"Put your suit jacket on, Paul. And go to your meeting.
And tomorrow, instead of coffee, you'd better drink water
until you can be less clumsy." I didn't say it lightly. I wasn't teasing.
I was testing.
He closed his eyes briefly and when he opened them, I
saw relief and something else. A little shame. A little
excitement. I felt the sting and swirl of it, too, but I lifted
my chin and tried not to show it.
"Now," I said, "go to your meeting."
He put on his suit jacket and left.
There was nothing overtly sexual about what had
happened. I didn't want to fuck my boss. Until today I
wouldn't have believed he wanted to fuck me, either,
beyond the fact that most men would like to fuck most
beyond the fact that most men would like to fuck most
women. Yet something had passed between us, something
charged and tense and arousing.
Alone in Paul's office I had to bend and put my hands on
his desk, my head down so I could catch my breath. I'd
fainted twice in my life, and this didn't feel like that, the
gray-red haze taking over my vision, the ringing in my ears.
This light-headedness was more like the breathless rush
that comes just before orgasm, when every muscle
clenches. When the body takes over and nothing the mind
can do wil stop the inevitable.
It was synchronicity again, or maybe serendipity. Like
when you've never heard a word before and suddenly you
see it in every book you read, or how you've been craving
ice cream and the ice-cream truck rounds the corner just
before you go inside. Three men, similar but different. I
might not have noticed a few months ago, but now it was
al I could see. The notes had done that. Opened my eyes
to that need. Theirs and mine, too.
Last night, learning about Eric had rocked my world. This
morning, discovering I was about to lose my lists had done
it again. But now, just now, with Paul, I'd learned
something so basic it had been with me al along. Only like
something so basic it had been with me al along. Only like
Dorothy with the Scarecrow, Tin Woodsman and
Cowardly Lion, I simply hadn't seen it. I thought of lists
and notes and what they meant to me. And what I wanted.
And I knew what I had to do.
"Paige." Miriam gave me a broad, crimson-lipped grin. "So nice to see you. What can I do for you today? A gift for
someone?"
"No. Today I came in for myself."
I looked to the shelf where the boxes of ink, pens and
papers had been, but they were gone. Miriam came
around the counter and saw me looking. She tugged gently
on my sleeve.
"In the back. Come with me." She'd set the boxes on an
eye-level shelf, each displayed with its lid open to show off
the papers inside. "Not so many people wil see these
back here, but if they take the time to look, I believe they
wil be unable to resist."
I already knew the one I wanted. Red lacquer with blue
and purple accents. The paper inside bore the watermark
and purple accents. The paper inside bore the watermark
of a dragonfly, and there was enough to last a number of
weeks even if I wrote a letter on it every day. The brush-
and-ink set interested me less. I didn't intend to write in
caligraphy.
"This one." I closed the lid and slid the smal wooden clasp through the loop of ribbon to keep it shut. I turned to
Miriam and stopped at the look on her face. "What?"
"I knew you would find something to write on that paper,
that's al." She was already leaving the room and gestured
over her shoulder for me to folow.
The box was heavier than it looked because of the marble
stamper, also featuring a dragonfly, and the porcelain
container of ink paste inside. Heavier, too, because of
what I meant to do with the contents. The wood slipped
against my fingers as I carried it to the cash register. I
didn't want to let it go long enough for Miriam to ring it up
and put it in a Speckled Toad bag, but I did.
I was sweating a little, my stomach and throat buzzing with
anticipation. Colors seemed a bit too bright and sounds
too loud. I was already thinking of a quiet room and
candlelight, and the scritch-scratch of a pen on the paper.
I already knew what I was going to write.
Miriam rang up my purchase and wrapped the satin box
liberaly in tissue paper, then slid it into a bag. She peered
at me over her half glasses, her mouth pursed, and tapped
the countertop with her crimson nails. "You need
something else."
I was already spending too much. "I don't think so."
Miriam ignored me and turned to the glass-topped display
case next to the counter. She leaned over to look at the
Cross and Mont Blanc pens inside, each snuggled in its
own cradle of velvet. She ran her finger over the glass,
drawing my attention to each of the pens I'd lusted over
since discovering her shop. There was a Starwalker
rolerbal pen in black and one in blue. There was a
Meisterstuck Classique Platinum rolerbal in classic black
with silver accents. She even had one of the special
limited-edition Marlene Dietrich pens I'd seen online that
cost the earth.
"Mont Blanc doesn't cal them pens, you know," she said
in the reverent voice of an archeologist unearthing
something precious. She didn't look at me as she unlocked
the back of the case and ran her fingertips over the velvet.
the back of the case and ran her fingertips over the velvet.
"They're referred to as writing instruments."
Her fingers closed on one, a slim black piece with the
signature six-pointed star in the cap. She drew it out and
laid it flat on her palm the way the jeweler had done with
the diamond ring Austin had bought me. The pen in
Miriam's palm wasn't quite as expensive as that ring, which
I stil had locked away in my jewelry box…but it wasn't
much less, either.
I itched to take it, but shoved my hands in my pockets
instead. "Yes, I know. I've been to their Web site."
Now her gaze, cool and amused, flicked to me. "I'm sure
you have. You look at these pens every time you come in,
Paige."
"They're beautiful pens."
Miriam puled out a smal square of velvet and laid the pen
—the writing instrument—on it. Then she folded her hands
and tilted her head to look at me over her glasses again.
"Let me ask you something, my dear. Would a plastic
surgeon operate on someone's face with a rusty butter
knife?"
knife?"
"I sure hope not." I grimaced.
Miriam smiled indulgently. "Would an artist try to paint a
masterpiece with a box of watercolors from the dolar
store?"
"If that's al the artist had, why not?"
"My point is, my dear, that in order to create real, true
things of beauty, a person needs the right tools." She
waved a hand over the Mont Blanc.
My soul strained toward it. "I'm not an artist."
"No?" Her perfectly plucked brows lifted in unison. "That paper says otherwise. Tel me you intend to use it for a
grocery list, and I'l cal you a liar. What's more, I won't
sel it to you. It would be a sin not to use that paper for
something special."
"I plan to use it for something special." My mouth curved
into a smile on the words.
"Good. But what about the instrument? Don't tel me you
plan to use a half-chewed pencil stub with no eraser."
plan to use a half-chewed pencil stub with no eraser."
I tore my gaze away from the Mont Blanc to look at her.
"I have a nice fountain pen my dad bought for me for my
colege graduation."
I didn't tel her it tended to stain my fingers in addition to
blotting the paper with ink. Miriam sniffed. Her fingernails
ticktocked on the counter, timing the seconds before her
response.
"It's not a Mont Blanc. Or even a Cross. Is it?"
"No. But it's what I have."
Miriam sighed and shook her head. "Paige, Paige, Paige.
Pick up that pen and hold it."
I didn't want to—putting it down would be so much
harder. But when Miriam puled a piece of cream-colored
paper from beneath the counter and slid it toward me, I
did what she'd said. If you've never held a realy good pen,
you don't understand how the weight distributes itself so
evenly in your palm. Or how the fit of it in your fingers
makes writing even the longest documents easy. How the
ink slides from the tip without effort.
I wrote my name.
"Oh…" I breathed and with reluctance, set down the pen.
"It's so nice."
I'd put it down at once so I wouldn't be tempted to run
away with it, but Miriam lifted it and held it toward me.
"Buy it."
"I can't afford it." I hadn't even looked at the tiny, hand-lettered price tag attached to the pen's box stil in the
display case. I didn't have to see the numbers to know I
couldn't buy it.
"Are you sure?" Miriam asked calmly. "You might be
surprised."
"I doubt it, Miriam. I know what those pens cost."
"My dear," she said. "Aren't you worth it?"
Chapter 21
This is what I wrote on that expensive paper with my
exquisite writing instrument.
The time has come to reevaluate our relationship.
You will send me your exact schedule, work and
pleasure, for the next ten days. In addition, you will
write ten things that excite you. You will send them in
an e-mail to me at switch1971@gmail.com no later
than 6:00 p.m. the day you get this letter. You will
include your cell phone number so I can text-message
you my approval. Or not.
Things are going to change for us both.
I'd stepped it up, but unlike my last interlude with Austin, I
didn't wonder if it had been too much. I wondered,
instead, if perhaps it hadn't been enough. There were
several messages in my Inbox when I got home from
work. One of them was from a friend from colege,
another from my mom. And the last was from an e-mail
address I didn't recognize. Eric.
He detailed his schedule as I'd requested. Working
twelve-hour shifts in a three-on, four-off pattern. I hadn't
asked him what hospital he worked at, but he'd included
varying drive times, so I thought he might fil in at several.
His attention to detail pleased me. Clearly he'd done
something like this before…but then, I was guessing he
was more used to this sort of thing than I was. I liked his
list of things that excited him even more.
• 1. Standing in the rain
• 2. Roller coasters
• 3. Knowing I'm being watched while I make myself
come
• 4. Serving a woman on my knees while she ignores
me
• 5. Tacos!
• 6. Lingerie (on a woman, not me wearing it)
• 7. Being told exactly how to please the woman I'm
with so I don't have to guess
• 8. Clean sheets
• 9. Monty Python on DVD
• 10. Lists
Lists excited me, too. I loved that he had a sense of humor
about it and was self-confident enough to show it. I also
appreciated that he'd responded in time—5:55, by the
time on the message. I didn't know if I'd have had it in me
to punish him for failure.
I never wore leather and I'd never cracked a whip. I liked
high heels, but the thought of using them to step on a
person squicked me out big-time. I'd always thought of
men who got off on "serving" women as pussies, though
Eric had impressed me as anything but.
I didn't know how much of a mistress I was going to be,
or how long I could get away with the impersonation. I
could have pretended I'd taken this on for his sake—the
thought of losing those daily lists had sent me into a mind-
spin, after al. But I knew it was realy for me. Those lists
had given me something I hadn't known I needed.
Writing them, I discovered, fulfiled me even more.
Writing them, I discovered, fulfiled me even more.
This is what I left in his mailbox.
Tonight when you get home from work, you will eat
your dinner. Then you'll shower. After that, you'll go to
When you jerk your cock, know that I'l be watching you.
"Cute shoes." The woman whose name I didn't know but
whom I always seemed to bump into at the mailboxes
sounded as if she meant it. "Enzo Angiolini?"
I looked down at the chunk-heeled pumps in classic black,
tied across the top with a tasseled leather strap. I'd picked
them up at the thrift store for three bucks. But yes, they
were brand name and nearly brand-new. "Yes."
"Nice. I have a pair almost like it but in navy. I never wear
them, though. I couldn't ever find anything to go with
them." She gave the rest of my outf it a critical look. "I'd never have thought to put them together with a flared skirt
and tapered top like that."
For months I'd agonized over what to wear to work each
day and she'd looked at me as though I were something
she'd scraped off the bottom of her enviably fashionable
shoes. Today, caught up in thoughts of slipping Eric's note
into the mail and what it would lead to, later, I'd thrown on
the first outfit I'd grabbed. I looked at my shoes and
swirled slightly to flare my skirt around my knees. My
smile had nothing to do with her compliment, and I didn't
thank her for it. Okay, so I can be a bit of a vindictive
bitch. I never pretended otherwise.
I looked her up and down from the chiffon scarf she'd tied
at her throat to her feet in the same pair of Kate Spades
I'd seen several times already. "Realy?"
One word. So many layers of meaning. She blinked
rapidly, and then her mouth quirked into a grudging smile.
We understood each other the way women do and men
never wil.
"They're havi
ng a great sale at Neiman Marcus next week.
I'm on their preferred buyers mailing list and got a
postcard about it," she offered.
"Thanks. I'l check it out." I waited until she'd gone before putting my letter in Eric's mailbox.
When I had, I leaned for a moment against the wal, my
breath whistling through parted lips. Beneath the skirt she'd
so admired, I wore lacy, silky lingerie. Sexy things to make
me feel pretty al day, and to remind me of what I intended
to happen later. As if I could forget, I thought with a secret
smile I kept with me al day.
Paul noticed it. The smile, not the panties, which rubbed
me deliciously each time I crossed or uncrossed my legs.
He stood over my desk with a sheaf of files in his hands,
but he waited until I looked up to acknowledge him rather
than simply addressing me the way he had in the past.
Oh, how so much had changed in so short a time!
"You look nice today," he said.
In this era of sexual-harassment suits, in a time where I'm
an executive assistant and not a secretary because of some
misbegotten notion that a title means more than the job
itself, his compliment wasn't realy appropriate. I leaned
back in my chair to give him a nice long look at my legs as
I crossed them high at the knee. And he looked, Paul did,
without pretending he didn't.
"What do you need, Paul?"
He offered the files. "These have to go out today."
I didn't take them. Power thriled through me as he set
them on the desk but didn't go. Was this a dangerous
game? I didn't think it was so risky. I didn't even count it
as flirtation, realy. I had no intention of fucking my boss.
Of becoming my mother.
"Al right."
We stared at each other. Paul cleared his throat and
rocked on his heels a bit. I took the files and set them in a
tidy pile in front of me to show him I would, indeed, get to
them. Not at that instant, and I wasn't jumping through
hoops to do it, but it would happen.
"Paige, there's something else I'd like to talk to you about."
I studied him for a second, trying to gauge what it could be
about, then nodded. "Sure. What about?"
"Can you come into my office in about ten minutes?"
He asked as though he was afraid I'd say no, even though
technicaly we both knew I didn't have a choice.
"Absolutely."
"Thanks." He'd always been polite, but he was nearly
dancing now with some hidden anxiety.