Corsets and Quartets

by DeSimone, Mercy

  "Smartass!" I reply, dusting off the dirt and residue from my knees, and feeling my left wrist twinge once more, now that I've fallen on it twice in one day. It's a good thing I'm right-handed, although between the fall and the price gun, both hands have enough pins and needles to stitch a straightjacket when I'm through with this mess.

  "Well, tomorrow you can show me how it's done."

  "Or," he quips, "I could just move the stack of plates and walk past it like a normal human being."

  "Now, who lacks finesse and imagination?" I say, leading him out of the stockroom and shutting the door firmly behind me. I've had enough for one day. It's been hours of checking in merchandise and separating items according to the various planograms. It’s like I've been dancing all night in stilettos. Time to retreat and live to dance another day, or at least switch partners.

  "With luck, we'll have a full team tomorrow and can try to bang the rest of this out."

  Marco's grin unsettles me once again. "Oh, I'm all about the banging! See you tomorrow."

  Watching his retreating back and brisk wave goodbye, I reflect on what a good-looking kid he is. Too bad that's all he is, just a kid—over the age of consent, but at least eighteen years younger than me.

  In the Regency era, I would have blushed and invited him to sign my dance card. Now I can feel the hot flush across my cheeks as I watch those slim hips in tight jeans head out the back door. I'm sure he'll make someone a great starter husband some day. I wonder if he has a good-looking older brother or uncle?

  There's a reason ladies used to carry fans.

  * * *

  Back on the selling floor, traffic is slow but steady as I gaze at our current set up, trying to decide what it will take to reset for holiday with only six days effort. Normally, this would be at least a seven-day plan. Anything less is a Hail Mary for sure.

  Hearing my name, I turn to see Nathan flagging me from the office, a horrified expression on his face. Oh goody, I get to share the angst of what's coming without having to wear my fearless leader face. I'm surprised to see Nate now; twisting my wrist, I glance at my watch to confirm he's twenty minutes early. I can't believe he slipped by me, but it's like I've been mesmerized by my attempt to puzzle out how we're going to engineer this floor move.

  "What the fuck, Josie?" His jacket drags on the floor as he paces back and forth amid the cramped space in agitation. Grabbing it from his hand, I dust it off before hanging his coat on the hook behind the door and gesture to the chaos

  "Welcome to the Thunderdome, Nate! You're up."

  The awestruck expression on his face cheers me slightly. Misery loves company, and as an occasionally bitchy queen, Nathan excels at drama. I always come to Nate when I'm depressed, because he has no filter and will read anybody with a full measure of snark. In hindsight, I'm glad that I didn't give in to my first impulse to call him earlier when I got the news. His expression right now was well worth the wait.

  "Ready for a cocktail?"

  "A cocktail? Girl, just pass me the bottle and let me cry in the corner. On second thought, this is going to take multiple rounds of tail with Josh to get my strength up. What the fuck is going on?" Winding his way through the stacks, he picks up a Hello Pussy Christmas plate and stares from it, to me, and back again. "Please tell me we're not doing 'Hello Pussy' this Christmas? The last thing anybody needs is cutesy pussy, especially on their dinner table."

  I can't suppress my grin as I take the plate and stack it gingerly with the others again. "I have it on good authority that plenty of people like pussy and consider it a quite satisfying meal."

  "What on earth has gotten into that virgin Victorian mouth of yours?" Nathan shudders. "Are you getting some extra cock and tail I don't know about?"

  "Sadly, no. By the way it's Regency, not Victorian, and even Emma can attest to the fact that I'm not a virgin. Although, I wonder if there's a statute of limitations," I ponder. "Do you regain virgin status if you haven't had sex in a certain amount of time?"

  I may not enjoy writing about sex, but I can't deny I'd like to experience it on a more regular rotation. At least a few times a year would be nice.

  Maybe Emma is right—I need more sexual inspiration in my life, but it's not as easy as she makes all of that sound. It's hard to put yourself out there and not feel like a total tramp when you know you have absolutely no interest in a guy other than his impressive bulge. Judging by my recent experiences, that isn't always a reliable indicator either.

  It's comforting to have Nate as a partner in crime; he's an expert at looking at a guy's package and telling whether it's worth the effort. Every girl should have a gay boyfriend who is as discerning as he is.

  "Please…just make this all go away." Gesturing at the chaos once again, I reach for my coat and purse while he stares at me in concern.

  "First, what is it? Second, why is it here? Third, what exactly would you like me to do with it? Because I can tell you right now, it's not going home with me! I don't do pussy."

  "Obviously, or you wouldn't need Josh. Although, from what Emma tells me, all the best books have some male on male action now. It doesn't mutually exclude women from your life as long as you both worship us as the goddesses we are."

  The snort of denial is enough to prompt a tired laugh.

  "Yeah, that's what I thought, too. Could you maybe have a chat with my BFF and let her know she's working some delusional fantasies? After that, you can unpack some more boxes, look at the planograms, and call me later. We have to figure out a game plan for the next couple days and get some extra staff in here. I'm sure it will involve multiple bribes of smoothies and pizza. I'm going home to take a long hot bath and remove the ick of this day."

  "I thought you had a date tonight?" Nate's muffled voice comes from the back of the stockroom as he picks his way through the stacks of merchandise.

  "I canceled. First, I overslept and didn't have time to look like I hadn't just rolled out of bed. I had planned to go home at lunch to change, but then Kenzie called out…"

  "RBF again?" Nathan asks, making his way back toward me as I stop to stare at him in consternation.

  "Am I the only one who doesn't know the RBF story?"

  "No," Nathan replies. "You're the only one too nice to talk about her that way. We say it for you so you can be the professional one here. God knows someone needs to be."

  His wink prompts an answering groan as I facepalm, wondering how I ended up having to be the adult. Wait, it's probably because I'm at least ten years older than anyone else, damnit. Sometimes, it sucks to be the responsible one.

  "Whatever. See what you can do to make some sense of this mess. I will lean on Patsy to see if we can at least beg some extra time Friday morning before they show. You know we'll have to play Christmas music while they're here."

  "So? You like Christmas music. You're always singing along."

  "In December! It's an abomination to be playing holiday music in September. They're killing my joy." I acknowledge that my aggrieved tone sounds somewhat petulant, but really, it's ridiculous. No one should be subjected to more than two months of Christmas cheer, let alone our usual three. Now you want me to add a fourth?

  No wonder I dread the holidays. Isn't it bad enough that Black Friday now starts on Tuesday and I have to eat my turkey slapped between two slices of bread so I can ring up sales on Thanksgiving Day?

  "Since I'm sure they haven't programmed the holiday music for us yet, see if you can get Marco to pull a temporary playlist together. Tell him to shoot for something upbeat and festive, but not too classic. I don't think I could listen to Bing sing “White Christmas” when it's still seventy-five degrees out, for God's sake. Call me later or leave me notes for the morning."

  Sighing, I make a final round of goodbyes to the team before heading into the unusually warm Indian summer night, determined to settle in and write a few chapters before bed.

  * * *

  Loud, plaintive cries greet me as soon as I open the door, incr
easing in volume as I make my way toward the kitchen where Daisy sits in front of her empty wet food bowl, looking pitiful. Honestly, you would think she hadn't eaten in days—even though there's a bowl full of dry food sitting right in front of her.

  "Hi, Baby Cat. How was your day? Did you do the laundry? Make dinner? Pay some bills?" Leaning down to scritch behind her ears, I'm rewarded with loud purrs inviting me to greet her with equal enthusiasm. I do love coming home to a welcoming presence, no matter how demanding.

  "What shall it be tonight? Fish? Chicken? Fishen?"

  I swear it's like she knows exactly what I'm asking as I pull down cans and wait for the sounds of her purring to escalate when she sees the right can.

  "Ok, fishen it is!"

  Sometimes I feel guilty about the food I feed her, the way I feel guilty when I eat an entire pint of my favorite ice cream in one sitting. The only difference is that I go through periods of self-loathing and green juices for days afterwards, while she complacently grooms herself and curls up in a sunny spot for an extended nap.

  I contemplate buying her more nutritious dry food yet again before shuddering as I remember the battle of wills that ensued last time. For every expensive bag of grain-free, organic cat food I bought her, she subjected me to hours of offended wailing—as if my desire to keep her healthy lacked appreciation of her current state.

  Hmmmm. Is that true, or am I just projecting again? "I'm not fat, I'm just fluffy," I murmur to myself in wry amusement. My distorted figure taunts me from my reflection in the microwave, while slurps of contentment echo from where Daisy laps food from her bowl. Like me, she's a voluptuous girl, but she wears it well, like the fluffy white feline from the Aristocats, and just as snooty. I like to think I am equally, and voluptuously, adorable…without the attitude.

  Music blares from my purse as Courtney Love talks about her “Doll Parts.” Emma insists on being announced, loudly, when she calls, and this was a compromise we could both live with. It took me days to convince her that “Bitch” was not an appropriate song, especially when I was somewhere that customers could hear it. I don't have personalized ringtones for anyone else, yet Emma feels I should know it's her so that I give her calls the proper sense of priority.

  "Daisy's House of Despair," I answer as I swipe my phone on.

  "Uh oh. What happened? And why are you answering? I thought you were meeting the vet tonight. Actually, where are you?"

  "If you thought I was on a date, why are you calling?" I ask in exasperation, rifling through my refrigerator for something to cook.

  "I thought maybe you needed an out if things weren't going well. What kind of wingman do you think I am? Although, if you're already home, things must have gone worse than expected, so tell Doctor Emma and let's see if we can make it better."

  "I didn't even go." I say with exasperation. "I got up late and didn't have time to get ready. I thought I'd come home at lunch to change, then Jason's wife forced him to cover a field trip with the kids, and Kenzie flaked…"

  "RBF again?" Emma asks as I slap my hand on the counter, startling Daisy from where she licks her empty bowl with abandon, as if expecting it to magically replenish itself.

  "How do you know the RBF excuse?"

  "Oh please, you just need to look at her! Besides, she was talking about it all last week and how she feels like she's unfairly discriminated against because of her looks, yada yada yada."

  "Where was I when this whole discussion went down?" Now I'm totally confused. How does my best friend hear things about my employees that I don't?

  "It was when I came to meet you for lunch. Remember? You were helping the customer that was trying to bring back the glass coffee pot that she blew up on the stovetop. Asshat!"

  Chuckling again at the memory of that ridiculous conversation, I wonder once more how people get through life without killing themselves on a regular basis. These are the same people that need labels on hair dryers that say 'do not use while asleep or in the bathtub.'

  "Anyway, I still might have snuck away, but Patsy decided to 'help' my career once again."

  Emma's groan makes me feel somewhat vindicated, as she knows how many times Patsy's attempts to help me backfire. Her efforts usually find me taking on everyone else's work to prove my value to the company, hoping that it will result in a promotion. My constant protests that I don't want to be promoted go unheard. Honestly, I think she just wants an ally at her level and she's set her sights on me. At the rate my writing is going, I could really use the extra money a promotion would bring. Although, if my writing took off, it would be hard to find time to write with the extra workload.

  "They dumped a Christmas prototype set up on my store. Five pallets of merchandise, six days to set up, before they stomp through for half an hour and then disappear, leaving me like some cheap courtesan without even dropping dollar bills on the nightstand."

  Emma's snort makes me smile as she retorts, "Can you just once say the word ‘whore’? Would it kill you to give the indignation some passion? This is why your books come off so virginal."

  "I'm not a virgin, I just choose not to have a potty mouth and use the word ‘cock’ or ‘motherfucker’ daily. It's not polite or professional. It lacks finesse. Besides, I'm afraid once I open the floodgates, I'll never be able to stop." At least I acknowledge my tendency toward extremes.

  "Sure. Anyway, your neuroses aside, I was on Eva Grayson's Facebook page today, and she mentioned that she'll be at QuillCon in October!" Excitement builds in Emma's voice as she continues, "A bunch of reverse harem writers are coming this year. Isn't that great?"

  "Wow, that's interesting. I wonder how that works with all the traditional romance writers. Do they just mix them up in the room? I thought the two groups don't usually get along." Pausing, I realize I don't know who Eva Grayson is. "Which books are Eva's? Is she one of your dark writers?"

  "No! Although, she totally should go dark, her men are so sexy. She writes dragons, with a capital D, if you know what I mean." Emma snickers. "We should go and find you some readers!"

  "I already have tickets, remember? Jamie Martel will be there, and Alicia Riggs. Oh, and Verona MacAndrews! I'm so excited, I even got tickets to their panel discussion about writing urban fantasy. I asked you last year if you wanted to go, and you said a definitive no!"

  "Well, that was before I heard that Eva Grayson and Kathleen Sun were going. I've even heard a rumor that Zoe Hunter, Hannah Bowles, and Mariah Frye are going to be there." I'm surprised by the enthusiasm building in Emma's voice. She doesn't usually fangirl over writers. "We should try to get you a table!"

  What?

  "Don't be ridiculous. I'm not big enough for QuillCon. I'm sure you have to meet some crazy criteria to attend." Sighing, a twinge of regret colors my voice as I admit, "It would be so cool to go to a show one day, knowing that you deserve to be there. I wonder how it feels to talk to readers face to face, knowing that they've read something you've written? To just have one person come up to your table and tell you that your characters made them feel something, or that your book helped them escape reality for a brief period."

  Silence lingers between us, until Emma gently chimes in, "You will, Jos. One day, you'll have real fans who will follow you and wait with bated breath for your next book. You just need to find your base. Anyway, I'm coming with you. I'm not missing the chance to ask Eva if she bases her hot scenes on personal experience, and if she'll give me tips on building a harem in real life."

  "Oh, I'm sure that will go over well. Security to aisle two!" I laugh at Emma's enthusiasm. "Sex-crazed fan alert, please bring restraints. I'm not certain you can still get tickets, Em, that's why I asked you months ago. These things sell out quickly."

  "Don't worry," Emma asserts. "I'll get in, and while we're there, we'll find you some fans. So get back to writing and get ready. We're going to rub elbows with the big names and make them notice us."

  "We'll never get within twenty feet of the big names, and if we do, it wil
l be for less than ten seconds as they sign a book and push us along." I laugh.

  "Leave it to me. I'm an expert at getting noticed."

  "True. But let's try to keep the police out of it." I quickly switch my phone off as Emma protests, glancing to where Daisy now sprawls in exhaustion.

  "At least I got the last word that time!" I laugh.

  Blinking one lazy eye open, I realize she's not impressed. Wow. Tough audience.

  Chapter 4

  Did Someone Say Bacon?

  I wince at the sound of gravel crunching under my wheels as my tires lose traction, fishtailing back and forth across the road. Glancing furtively in the rearview mirror, my eyes widen in fear and my foot stomps heavily on the accelerator, the car shooting forward to safety.

  Spinning into the driveway, I throw the car into park and sprint into the house, looking over my shoulder at the huge ostrich chasing me with a measured gait. It picks up speed, trying to overtake me, just as I reach the safety of the threshold.

  Slamming the door behind me, I lean back, sighing in relief, when suddenly, I hear it. The loud thud, like a hammer against the door, the beak pecking and pecking, as if trying to burrow through the wood to reach me.

  Sliding to the floor, I scramble away, watching as the wood transforms to a page of my manuscript, engraved in the wooden surface.

  Huddled in a ball with my arms around my knees, I tuck my head between my shoulders as if to ward off the blows. The pecking becomes a violent hammering as the wood splinters in shards above me, words and sentences shattering into pieces, all while a silent scream builds in my throat…

  * * *

  Jerking awake, my heart thuds in an erratic rhythm reminiscent of the hammering that terrorized my dream. Still, my eyes scan the room wildly, searching for a large black and white ostrich, convinced it could magically materialize.