tilts her head, eyeing the microscopic crack in the mirror. Punch it. My eyes widen with horror. Punch it, Emery. Do it. See how big it gets. Punch it! My palms coat in sweat as my fingers tremble. Don't be a fucking pussy! Punch it! Do it now! Do it!
Hypnotized by my own destructive voice and a dangerous sliver of sheer curiosity, I wind back my arm. But before I can swing, the high-pitched ringtone of my cellphone seizes my muscles. I freeze, gasping for air that never fully fills my lungs.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, panting as I shakily reach for my phone and answer the call. "H–" I clear my throat. "Hello?"
"What's wrong?" my mother asks. Her version of a greeting. "You sound strange."
"I'm fine." I sigh, collecting my purse and draping it over my shoulder as I rush out of the apartment. "Just heading to work."
Right on cue, my neighbor Mrs. Finnegan pokes her head outside her front door to say hello. Her daily routine. Apparently, our one-minute conversations are the highlight of her day. Her deep frown as I apologetically wave goodbye means I've ruined the one good thing in her life. Maybe she'll drop dead while you're at work and you'll carry that guilt forever.
Shut up! I wince as I get into my car and put Mom on BlueTooth.
"Are you taking your medicine?" Mom asks. "Just because the doctor said all your results look normal doesn't mean you can stop, you know? Did you read that article I sent you last night? There was this one case of a patient who had a heart reject seven years after the transplant—"
"Mom!" I grunt, immediately hating myself for raising my voice. She'll be upset now. Oh, boo hoo, let her cry. "I am taking my meds, okay? Haven't missed a day since the operation, and I don't plan on missing a day. Happy?"
Mom sighs. "I'm not trying too—"
"I know," I cut her off. "It's fine. Let's just... move on."
"Fine," she says. "There was actually a reason for my calling." Really? It wasn't just to micromanage my every move? Shocker. "Your father and I think it would be nice to go out for dinner tonight with you and Tom. What do you say? We can go to Jacques? You love Jacques."
I hate Jacques. I've hated it since we started going there ten years ago. Hated it then. Hate it now. At least I'm consistent.
And a big fat liar. Capital F.
Hush.
"Tonight?" I turn down the street towards the headquarters of CJ Piers, one of New England's wealthiest and premier investment banks. If they're so rich, why not spring for an office on Wall Street? Fishy fishy. "I can't tonight. Today's Friday, Mom, remember? I have a Spanish class in the city?" Liar, liar, pencil skirt on fire. "Umm... what about Sunday?"
"Right, I forgot about that," she says as I pull into the parkade of my office building. "How are those classes coming along?"
The sensation of being under the bright stage lights at Lux sparks a jolt of excitement and anticipation in my spine, and the heart in my chest beats faster. I'm not sure if it's mine or theirs. On Friday nights, it doesn't matter though. Friday nights, nothing is real. Nothing.
"Classes are great," I say, grabbing a folder from the backseat and grinning as I catch the sparkling shimmer of the thigh-high boots I'll be wearing tonight. I smirk, mentally starting a countdown until I'm not me anymore. "So uh— Sunday then?"
"I'll talk to your father and let you know," she says. "Have a good day at work, Emery. Say hello to Thomas for us."
"Will do," I hum, rushing out of my vehicle and towards the elevator. "Bye."
A hoard of blue and black suits pack into the elevator, and I shimmy inside, blending in perfectly with the corporate coked-out zombies and bushy-tailed interns. Two sides of the same coin. I catch one intern gazing admirably at a managing partner. I inwardly scoff. Don't worry, kid. That's your future. All you gotta do is wait twenty years and you'll also be divorced and addicted to high-end strippers. You'll also be as flaccid as a senile dog. I snort.
"Emily." Mr. Kenneth stops me as we pour out the doors. "Did Mark send you the—"
"Expense reports from last quarter?" I ask, gripping my purse tight. He still doesn't know my name? That's outrageous. Fucker's probably early onset. "I'll have it reviewed by next week."
"Lovely." He flashes me his purchased smile and pats me on the shoulder as he walks away. "Enjoy your day."
"Likewise," I say, rolling my eyes in annoyance. If he wants to touch me, he'll have to pay. Just like the others. He already did, remember? I shudder. That was a long night. I round the corner towards my office, and like clockwork, Tom jogs up beside me, holding two coffees in his hand. "Thanks."
"You look beautiful this morning," Tom whispers as I take the tumbler from him and sip on the overly sweet and creamy beverage. I give him a grateful smile like I always do. "Good, huh? I asked for a little vanilla this time."
"Vanilla? Really?" I perk up a brow. "How scandalous."
Tom grins, shrugging coyly. "Figured it's good to shake things up occasionally, you know?"
"Don't shake too hard now, wouldn't wanna overexert yourself," I say, continuing the walk to my corner of the floor. Tom follows behind me like a loyal puppy. Aren't puppies supposed to be cute? He's more of a rescue that you can't help but feel bad for. Stop it. "Is my computer fixed?"
"Yup. Came in early to double-check that all the programs are running smoothly." He tosses me a wink that barely makes it past his rimless glasses. "You're all set."
"Great." Tom pulls my office door open for me and follows me inside. What is he doing? He knows the rules. No one at the office must know that we're an item. Yeah, a clearance item. He paces around nervously as I settle in. "Tom?" He jerks his head in my direction and swallows. "Is everything alright?" I fake-check my calendar. "I have a meeting in—"
"I think we should move in together," he blurts out, cheeks turning red as he ducks his head and scampers to the guest chair and sits across from me. HAH! I stifle an incredulous laugh, narrowing my eyes at his ridiculous suggestion. He ignores my reaction and forges ahead in a quiet voice. "Move in with me, Em. I think it's time, no? We've been dating for a little over a year and—"
"And what?" I ask, tilting my head in confusion. "You think that means we should live together?"
Tom and I have been 'dating' for exactly 60 weeks. That's 420 days. 10,080 hours. And most of those hours have been spent either at work or quietly watching movies over a bland chicken dinner. Sure, occasionally we'd venture to a bookstore or walk through the park, but that's hardly anything special. Yeah, and out of those 10,080 hours, you've only had his cock inside of you 11 times. Is that really dating?
Tom shrugs. "It's the next step."
"A step?"
"Yeah, you know? A step." His blonde brows crunch up. "Step one: Date. Step two: Move in together. Step three: Get engaged. Step four—"
Jump off a fucking cliff.
"Please stop," I say, my temples suddenly pulsing with the fear of lifelong mundanity.
"Emery." His voice falls soft, almost hurt. Like a wounded animal. See? Told ya. A fucking rescue. Tom looks through the glass office walls before reaching out and forcibly taking my hand. He smiles at me. Genuine. So freaking genuine. "If you're not ready yet, that's fine, but think about it, okay?"
"I don't—"
"Think about it." He doubles down, nodding with unearned confidence. "That's all I ask."
"I will," I lie, waving him out of my office as I pull up the daily news on my computer, needing sordid celebrity gossip to distract me from the fact I'm in a four-step program with Tom.
Just dump his ass already. You're giving the poor guy unrealistic hope. He thinks you're going to marry him. Just put the old dog out of his misery. He's dependable and stable. Uh-huh, so is a Ninja but you don't see me fucking a blender for the rest of my life.
Enough.
I scroll faster through the tabloid news, reading at warp speed, filling my brain with useless knowledge and garbage journalism. My index finger slows down as I reach an article titled: Mystery Still Surrounds Billionaire's Disappearance After Family Tragedy.
Huh... I skim the article.
Two years ago... a helicopter crash over the Hudson River... entire family killed except oldest son... Damon Cavanaugh hasn't been seen by the public... Cavanaugh Industries' recent stock plummets...
When an image of his most recent headshot appears on the screen, my salvatory glands go rogue, filling my mouth with a tiny pool of liquid lust. Hot damn. Now that's a man. I can't even argue. Logically, I know that this photograph is supposed to elicit command and power, I mean, he's manspreading on a velvet navy armchair, sporting a tailored suit and cufflinks that cost more than Tom's monthly rent.
With his ring-bearing fingers clasped, elbows digging into his thighs, and his dark, opal eyes staring right into mine, I can't help but lean back and slowly, carefully, pull at the hem of my skirt. Bad, bad girl. You're at work. Tsk tsk tsk. As the fabric slips past my knees, my thighs, and scrunches up at my hips, I suck in a shaky breath and glance out of my office, a teeny part of me hoping someone will look inside. See me. Notice what I'm about to do. Exhibitionist. My core clenches with deprived need as I curl my fingers under my panties, biting my lip as I lock eyes with the man on my screen. You little fucking whore. My thighs part further, and I curl a finger inside myself, the slickness coating my skin. Pleasure courses through my body as I give myself what I deserve. What I want. What I desperately need.
Your boss can come in at any moment, Emery. I hope he does. Quickening my pace, my eyes shut and I throw my head back, whimpers of imminent release slipping past my lips.
"Fuck," I breathe out, panting as I come undone all over my computer chair. The phone rings. You better get that. Swallowing, I answer. "Hello?"
"Conference room in five minutes, Miss Jones," my boss states. "You'll be presenting."
"See you in there," I whisper, my pussy still vibrating as I hang up.
Locking my computer screen, I see my reflection in the black mirror. This time, I recognize the woman looking back at me. She winks, tacitly sealing our secret into a deep, impenetrable vault.