New Year’s Steve

by Carter, M. E.

  Her nose goes up. “That’s not begging, that’s telling me you’re begging.”

  Good point. “What if I give you and Dwight tickets to every baseball game next season. Does he like baseball?”

  She sniffs. “Eh.”

  “What does he even do?” I find myself asking.

  “He owns a dry cleaner business, I’ll have you know, and when people don’t pick things up, he said he’d let me pick through the neglected items.” The chin tilts higher. “We’re talking designer.” She emphasizes that last word haughtily.

  “So does that mean he doesn’t like baseball, or noo…”

  “It means he can afford his own tickets.” The receptionist pauses. “Unless it’s a box suite.”

  Oh my god, this is extortion! “What about a week’s paid vacation?”

  Then again, I am attempting to bribe her.

  “I take vacation whenever I want.”

  Accurate — she comes and goes as she pleases, knowing she isn’t going to get fired, and I have a feeling money isn’t a problem. There had to have been some kind of pension worked out with my grandfather before he passed. This woman could give two shits about the measly salary I pay her.

  I inhale a deep breath. “Sheila, you’ve been with this company for over thirty years and you’ve seen me grow up here, and now you can see that my love life is a mess.”

  She nods.

  “I share very little about my personal life, but I’ll tell you this: I met someone incredible and if I don’t pull a date out of my ass for tonight, the shit is going to hit the fan and she’s going to hate me forever.”

  I leave out the part where I gave Felicity a fake name, pretended not to know her when we met, pretended to be a janitor, and told her there is a date at the end of this road we’re on.

  A good one.

  A romantic one to ring in the new year.

  She won’t be kissing me when the ball drops if Sheila doesn’t help me fix this, that’s for damn sure—she’ll be slapping my face.

  Not that she seems like the violent type.

  “You know what would be neat,” Sheila finally says. “Have you ever seen that movie where the little kid plays matchmaker for his dad?”

  I stare, clueless.

  “The kid calls into a radio show about his dad being single and how he wants him to meet someone?”

  The receptionist is glaring at me now, disgusted that I haven’t any idea what movie she’s talking about. “Anyway, the kid ends up writing this letter to this woman named Annie and tells him to meet the dad at the top of the Empire State Building on Valentine’s Day.” She pauses. “Or something like that, I don’t know, it’s been years.”

  “So… you want me to meet my date at the top of the Empire State Building several states away?” My eyes practically bug out of my skull. Is Sheila insane?

  “No, you chump — the top of this building.” She smiles, hit with a memory. “I once had a date set up a picnic lunch up top, but that was the 90s when men made more effort to woo a gal. Granted, he really only wanted to get in my pants, but it was a night I’ll never forget. Like Rose on the Titanic.”

  Jesus, I didn’t need to be reminded that Sheila is probably still out there sleeping with men, nor did I need to know our rooftop patio was defiled back when I was playing hide-and-seek up there with some of the board members’ kids. If I didn’t need a shower before, I feel the need to scrub more than once. Who knows what these hands have touched up there.

  “You do know Jack would have fit on that raft.” I can’t help pointing out the obvious, much to her chagrin. “He didn’t have to die.”

  She is not amused. “Do you want my help or not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then pick up that phone and call Timmy Wells. He’s Skeeter’s back up when that old bastard forgets to show up for work, and I’m pretty sure I saw him on the tenth floor earlier when I went down for a donut.”

  “Do you ever sit at your actual desk?”

  “Rarely.” She shoots a look at my phone.

  “What am I supposed to say to him when he answers?”

  “Tell him you need a favor, and that you’ll pay him cash to stay tonight and open the roof, put a table and two chairs outside, drag some of the potted plants from the lobby on fifteenth, and the potted tree from eleven. Bonus if he can locate a few strings of lights, and a few heaters.”

  My mouth falls open. Christ, it’s like she’s done this before. “Anything else?”

  “That should do the trick.” I don’t move fast enough, and she’s twirling her hand impatiently in the air to move me along. “And we’re dialing… and we’re dialing…”

  Wow. She’s worse than a honey badger, and twice as petrifying. I wonder what would happen if I didn’t follow directions.

  I pull up Timmy Wells number in the directory and call him rather than texting — he picks up immediately.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hi, um — Timmy.” Why does it feel so odd calling a grown man Timmy? “This is Harrison McGinnis, up on the twenty-eight floor—”

  “My boss, Harrison McGinnis?” He interrupts.

  “Sure.” I agree uncomfortably. “Listen Tim… my. I have a favor I need to ask of you and I hope you can accommodate me.”

  Sheila gives me an encouraging thumbs up.

  “I seriously hate asking this of you, especially on your night off, but I’m willing to pay you for your time and effort.”

  The line is silent. Then, “I’m listening.”

  “I need someone who can get me onto the roof tonight for a date I’m trying to impress. And I need some things to accomplish that, and a reliable man to help me.”

  * * *

  Me: T-minus five hours until midnight.

  Felicity: Does that also mean t-minus five hours until Date Time?

  Me: If my math is correct it’s only four and a half…

  Felicity: Hey, I’m the number cruncher here…

  Me: Okay okay okay — speaking of which, how was the rest of your day? You done yet?

  Felicity: YES!!! **twirls and twirls in desk chair** DONE done done with my reports and can finally unchain myself from this desk! I’m about to shut everything down and blow this hot dog stand.

  Me: That’s great news! So it was a good day?

  I roll my eyes because I already know the answer to this, and by asking, I’m continuing to perpetuate the lie. But I’m also pimping her for information about myself, wondering if she’ll spill the dirt on Harry — considering there were definitely sparks flying in both directions.

  Oh, she hid it well, but they were there.

  Me: I lucked out today, I had a maintenance guy help me with a few things.

  At the mention of me, I perk up.

  Me: Oh yeah? What all did he do??

  Way too many question marks, bro.

  I delete and start a new message.

  Me: OR SHE — sorry. Help you with?

  Felicity: Lol it was a man. And I had this horrible situation with the light above my desk and he didn’t just save the day, he saved my entire year. Literally.

  Me: LOL your entire year?!

  Felicity: Yes! Because I would have been done weeks ago if that light hadn’t been messing with my head. As soon as he came along and fixed it, I was cranking out the work. It put me in such a good mood.

  What she means is HARRY put her in such a good mood.

  I scowl, reading between the lines, oddly jealous since I AM HARRY.

  HARRY IS ME.

  Me: You said he helped with a few things. Like what else?

  Felicity: Well…. he fixed a drawer in my desk, opened the heater vent in the ceiling, and a vending machine inside the womens’ bathroom I’d been complaining about LOLOL.

  Me: They have vending machines in the bathroom?

  Felicity: That was my polite way of saying “Tampon Machine”

  Me: OH! It sounds like he was looking for random things to fix so he could hang around…

/>   It takes her a few minutes to respond and I imagine she’s searching for the proper response.

  Felicity: I can’t speak for him, but maybe he lingered a bit longer than he should have. He wasn’t being weird or anything if you’re worried.

  Weird is the least of my worries, because I know you had chemistry with the guy.

  Aka: ME.

  Me: You’re a beautiful woman, I’m sure he couldn’t help himself.

  Felicity: Hmm, maybe. I doubt it.

  Me: So — switching gears, really quick so you can get moving and get home; I have a time and location for you. Ready?

  Felicity: Give it to me.

  My balls tighten, mind automatically going to sex and boobs and her hair in the palm of my hand.

  Me: Do you know where the McGinnis Building is on Downer Avenue?

  Felicity: Um… I know that building very well, why?

  So she’s not ready to tell me that’s where she works? Okay — I get it. Fair enough.

  Me: At eleven o’clock, there’s going to be a man in the lobby, and he’s going to take you to the roof…

  * * *

  The hot water beats down on me when I crank the heat on my six-jet shower, ready for the rest of the evening — thanking God for Sheila (of all people) and throwing up a hallelujah that I have an actual plan for tonight.

  Once I finally got Sheila to see the problem with setting up a sex swing on the roof in December, not to mention as a first date with a virtual stranger, things started rolling and our ideas snowballed into what will hopefully be the most romantic first meeting Felicity has ever experienced.

  At this exact moment, Timmy is setting up a beautiful winter themed setting, complete with Felicity’s choice of finger foods compliments of yet another random connection Sheila has, cloth napkins, and a centerpiece full of her favorite Winter Camellias in various shades of pink and red.

  While I probably should have fessed up to Felicity from the beginning about who I am, the benefit of going undercover in her office are the mental notes about all her favorites I was able to make on the sly. Without her knowing I was doing recon of her personal space.

  Her computer screensaver? Has the same flower on it that’s on her cheesy mug — it’s pretty damn obvious she loves the winter flower. It also helps that my mom used to make me work at my aunt’s flower shop every summer through high school. I probably wouldn’t have recognized them otherwise.

  One quick call to my aunt and I cleared out all her Winter Camellia inventory, along with that of some of her local colleagues, but for the right price it didn’t seem to be an inconvenience for them at all.

  The more the better.

  Sheila and I were in agreement on that at least.

  Is the entire thing cheesy? Maybe.

  Is it over-the-top? Possibly.

  Is she going to love it?

  Absolutely.

  And, hopefully the view makes up for the lies I have to expose, me being me and not Steve, that is.

  If everything works out according to plan, there won’t be a better view than the direct line of sight we have for the first-time-ever in our city NYE ball to drop at midnight.

  Quickly I jack off in the shower, hoping to relieve myself of some of the lingering tension in my body, and maybe to keep myself from sporting a hard-on if Felicity shows up in a strappy dress. I’m a sucker for a woman’s shoulders, but popping wood is probably not the best first impression to make.

  I’ve got some fessing up to do before trying to take things to the next level.

  I may be as hormonal as the next guy, but I’m not completely classless.

  Shutting off the water and wrapping myself in a fluffy towel (no reason to cut corners when it comes to bathroom comfort), I begin doing a thorough trim on my beard. Just as I bring the electric razor to my cheek, my phone dings and my heart lurches.

  Please don’t let Felicity be cancelling, please don’t let Felicity be cancelling, please don’t let Felicity be cancelling…

  It would be my luck if she ditches Steve for Harry.

  My shoulders sag with relief when I see that it’s Adam messaging me, and not my date.

  Adam: Hey man. Wanted to update you. Manuel Gomez is out for the rest of the season. Rotator cuff is busted, but he should be clear to continue contract negotiations.

  Me: Dodged that bullet.

  Adam: Also, Meg wants to know if your date is figured out.

  Me: Dude. Do you have to share that shit with her? I’m her boss. I’d prefer her not spreading office gossip.

  Adam: I tell my woman everything. And you’re barely her boss. I’m more of her boss than you are.

  I shake my head. I really need to get with HR on that fraternization policy. After I’m grandfathered in, of course. Ha ha.

  Me: And you’re barely her man. Two weeks doesn’t count. Now leave me alone. I’m getting ready for my date.

  Adam: So that’s a yes? The date is a go…?

  Me: Yes, dickhead. It’s a go. Romantic rooftop rendezvous and all that shit.

  Adam: The rooftop? OUR rooftop? You know I found a ball gag up there once with Sheila’s name etched into the leather strap.

  I make a gagging sound no one but me can hear because I have learned too much about Sheila’s sex life today. I cannot unlearn the things I’ve heard.

  Me: Thank you for giving me the need to bleach my brain.

  Adam: Just doing my part. Make sure to sanitize before getting a little New Year’s tickle for your pickle.

  Me: Okay. I’m done with this now. See you next year.

  I toss my phone down and only glance over at it again when it gives me an alert that Adam replied. It’s just a laughing emoji so I refuse to respond again. It’s a good thing we’re friends or I would have fired his ass a long time ago for not reporting that ball gag.

  Hell, I still might.

  It would serve the bastard right for keeping juicy information like that to himself, and I wonder if cameras should be installed up top; sounds like I’m not the only one who’s been using it for extra-curricular activities.

  I stare at myself in the foggy mirror, watching the water drip down my face from my hair, and stand taller.

  It won’t do if I’m freaking out about Felicity’s reaction — I have to be confident I know her well enough by now that she’s not going to bail on me when she sees me.

  What an uncomfortable working environment that would be, especially now that Sheila’s involved, Adam’s been gossiping, and Meg probably knows.

  Just send out a Memo on Monday. Give everyone the scoop at once, why don’t they.

  Groaning, I wipe the stray hairs from my face, drying it. This is why I never should have let that old busybody, Sheila, in on my business. Now she’s going to stake a claim in my relationship and have opinions and such.

  On the other hand, she is coordinating the entire thing, and if it weren’t for her, there wouldn’t be a date to get ready for.

  A first date I’m going to be late for if I don’t hurry my ass up.

  I wipe my face and head to my closet where I grab my best black suit and sharpest white button down. It’s time to go all out. This is the woman of my dreams, and I refuse to let it all go down in a flaming pile of New Year’s poo.

  7

  Felicity

  I am thoroughly showered and shampooed.

  I am groomed in my nether regions.

  In fact, I’m so groomed downtown, I had to break my self-imposed No Shave All Winter Months clause in the event I decide to ring-a-ling-ling in the new year with a little action — if you catch my drift.

  And yet, I’m not all that excited to be here…

  How horrible is that? A night I’ve been looking forward to for over a week — since the night Steve finally found the courage to ask to meet me.

  Sighing as I wait for the elevator doors to open, I silently curse Harry for sucking the anticipation out of me like a pleasure vacuum, without even bothering to ask for my phone number.<
br />
  Was I too forward with him? Was I not forward enough? I did my best when he was scuttling around my office, fixing things, to remain professional. Tried my best not to drop hints of my attraction, ending up with nothing to show for it except an unenthusiastic attitude for a meet up that should have been the most exciting night of my life!

  Damn Skeeter for leaving me with the hottest man I’ve ever met and distracting me from tonight’s goal: meeting the man of my dreams.

  At least I look hot.

  My reflection in the elevator doors may be slightly distorted, but there’s no hiding my shape in the dress I chose for tonight. It may be long sleeve and high necked, but it’s a short Bodycon dress that hugs me in all the right places.

  And I do mean ALL of them.

  Hmm. Actually…

  I turn sideways and the image is distorted just enough to make my boobs even bigger and my waist smaller. Nice ass. Great legs.

  Dang girl! Get it!

  I am seriously contemplating snapping a pic of my bombshell reflection for social media, when the elevator dings making me jump. Forces me to walk through the door and step into the car that will take me to the rest of my life.

  Wow. Meg was right. I am super theatrical.

  Focus, Felicity.

  Focus on Steve, Felicity. Steve.

  Not Harry, who I wish I was here with, but Steve who I am now wishing will be a dud so I can go home, put on my jammies, and pull out my vibrator while Harry’s beautiful face is still freshly vivid in my mind.

  I press the button to the rooftop floor and say a quick Hail Mary that this elevator can make it all the way to the top. Which leads to the one thing that has been bothering me all night — why here? Of all the rooftops in the city, of all the buildings, why did Steve choose the place I work as the site of our first meet up and how the hell did he coordinate this?

  Suddenly I feel my gut telling me something is off with him. I don’t get stalker vibes, but I also can’t put a finger on what the niggling feeling could be. I guess I’m about to find out, like it or not.

  Or. I’m about to be murdered.

  Could go either way.

  I dig through my purse. Dammit, where is my mace?