by Amanda Aksel
“Any criticisms?” Eric baits. Is he indulging me or teasing?
How do I critique porn like an indie fest film? Come to think of it, I do have a consistent criticism with erotic cinema. No way in hell the women reach orgasm that fast and that often. But this probably isn’t the audience to voice that gripe with. On the other hand, it might be the perfect one. Men need to know it’s not that easy.
Now, what was wrong with the kitchen porn?
I got it!
“Yeah, they kept the faucet running the whole time.”
“And . . . ?” Brian asks.
“And, nearly a billion people on the planet don’t have access to clean drinking water and they just let it run. It’s so wasteful.” Turns out I’m not just the Pink Power Ranger, I’m a Planeteer too. Judging by their silence, it seems I’m the only one. I shrug, hoping my words roll off their shoulders too, then send a small smile Eric’s way. He kindly returns it while Mike’s and Brian’s eyes meet in a sideways glance over the tops of their mugs.
Okay, last try. What’s a dude-safe topic?
Women?
No, that’s what got me into trouble in the first place.
Weekend getaways?
Like anyone here has time for that.
Sports!
Yes, men love sports. How did I not think of that earlier? Would’ve saved me the embarrassment of water-wasting porn talk. “Did you guys catch the game last night?”
“Which game?” Brian asks.
“Um . . .” I exhale. The only sport I know is golf, but you don’t catch a golf game on TV. What sports season is it? Baseball? Basketball? Is there even a game on Wednesday nights? “I don’t know. I don’t keep up with American sports anymore. Just trying to make conversation.”
The guys sip their coffee without a word. If I spontaneously changed bodies, maybe I can spontaneously disappear.
Mike clears his throat, then turns on his heel. “Well, we better get back to work.” Brian follows. I watch them swagger out the door like the cool kids I desperately want to be in with while Eric takes a seat at a small table with his cup.
“You’re not leaving with your friends?” I ask, pulling out the chair near his.
He pushes his mug around in a circle on the table. “They’re my colleagues. Not my friends.”
“Oh.” He’s by far the coolest of the bunch. The one I really want to be “in” with. Well, really, I want him to be in me . . . Not sure that would work now.
I frown. “I don’t think I made a great impression on them.”
He leans forward with a sympathetic look. “With all due respect, you’re a little . . . different.”
Now that’s the understatement of the year. “You have no idea,” I say under my breath.
“It’s not a criticism. You’re kinda funny.”
“I am?”
He lets outs a little laugh. “Yeah, when you did that Put a Ring on It dance, it reminded me of my friend—that girl who has your same briefcase.”
My face gets warm and tingly, and I press my lips together trying not to totally geek out. “Oh, yeah. Delia, right?” I lean on my elbows, resting my chin in my hands like a teenage girl gazing at her crush.
He looks taken aback. “Good memory.” It’s very easy to remember your own name. A lot easier than depicting your faux identity. “Yeah, she loves Beyoncé.” What can I say, the man knows me. “I remember this one time back when we were all working late at HBG, I went by her desk to say good night. She had her earbuds in, dancing in her chair. I didn’t want to startle her, so I let her be.”
My cheeks have got to be salmon pink by now. I literally must’ve been dancing like no one was watching. Except Eric saw the whole thing go down! How embarrassing.
“That’s funny,” I say.
His gaze drifts away, and an endearing smile pulls at the corners of his adorable mouth. “It was really cute. But I’ve seen her out a few times. She’s a really sexy dancer.”
Sexy? Did he just call me sexy?
Let me check.
“Sexy?”
He chuckles, running his fingers through his hair, and I watch his face flush a cosmopolitan pink. “Yeah, especially when she lets her hair down. She’s so hot. And the way she throws her head back in a laugh when something is really funny. I love when I can get her to laugh like that.”
Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod. He thinks I’m sexy. Sexy!
“She sounds . . .” I can’t think of words. “Great.” I glance at his earlobe, wanting to bite it. There’s a lot more of him I’d like to nibble. The heat from my face draws down my neck, past my chest, and hits below my belt. L.D. begins to rise and grow like the elation in my chest. I shift in my seat, crossing my arms over my lap. My body seems to scream at me—Let me out! He thinks we’re hot!
“She’s . . .” His Sinatra gaze drifts again.
What? What’s he going to say? Is she smart? Is she beautiful? Is she spank-bank material? Spit it out, Eric!
He grins. “The greatest girl I know.”
My eyes fixate on his. I have no breath because he always takes it away. I’m the greatest girl he knows? He likes me—for real! Why hasn’t he said that to me before? Any of it? There’s got to be more to this story.
“Oh, so, uh . . .” Damn it, Delia, breathe! “Why isn’t she your girlfriend?”
He shakes his head, leaning away from me, and the idea. “Good question. I’m not entirely sure she feels the same about me. Besides, she’s having some job issues and might move away. I wouldn’t want to make her life any more complicated than it already is.”
Frankie was right. Eric and I have been in a dating stalemate. If only I could morph back into my old body, I’d tell him everything—that he’s my favorite person to sit next to at the bar, that he makes my skin tingle when he’s close by, that his laugh dispels all my worries, and that before I go to sleep at night, he’s the last thing on my mind. I don’t want to pretend anymore. I have to come clean—confess everything right now!
Who cares if I have a boner while I do it?
My heart is a pounding lump in my throat. I swallow hard. “Eric, I need to tell you something.” My tone turns serious and my pulse is so loud in my ears I can barely hear my thoughts.
“What?” he asks, like he knows what I have to say is truly important.
Then, a voice in my head busts through and yells, “Are you fucking nuts? You can’t tell him the truth. He’ll have security take you out faster than a porn star’s fake orgasm!”
Shit.
Why didn’t I tell him how I felt when I had the chance? What if there are no more chances? What if it’s too late? I swear, if I ever get my body back, I’m going to march right up to him and kiss him the way I’ve dreamed about since the day we met.
His brow begins to rise impatiently. I bite my lip, then let out a deep sigh. “If you don’t tell her, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. Trust me. I know.”
Eric nods. “I gotta say, after that player comment, I would not have expected to take your advice about women. But I think you might be right about this one.” He pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’m gonna tell her. Right now.” He stands and slowly walks toward the door, focused on the tiny screen.
My pulse quickens. “Now? As in now now?” I attempt to rise to my feet but my boner catches on the edge of the table. Fuck, that’s inconvenient. How the hell do guys walk around with these things all day?
I ease back into the chair, digging in my pocket for my phone. The moment my fingers grab my device, it starts to vibrate. The phone, that is. Thank God it’s already on silent. What would I say if he’d heard Delia’s ringtone too? There’s only so much I can blame on the Swiss.
After a moment, he’s gone, and I hate that he can’t tell me, Delia-me, right now. I glance down at the pitched tent in my pants. “Y
ou can go back to sleep. He’s gone now,” I whisper.
But it does nothing, just stays there—like a dog waiting at the back door to go out and play. I let out a frustrated sigh and close my eyes for a moment, while thoughts of little pubic hairs stuck to dried pee on toilet rims play in my mind. How does that even happen? Are men simultaneously shedding while they piss?
Gross.
I peek one eye open and glance down at my pants, hoping to see a valley instead of a peak. Wishful thinking. My body feels wide awake. “Go away.” I press my Little Dickie down with my palm, but the stubborn thing remains undefeated. There’s no time for this nonsense. I have to get back to work.
I clench my jaw and send my crotch a stern glare. “You listen to me, man. I’m the boss. And you will go down!”
“Are you talking to me?”
Startled, I whip my head in the direction of the deep voice and spot a stranger in a suit. Where did he come from? “No.” I clear my throat, lowering my eyes. “I was talking to . . .” I’m not sure if it was my strict demand or the intrusion but ding, dong, the boner is dead.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
On the way back through the bullpen, I hum a Sinatra song quietly to myself. Heart fluttering and feet floating, I replay Eric’s words—I’m the greatest girl he knows. I want so badly to be that girl again one day.
When I spot Nicole staring intently at her computer screen, I shake off the Eric-high and get back to reality.
“Hey, Nicole. Any messages for me?”
Her stare shifts my way. “No. I haven’t had a single call for you all day. Does anyone even know you’re here?”
“What do you mean?” I take a step back.
“I mean, does anyone know where to reach you?” She purses her mouth and blinks impatiently.
“Of course.” Everyone here knows how to reach me. “Just let me know if anything comes in.”
She returns her attention to the screen. “I will.”
“Keep up the good work,” I say and quickly shut myself in my office. Ah, alone again. I kick back in my plushy executive chair and retrieve my phone. Alerts of a missed call and two texts from Eric pop up on the screen.
ERIC: Hey, can you talk?
ERIC: I don’t know what you were going to tell me about the Ezeus pitch earlier but there are some new developments here. I’ll give you the scoop if you meet me later for a birthday drink.
I gasp with excitement and nearly jump out of my seat. Is that his clever way of setting up a date with me tonight? I want to text him Yes, yes, baby, yes! But I can’t. Delia is nowhere in sight.
Damn it, universe!
I’ve blown him off too many times today to not respond now. But what do I tell him? I need something that sounds legit.
Washing my hair?
No, that’s too Kelly Kapowski.
Sitting the neighbor’s dog?
Nah, he might ask to join me. He loves little pups.
Hmm . . . what’s something substantial? Where would Delia be that’s important enough to miss a drink with the man of her dreams?
Grandma’s on her deathbed?
Yes! It’s serious and detaining. No mixed signals when it comes to dead relatives. And it’s easy to avoid talking about. Besides, she passed away about five years ago. I’m sure Grandma wouldn’t mind, given the circumstances.
DELIA: I can’t. I might be leaving for FL tonight. I just found out my grandma isn’t doing well.
There. That should buy me some time.
ERIC: Really? I thought your grandma died a while ago.
When did I tell him about my poor deceased grandma? And since when did any man ever have a better memory than a woman? We must’ve had a thousand conversations over the years. He probably knows everything about me by now. Everything except the one thing I haven’t had the guts to say.
DELIA: Yeah, she did. This is my other grandma.
Good save!
ERIC: Oh. I’m so sorry. I thought your other grandma lived in Ohio.
Seriously? How does he remember the most mundane details like which grandma is alive and where she lives? It has to be love, right?
DELIA: Yes, but she moved to Florida recently to be near my parents.
My heart pounds harder with every character I type. I hate lying about my poor granny who’s alive and well in Ohio.
I’m totally going to hell for this.
ERIC: Keep me posted.
DELIA: Okay. I will. Thank you.
ERIC: Call me when you get back so we can meet up. I’ve got lots to tell you.
DELIA: Okay, catch up later.
I imagine myself flying back from Boca, meeting him outside the terminal at LaGuardia. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes me in his arms and kisses me like he’s been waiting his whole life to put his lips on mine. Then, we go back to my place and he tears off my clothes, unable to keep his hands off me for as long as we both shall live.
Or some version of that.
I shake the image as it’s replaced with one of my new form. What if Eric never sees Delia again? Am I destined to be Richard Allen forever? My five-star lunch churns in my gut while my head feels as fuzzy as my hairy thighs. Why does it have to be one or the other; the guy with a great job or the woman with a great boyfriend? Is that what this whole experience is about? That I can’t have it all? Do I have to choose?
My mind wanders to that dark place where all my problems linger and scheme about how they’re going to make my life hell. I swivel my chair around and gaze out the wide window. New York is alive with taxis, bikes, and pedestrians flowing like blood cells through the veins of the city. The world never stops spinning. Even if you want it to.
It also never stops serving shit sandwiches. So pass the mayo.
Knock, knock.
Nicole slips into my office, shutting the door behind her. “I finally have a message for you.” Her expression screams that there’s a problem, a problem she’s glad she doesn’t have to contend with. “Becker needs to see you immediately.”
I bet he does. There’s a good chance Owen’s delivered the news that Becker is officially excused from the pitch.
My brows squish together. “Do you know what it’s about?”
“He didn’t say, but he called me himself and he was . . . cordial.” Nicole grimaces at the word.
“Maybe he’s coming around.”
She crosses her arms. “Becker is never cordial. He’s up to something.”
“I’m beginning to get the sense he’s always up to something.” I rise to my feet and zip past her.
This ought to be good. When I make it down the hall, Charlene’s standing guard in front of Becker’s door. Guess I taught her a lesson this morning. “Hello, Mr. Allen. He’s waiting for you in the conference room.”
Changing the location of the meeting last minute. A classic throw-off-your-opponent tactic. I shrug like a boxer ready for a match. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, baby. Charlene waves for me to follow her two doors down. Glass walls separate the long room from the hallway, and the blinds have been drawn. She lets me in, keeping her eyes lowered as I step inside. The door slams against my back. Becker sits behind a shiny twenty-person conference table. “There you are!” A devilish grin grows from his lips. “So nice of you to join me. Why don’t you take a seat?”
With that look on his face and all this privacy, something tells me he might actually want to fight me. I ball a stiff fist with one hand and pull out a leather chair with the other. Might have to pull some Krav Maga on his ass. “What’s this about, Curtis?” My voice is as steady and strong as my hands.
“Interesting question. That’s exactly what I asked myself when you busted through my door this morning.” Becker leers. “Now I’ve got a question for you, Richard, if that is your real name.” Uh-oh. “Who do you work for? Because you sure as hell d
on’t work for us.”
Oh. Shit. I gulp back all the moisture in my mouth and my fist falls. I would too if I weren’t already sitting.
“Golan’s office has never heard of you. There’s no record of you at any Monty Fuhrmann office.” He shoots me a self-satisfied smirk. “You’re a fraud.”
I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. I can barely think.
Heat creeps up my cheeks and my heart pounds in my ears. Curtis Becker actually outsmarted me. There’s no more bullshit in my tank, no more tricks up my sleeve to talk my way out of this debacle. This is it. I’m finished. His dubious smile turns blurry and the room spins. Ugh. There better be a garbage can nearby. I blink a few times and finally take in a breath.
“I knew that would finally shut you up.”
I clench my jaw so tight that my molars might crack. “So now what?”
Becker leans forward. “Who do you work for? Really.”
It’s truth time. I let out a breath. “I don’t work for anyone.”
He narrows his eyes and I hate his guts even more. “Then how did you know that Fairbanks was going to call and cancel?”
If I thought the answer would help me, I’d tell him. I’d tell him the whole damn story. But it would only make this devastating situation worse. “What does it matter? I saved your ass.”
Too bad I can’t save mine.
“Maybe you did. Maybe you didn’t. But either way, tomorrow I’ll be sitting across from Todd Fairbanks, pitching my deal, and you’ll be . . .” Becker leans back in his chair like he’s the Godfather. “Well, that depends.”
I swallow hard, and a fresh wave of fear spills over me. “On what?”
