Taking Care of Business

“What I’m going to do is focus on this campaign. Our proposal has to be perfect.”

Karen paused a moment, then huffed in disgust. “Fine, fine. All work and no play makes you a dull girl.”

Julie bit her lip, wondering just how much of the dollar and cents her artistic partner understood about their company. “Um, you know, I was going over our books last night and the picture—”

“I know,” Karen interrupted, holding up her hand to silence her friend. “Well, I don’t know the exact figures, but I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

Julie nodded. There was nothing more to say to that. Except, perhaps, that they would get through this. “We’re going to put together a kick-ass proposal. We’re going to be brilliant.”

“And we’re going to win this contract,” Karen echoed with confidence. “I just know it.”

2

Seven weeks later …

“WE DIDN’T GET THE contract.” Julie stared at her laptop, her mind going numb. “We didn’t get it.”

Across the desk, Karen sighed and set down her sketchbook. Neither one of them had to say what they were thinking. They were both far from home, buried in debt, and as of five minutes ago, their company was dead. Bankrupt. Belly-up. Finito.

“This should have worked,” Julie said as she fell back in her chair and stared at the ceiling tiles. “I think and breathe advertising. You’re the best graphic designer there is. And together we know the internet like the back of our hands. We should be buried in accounts, not.” Dead broke.

Karen released another heavy sigh. “Yeah, okay, so this campaign didn’t work. It was brilliant, they’re idiots for not hiring us, but now we have to move on. So, what’s next?”

Julie didn’t answer. She didn’t have the heart to tell her best friend that after two years of scrimping and sweating and bleeding, she just didn’t have it in her to try again. She’d put everything into this last pitch: heart, soul, and her last borrowed dime. They’d failed anyway. They hadn’t gotten the account.

“My dad’s started a new bowling league,” she said, still talking to the ceiling tiles.

“In Nebraska?” Karen snorted. “You hate Nebraska!”

She hated starving, too. And being homeless. Which she would soon be since she couldn’t pay any more rent on her tiny apartment or on this cramped office space.

“Come on, Julie. Usually you’re the one with six more possibilities lined up, just in case. So what’s next? What have you got up your sleeve?”

“Nothing,” she whispered. “Absolutely nothing. We’re done.”

Karen was silent for a long time, clearly absorbing the finality of that while Julie tried hard to not think of returning to Nebraska, suitcase in hand. How did she tell her family that her plan to make it big—the one she’d talked about since she was twelve years old—had ended up in a huge pile of debt?

“Okay, I’ve got a new plan,” Karen said firmly. “I think you should get laid.”

Julie lifted her head to stare at her friend. “What?”

“I’m serious. You’ve been working nonstop for months. Years, even. Too much tension stops the flow of qi.”

“What?”

“Your energy, your power. And nothing else opens up the qi like a good—”

“Karen! You can’t possibly think that sex is an answer to bankruptcy.” There. She’d said the word aloud.

Her friend shook her head. “We’re not closed yet. We’ve got almost a month left for you to think of something brilliant. But you won’t think of anything with your qi all clogged.”

Julie didn’t answer. Her friend was being silly as a way to lighten the mood. It was sweet really, but some things couldn’t be changed regardless of her state of qi.

Karen leaned forward, dropping her elbows onto Julie’s desk. “When was the last time you saw Elevator Man?”

Julie nearly choked. Gawd, she should never have told her friend about him. Especially since the elevator seven weeks ago had only been the first incident. They’d had approximately one anonymous encounter a week since then. And that was nothing compared to her nighttime fantasies. Who’d have thought that she would become obsessed with elevator sex? But she had. She didn’t know whether her fantasies were fueling her forays into the scandalous or the reverse, but whatever the reason, she’d been unable to stop herself from orchestrating increasingly sexual encounters with the hunky janitor.

Their second time had been in another jam-packed elevator, but this time she’d gotten in first. She hadn’t even been sure it was him except that his general height and build were the same. He was about six foot and lean in those blue denim coveralls. His hair was rich brown, all curly and shaggy, and his shoulders broad. As she’d stared at his dark, dark brown eyes, she’d wondered: are you him? Are you the first man to touch me in forever?

He hadn’t answered, of course. But he’d inhaled deeply, and she’d thought about her perfume. Was he smelling the sandalwood she liked to dab on her wrists? Or the minty herb of her shampoo? Did he know what she was thinking?

She’d smiled at him, then. Something in her had taken over and she’d flashed her best come-hither smile. He’d seen it. His gaze zeroed in on her lips. But he didn’t do anything, didn’t say anything. If anything, his eyes had gone impersonal and vague.

Her ego had crashed. This wasn’t her elevator man. Or if it was, he wasn’t interested in her. She had been stunned by the pain of that. The disappointment had cut deep, probably because she’d built so many erotic daydreams about him. She’d just been biting back a sigh when he reached forward to press the button for his floor.

Top floor. No biggie. Except on his way to the panel, he’d brushed across her right breast. It could have been an accident. After all, there were a dozen people crammed into the elevator. There was hardly space to breathe, much less reach for a button. But he had brushed her breast and her nipple reacted with a nearly painful point.

And on the way back from pressing the button, he’d done it again. Or perhaps she had “accidentally” pushed forward so that he had no choice but to caress her hard nipple. That was it for Encounter 2.

Encounter 3 came the next week, this time on the way down to the garage. Half-packed elevator, close quarters, but she’d been wearing a suit jacket so there was no accidental nipple brushing. But Elevator Man was nothing if not innovative.

He’d murmured, “Excuse me, excuse me,” as he maneuvered to stand right in front of her. Then he knelt down to open an access panel beneath the floor buttons. Everyone had shifted to accommodate him. Everyone, that is, except her because his position on the floor left his elbow pressed to her mons.

Oh, God, it had felt so good. Pressure. A circular rub. The garage floor had come too soon, and she’d been too chicken to stay. That night’s fantasy, however, had involved an empty elevator stuck between floors. It was only after encounters five and six that she migrated to a glass one at the top of the Eiffel Tower. She was pressed up against the glass while he did her hot and hard in front of the whole of Paris.

Yes, she was depraved, but perhaps that was the thrill of it. He was always polite, always gentle, and he stopped the moment the elevator did. But he made her feel like she was the hottest woman on the planet, like he couldn’t stop himself from touching her. She knew the shape of his body, the scent of his hair and the feel of his cock through a thousand encounters both real and imagined. And she couldn’t wait until it happened again.

And now, here was Karen asking for the details. “This last one was, um, the best,” she said, her face heating to crimson. “He stepped up behind me, pulled my hips back against his, and then …”

“Yes? What?”

Julie bit her lip. “His hand slid forward to, um, cup me. God, he has the best hands—big and strong.”

“Oh, my God! What did you do?”

Julie closed her eyes, unable to look at her friend in the face as she confessed this. “Nothing,” she whispered. “I just, well, enjoyed it.” But she’d thought about more. She’d thought about spreading her legs and giving in. She wanted to. She’d wanted to for weeks now, but she was too chicken. What if he told someone? What if he told a client? Of course, that wasn’t a problem now. There were no more clients—potential or otherwise. Meanwhile, she could still feel the imprint of his hand on her. God, it made her twist in hunger just thinking about it. It was a wonder she didn’t combust right here.

“Soo,” drawled Karen with a knowing look. “Sounds like you should enjoy things some more. Just do it, Julie. Let yourself go for once in your life. It’ll reset your qi.”

“Stop! I can’t just do someone in the elevator.”

“Of course you can. You got condoms?”

Julie nodded. She’d bought them weeks ago, and they’d been burning a hole in her purse ever since. She wanted to use them. It was insane, but she’d been thinking about it for two months now. She wanted to stop the elevator, hand him the condom and let herself do what she’d been fantasizing about.

“Meanwhile,” Karen said with a heavy sigh. “I’ve got to get home. Tomorrow’s lecture awaits.” Thankfully, Karen also taught at the Chicago School of Design. The collapse of their company would require a box of Kleenex and another of chocolates, but she wouldn’t be out on the street. Julie, on the other hand, would have to sell her laptop to pay for the bus ride home.

“Hey!” Karen cried as she playfully swiped at Julie’s leg with her portfolio. “Don’t stay here all night stewing. Go find Elevator Man. Or someone else.”