“I didn’t realize you had a camera pointed at my desk.”
Her breathy laugh seals the deal. Completely robs me of scruples and ethics and restraint. I’m going to settle her onto my lap and unzip my pants. There is no way in hell I can live another second without the wet squeeze of her pussy sliding lower and lower, cradling me. Feeling her move, listening to her whimper. If we move slowly enough, the car won’t rock. Maybe. Jesus. I’m not even sure I can make myself care about being caught when I’m this hungry for her. “I need you, Stella,” I growl, turning us, positioning myself to be straddled—
A horn honks loudly.
Two, three honks.
I’m lost in a stupor, my thoughts sticky and lost in an unrecognizable pattern. Who is honking? What year is this? I don’t know, but I’m halfway through dragging an employee onto my lap in public. Having sex with her—all formalities tossed away like a batch of burned cookies. The sun has begun to rise while we’ve been…not kissing. Just grabbing clothing and breathing hard and confessing fantasies. I could live my life doing this. I could keep going through the next seventy Christmases, tasting her chocolate breath in my mouth and listening to her tell me she thinks of me erect and sweaty at my desk. That it gets her revved up.
But someone is honking and I’m outside Vivant. My place of work.
Possibly taking advantage of an employee.
The lining of my stomach burns. “Stella,” I manage, swallowing, settling her gently back on the opposite side of the backseat. “I’m sorry. Jesus. I got carried away.”
“We both did, Aiden,” she responds, dazed, repeatedly curling messed up strands of hair behind her ears. “It’s o-okay.”
I want to argue, but I get distracted by the swollen rosiness of her mouth. Her red-stained cheeks. The fact that her hips keep shifting around, as if I’ve left her unsatisfied. Of course I did. I started something I can’t finish. Yet. Something I might not ever be able to finish if she doesn’t like me enough to make this…situation between us official.
With that troubling thought in my head, I turn and look out the back window of the town car, inwardly wincing when I see my father and Shirley stepping out of their limousine, Randall skulking two feet behind them. They nod at someone up ahead and that’s when I see the store managers have started to gather, Jordyn, the first-floor supervisor among them. Either none of them have seen us or I’m exceptionally lucky to have so many discreet employees.
I turn back to the girl beside me, still trying to compose herself on the seat—I can relate. I’m not sure I’ll ever be composed again after what we just did. But this moment isn’t about me. Or even us. This is Stella’s time.
“Remember,” she says, addressing me before climbing out of the car. “You don’t have to protect me from criticism. Let me hear their opinion. I have to be able to handle it, okay?”
It costs me an effort to nod, but I manage a stiff one.
Watching my relatives out of the corner of my eye, my earlier nerves bubble back to the surface, accompanied on the growing tide of protectiveness I have for Stella. But mostly, I’m proud of her. For coming out of her pause. Moving forward. And I hope like hell that whatever is on the other side of the paper is enough to keep her pressing play.
7
Stella
When I was in fifth grade, my school PTA held a mock art gallery opening. Sculptures and paintings created by students were put on display in the gymnasium. Parents could walk through and buy the items. Of course, it was kind of customary to purchase your child’s creation and looking back, it was mainly a way for the PTA to make a lot of easy cash. And I remember it feeling just like this. Skin vibrating, muscles taut, so hot that I’m cold.
There is something about revealing art that is so personal, so vulnerable. The concept for this window came straight out of my head. No one approved it. No one said, yes this will work. It’s a flying leap. It’s believing in an idea—and since everyone has ideas, this is when the imposter syndrome kicks in. What makes me think my idea was going to stop foot traffic on Fifth Avenue? What makes me think I’m artistically gifted at all?
Just like at that PTA art show, it’s my parents whose reactions mean the most.
But this time, they’re not here. They’re not going to show up with big, enthusiastic smiles on their faces, armed with praise and a suggestion that we stop for celebratory ice cream on the way home. They don’t even know I have this job.
Maybe they’ve completely moved on with their lives and aren’t thinking of me at all.
That possibility threatens to take the wind out of me, so I push it away. I remind myself that if I can do well at window dressing, if I can prove to myself what I’m capable of, I’ll eventually attempt to prove it to them, too. I’ll try again with my parents. In time.
Up ahead, some of the upper management employees are gathered at the window. Jordyn is there, along with Mrs. Bunting, the head of human resources who I met on my first day. I notice she seems to be on familiar terms with Aiden’s grandmother, who is skeptical of me right off the bat. She watches me approach the way a house cat behaves when their owner brings home a puppy. Can’t say I blame her. I’m probably younger than she was expecting, went a little heavy on the eyeliner this morning—an attempt to keep Aiden at arm’s length that clearly didn’t work—and now I’m exiting a foggy-windowed vehicle with her grandson. Not to mention, my eyes are still crossed from…whatever just happened.
What did just happen?
I think Aiden and I almost skipped kissing and went right to the main event. In a parked car on one of the busiest avenues in the world. I’ve never lost myself like that with a member of the opposite sex. Granted, I haven’t even breathed on a member of the male species in four years, probably longer, but I would remember the feeling of having my stomach levitate, my intimate flesh squeezing, heart going bananas beside my eardrums. I definitely would recall feeling safe and cherished and required.
Unable to stop myself, I turn and glance at Aiden over my shoulder. I’m not the only one who is shaken up. Little sweat speckles soak through the front of his white dress shirt, his bow tie a touch off-center and that curl graces the center of his forehead. His gaze travels from me to his family ahead and darkens with…I don’t know. It’s hard to tell. Worry, yes. But there’s a sort of fierce protectiveness in those depths, too, that gives my knees the consistency of wet paste.
When he returns his attention to me, I lift one corner of my mouth to let him know I’m good to handle whatever his family throws at me. Even though I’m not exactly sure of that fact. All I know is I’ve already gotten too much special treatment recently. From the judge, the prison system itself and now Aiden.
If my window isn’t a success, I need to take that result on the chin. And if I don’t get another chance to prove myself, well most people don’t even get a first one, right?
I just really, really hope they like it, because this has been the best week of my life. I spent the last four days decorating a Vivant window—for Christmas, no less. And it was a constant rush. Hours sped past in colorful blurs of enjoyment and creative impulses. Not only that, I had the means to follow those urges and watch them come to life. There is nothing, no job in this world, I want to do more. But as I come to a stop about ten feet from the glass, forcing a smile for Jordyn, that nervous PTA art show feeling has me convinced the paper will be torn down and there will be a pile of dirt sitting on a plate.