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“But keep things distant,” I clarify.
He shrugs. “What better way than establishing a professional dynamic?”
I blink at Hugh. “Damn, that’s good.”
“Hey.” Nick smacks my arm. “It wasmyidea.”
“Pat yourself on the back, then, Lucentio. And wish me luck.” I stand, my chair scraping back. “Because I’ve got a business proposition to make.”
•FIFTEEN•
Kate
This is an IDGAF playlist and new clothes from the vintage shop kind of day. The silk top I’m wearing was probably originally a couple hundred bucks, with its smooth, invisible seams, the eccentric dark blue print against a steely gray background. I got it for six dollars when Bea and I went shopping on Sister Day. The sleek-soft fabric, the happy memory of our day together, wraps around me, soothing my raw nerves, which haven’t left me since last night.
I wander the Edgy Envelope with my camera around my neck, trying to keep my mind busy, snapping shots while a group of customers congregate around the Prurient Paper Collection, which is Bea’s work—hidden erotic designs in gorgeous abstract artwork.
“Excuse me!” one of them calls.
I lower the camera, swallowing a groan. After that shit show with Christopher last night, I’m not in a peopley mood. I’m not even technically here today to provide customer service. I’m just taking photos for the store’s website. But Bea’s off and Toni left a little bit ago to pick up lunch for us, so I’m the only employee on the floor right now.
I could call for Sula in back, but after how generous she’s been, offering me work, paying me under the table, I can handle a small group of customers even when I’m not in the best mood.
“Hi.” I let my camera drop around my neck. “Need something?”
The customer smiles slyly as I walk her way. “I’ve heard these have, like... sexy pictures in them, but I can’t figure any of them out.”
“Some of them are abstract,” I tell her. “Others are more overt. Like all art, it’s a matter of your perception. It’s open-ended.”
She sighs, glancing toward her friends. “Does it have to be so philosophical? I just want to send Lex a card with sixty-nine.”
“More like with feet,” another one quips.
“Shut up!” she says, swatting her friend with the card, as they all shriek in laughter.
I smell the booze on their breath, and this starts to make sense. They had a liquid lunch, or at least lunch with lots of cocktails. They’re all a little drunk and uninhibited.
“This one could be pegging, couldn’t it?” another one of them asks me, shoving the card my way.
Heat creeps up my neck as I stare at it. As much as I absolutely do not judge anyone for openly and freely talking about sex, I’ve never been able to relate to conversations like this. I know I’m a sexual person, but I don’t feel like I’m sexual how most people I know are.
I was raised without shame about sex or sexuality—my mother sat us down and talked frankly about how it worked, the healthiness of masturbation and birth control, our right to feel safe, and the necessity of continual, mutual consent. I’m enlightened about the fundamentals of sex, but I’m still deeply uncomfortable talking about them with strangers.
The bell to the overhead door jingles, mercifully interrupting us.
“Holyhell,” one of the women whispers, staring over my shoulder. The rest of the group follows her gaze and responds in various forms of appreciation.
It’s either Toni, who’ll take my place, or a customer I’ll turn myattention to. Whomever the tipsy ladies are checking out, they’re currently my favorite person for saving me from this torture.
Turning, I feel an actual smile on my face.
It swiftly dies.
Christopher steps inside, golden midday sun shining behind him, sparkling off the tips of his hair. He’s in that same long coat he wore last night over a whole damn bespoke suit. Dark blue so perfectly tailored, it looks poured down his body. Crisp white shirt. Bloodred tie. From the neck down, he looks straight off of Wall Street. From the neck up, he looks like a pirate. Sable hair a little too long and messily wavy for his fancy corporate job, his lashes absurdly thick and dark, that roguish gleam in his warm whiskey eyes.
I stare at his mouth and remember it moving with mine last night, hot and wet and hungry. I don’t want to, but I can’t stop. Until I remind myself what he said.
I shouldn’t have. I didn’t mean to.
