Gabe is shaking his head. “I don’t know how to do that. One of her, three of us.”
“You were doing it,” I point out.
The foreman drains his beer.
“This might be a good time to address everyone’s sexual preferences,” I say. “I’ve experimented with men, but it’s the pussy life for me. What about you two?”
“Straight,” Banks says.
Gabe stares over my shoulder, like he’s trying put a puzzle together. How does this guy even tie his shoelaces? “A guy on my crew is gay.”
I stare. “Yeah, that doesn’t count.”
“I’m straight.”
“Okay, fine,” I say, in my element now. “So this is just about Elise. We’re all about her pleasure. And getting pleasure from her.”
Gabe shifts in his booth, very obviously still dealing with his erection. “Yeah.”
“Not from each other.”
They both shake their heads.
“Then are we being selfish by only offering her one of us? Bear in mind, I have the ability to provide the same amount of orgasms as three men, possibly four, but…she did seem to have an odd fondness for you both.” I polish off my martini and signal for another. “Enjoy that while it lasts, because I’ll eventually be her favorite.”
Says he, with absolutely no confidence.
Banks snorts. “Whatever, guy.” He hesitates. “But the rest of what you said makes sense. I liked…watching her get overwhelmed. By what we were doing. At the same time. One man can’t give her that. I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I think our best chance of spending time with her is…together.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, along with Gabe. “Another round, then?”
Chapter Five
I push my sandwich cart through the sea of cubicles, soaking in the sound of ringing phones and cable news. It’s noon on Friday and the only time I become the most important person in the newsroom. Because I’m peddling everything from a classic pastrami on rye to caprese on ciabatta. My cart has a squeaky wheel, which has turned into a Pavlov’s dog situation. When the staff writers hear the wobbly whine coming their direction, they turn with hungry expressions and begin extracting money from their wallets and purses.
Someone holds out a ten and I already know this guy wants the turkey wrap, so I hand it to him without stopping, depositing his cash in my apron, tossing two singles onto his desk.
“Enjoy your eight-dollar sandwich,” I murmur, my attention directed squarely ahead, as usual. On the managing editor’s glass office walls. Karina Grazer sits on a giant turquoise exercise ball behind her desk, shaking her head at whatever is being said on her Zoom meeting. Her shoes have been kicked off, her nylon-covered arches digging into the foot massager beneath her desk. There are two pictures hanging behind her on the wall. One of Karina meeting the president. One of her getting arrested at a reproductive rights rally.
I slow my cart down so much that I’m only eating up an inch every ten seconds. I’ve become an expert at timing my Karina sandwich delivery, so I can catch her in between the morning editorial meeting and her afternoon call with the big bosses. The tone of our conversation very much depends on the outcome of those Zoom meetings and today, I’m desperately hoping to find her in a good mood, though I’ve brought along an extra cup of her favorite garlic aioli just in case she’s in a shouty state of mind.
A woman waves at me from across the chaos—and I recognize her as a wild card. She always takes several minutes to decide what sandwich she wants. Oftentimes she decides against purchasing a sandwich at all. Then she asks if I have any soups with a bone broth base, which obviously I do not. I have no soup at all and never have. I’m the sandwich peddler.
Normally I would be annoyed by this, but it’s going to work to my advantage today, because Karina doesn’t look anywhere near ending her call.
“Hey Elise,” says my customer, rubbing her palms together, perusing the selection of artisan sandwiches prepared by a deli in Chelsea. “Is there anything new?”
Nope.
Up ahead, I watch Karina end the Zoom and slump forward onto her desk.
With urgency bubbling in my blood, I face my customer again with a smile. “They added honey to the mayo of the chicken club. Really transformed it. Total chef’s kiss.”
“Ooh okay, I’ll take that.”
“Fab.”
I place the sandwich on her desk, quickly make change and wheel my cart toward Karina’s glass office. I lied about the honey in the mayonnaise, but listen, she’ll convince herself she tastes it and I needed a swift exit. When it comes to food, the devil is in the details. People will order a meal because of pickled onions or the words avocado crema. I learned that when I tried to launch a food truck called The Kitchen Sink. A diner on wheels, serving everything from burgers to biscuits and gravy. I didn’t listen when my parents told me I needed food service experience and after a few hectic days at a street festival in Greenpoint, the Kitchen Sink…well it sank. There was only one silver lining and it was selling the truck I’d spent weeks fixing up and the profit paid my rent for six months while I figured out my next career.