His To Have

by Devon Birchley

“Bradley and I went skiing in Vermont with his family.” She begins to tell me all about it, boasting about how cute her boyfriend is and how amazing their life is, and I fix a grin on my face and drift off. All of us execs pretend to get along, but it’s a bunch of bullcrap. In accordance with the cutthroat ethos of the agency, there are only three positions for second-year execs, and there are six of us, the agency believing that a little competition is healthy, as they told us at our induction presentation. Yeah, sure. As long as we don’t die in the process. As a result, we’re bitter rivals, always looking for an opportunity to destabilize each other. I say “we,” but it’s really not my deal. Everything I’ve achieved so far has been through working my ass off, and the thought of winning through deceit makes me a little nauseous. But, as they say, when in the snake pit…

  I stride over to my cubicle on wobbly legs. Jeremy Standish isn’t hanging around like the grim reaper at least. But of course he isn’t. He’s way too important. He’ll just get human resources to deal with me. I wave hello to my nearest colleagues and slide into my seat, turning my computer on at the same time. The minute and a half it takes to fire up the email program is torture. If there’s nothing, it means I’m in the clear. If he’s going to do something, he’ll do it right away, not wait until I’ve had a chance to gossip.

  I gaze around the achingly trendy space I’ve inhabited for the past months, wondering if it’s the last time I’ll see it. Expensive Swedish ergonomic chair, glass desk top, low walls made from glass bricks. Virtually no privacy at all. Because it’s cool to be observed every second of the day, like a rat in a cage.

  At last, a train of unread messages populates the screen, and I start to scan them.

  “Reagan, can you come look at this?” my immediate boss, Jenny, calls. Heart hammering, I stand up and follow her spike heels and skinny ass over to her cubicle.

  “You worked on the recent Soda Naturals campaign, right?” she says over her shoulder as she tucks her leg awkwardly beneath her and sits down.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Great. We’re bidding for a new client, also in the soda market, and I thought you’d be well-placed to assist me.”

  “Sure.” So much oxygen has been pumping around my body that I feel a little lightheaded, but I manage to keep my voice steady and present her with my most eager smile.

  “We’ll be assisting Jeremy Standish, the Account Director. Have you been introduced?”

  I gulp. “Yes,” I say through my strangled voice box.

  “Good-o. I’ll just share the client brief with you, and then we’ll have a meeting with him in an hour to discuss specifics.”

  “Okay, great.” She hands me the brief and talks me through it. Concentrate. This is something positive. Someone must have recommended me from the Soda Naturals campaign, which is a really good sign. Don’t stuff this up. I sit down at my desk, ignore my emails, and go through the brief, forcing the words and images into my mind until they make sense. But too soon, Jenny is calling me into Jeremy’s office.

  “You remember Reagan Lockhart, don’t you?” Jenny says.

  “Of course,” he replies, smiling politely, the expression in his eyes inscrutable. My stomach churns.

  The meeting goes fast. He’s an efficient speaker, rattling through all the necessaries with no digressions. Masterful, I think. And that image of him in latex rolls back to me queasily.

  When the meeting is over, I sneak out to the smoker’s alley, hoping to scrounge a cigarette. Dino, the IT guy, is just finishing up, and he gives me the last one from his pack. I suck on it gratefully, leaning my head back against the alley wall. Jeremy seemed so calm throughout the meeting. But of course he wasn’t going to react in front of Jenny.

  Wait—what if HR already left me an email to go see them, and he was actually shocked to see that I was still there? I take a triple drag, grind the cigarette out, and hurtle back upstairs.

  I go through my emails carefully, opening each, even the innocuous-looking ones. There’s nothing. I let out a long breath. Nothing at all. I lean back in my chair and let my eyes go out of focus. I’m off the hook. And then a new message alert flashes up in the bottom right of my screen before disappearing again. The subject is Fwd: Saturday night. But it’s not in my inbox. I click on my spam. There it is:

  It just crossed my mind that not everyone checks their weekend mail. But please take a look at the email below.

  Yours,

  A.

  The forwarded message was sent to me just before midday on Sunday. It reads:

  Hey there,

  Unless I’m mistaken, you’re missing your phone. I took it for safekeeping, as I didn’t want it to get lost at the venue. I’m out of town until Tuesday, but I’d be very happy to meet you then and return it to you.

  The guy in the brown sweater.

  Brown sweater? What the fuck? It’s the guy from the Sexpo. Not that his sweater was brown. It was more beige or oatmeal than anything. And kind of sexy, actually. The low V-neck, the flash of pecs. My nipples tighten at the recollection. He has my phone. And he’s somehow managed to find me on the internet. All these things are pretty darn startling by themselves, but rolled together, they’re a giant ball of freakiness.

  I email Monica. She probably won’t see it for a while, but I need to share.

  Her reply comes immediately. So everything’s okay this morning?

  I giggle. She’s being cautious because it’s my work email, and this is code for “So you haven’t been fired yet?”

  Everything’s fine so far. No big surprises. But, seriously—HOW did he manage to find me???

  Maybe he went through your phone?

  It has a password.

  Anyway, who cares how he found you? You’ve got a reason to meet him again!!!

  I care! And I care a lot if he’s a stalker, or a phone hacker or whatever, and he’s gotten into my phone and looked at all my personal details.

  It’s not that easy to hack phone passwords, you know. But please tell me you didn’t pick something obvious?

  I didn’t, I lie. Only my birthday. But he wouldn’t have known it, of course. You know, I don’t really need that phone back. I can get an upgrade in a few weeks.

  A few weeks is a loooong time not to have a phone. Quit making excuses and meet him! I have to start work now. Love you! xx

  She’s right. It is a long time. I hit reply to his message. But then Jenny calls me over again because Jeremy wants to workshop some ideas with us.

  We don’t get a lunch break. Instead, Jeremy has some sandwiches delivered from the new gourmet Italian deli across the street. I’m almost too stressed to notice how delicious the combination of mozzarella and Napoli salami is. My head is not in a good place. I’m trying not to be distracted by thoughts of Brown Sweater Guy’s email, and every time I look at Jeremy, I feel sick.

  The afternoon passes excruciatingly slowly, but at 4pm, Jeremy suggests we wrap it up. I follow Jenny out of his office, but at the last moment, he calls my name in a low voice. I turn, a spike of adrenaline piercing my chest. As he beckons me over to his desk, my heart thumps so hard a pulse pounds in my throat. Is this it? The abrupt end to my fledgling career?

  He regards me steadily. “I’m glad that we share an interest in the—uh—unconventional,” he begins, “but, unfortunately, not everyone feels the same way. And such revelations can be damaging for all concerned. So I hope I can rely on your discretion in the office.”

  I blink, not sure that I’ve heard right. “Of course, you can,” I babble. “I value my own privacy, too.”

  “Good. Then we have an understanding.” He gives a single deep nod—conversation over.

  I flash him a smile and leave the room. He thinks we have a pact. I’m safe, as long as I don’t tell on him. Which is never going to happen. And, even better, he can’t fire me now. I want to let out a whoop and do a dorky fist-pump.

  Back at my desk and high on endorphins, I finish replying to the message.

&nb
sp; Hi!

  That’s amazing! I thought I’d never see it again. I don’t know how you found me, but I’m glad you did. I can meet after work on Tuesday. What time’s good for you?

  Thank you so much!

  Reagan.

  As I hit send, I’m already regretting being so gushy. But what the hell? I feel a little giddy and like celebrating the biggest irony of the year—Suzie Straightlace secures her career, not through working her ass off, or even by shafting her colleagues, but by making someone think she’s into kink. Amazing.

  I minimize my email and return to the brief I’m working on, but within 60 seconds, a new message alert pops up.

  My pleasure, Reagan.

  Let’s meet at The Black Heart. 8pm.

  Yours,

  Adler.

  “Adler,” I whisper. That’s a sexy name. And it suits him. A hell of a lot better than guy in the brown sweater. I’ll reply later. I close the email program and get back to work. Discovering that I’m not about to get fired has given me a giant burst of energy, and all kinds of ideas are sparking off each other in my brain. I work like a machine until 7:30 p.m. when I stop and reward myself by googling The Black Heart. It’s in the center of The Village, down a set of stairs, and it looks like a dive bar. Reviewers praise the “intimate atmosphere” and “wickedly dark cocktails.” Hmmm. Not the kind of place where I usually hang out. But it doesn’t matter. I’m just going to pick up my phone. I’ll offer to buy him a drink to thank him, and then I’ll leave. That’s all. I write Adler a simple message saying I’ll see him there and shut down the computer before he has a chance to reply.

  3

  At eight sharp the following evening, I’m standing at the top of the narrow metal staircase that winds down to the entrance of The Black Heart. I made a conscious decision this morning not to wear a skirt. Instead, I’m wearing skinny black jeans with rips in the knees and a pair of platform brogues. Under my thick winter coat, I’m wearing a vintage T-shirt under a vintage black tux. I look like I haven’t tried too hard, something which has taken a lot of effort to cultivate. People judge you—a lot—for what you wear at Koln & Mathers, and turning up in something neutral is a big no-no.

  I’m annoyed at myself for feeling edgy, irritated there’s a tautness in my stomach. You’re just picking up your phone, I remind myself for at least the tenth time today, and I tread cautiously down the precarious steps. There’s a door and then a heavy black curtain. Inside looks a lot better than the photos—low ceilinged and cozy with a weird combination of 80s rock memorabilia and dark kitsch that somehow hangs together. A giant orange neon crucifix looms over the bar, and eerie Spanish religious icons sit in glass cases. The place is half full—a mix of rockers and the kind of cool, arty kids that Dominique hangs out with.

  He’s sitting at the edge of the bar with his back to me. A frayed denim shirt is pulled tight across his shoulders, straining against his muscles. He’s got a laptop open, and as I come up behind him, I see that he’s looking at vintage cars. There’s a coffee cup to his right, a folded magazine and, if I’m not mistaken, my phone. The bartender catches my eye, and I step toward Adler quickly, wanting to announce myself before he draws attention to my presence.

  “Hey.” My voice sounds confident, assured.

  He turns around, and my heart jumps into my mouth. He is ridiculously good looking. His lips part in a warm smile, lights dancing in eyes that appear dark in the dim lighting. He’s wearing those oversize hipster glasses that I hate, but he removes them and slips them into the pocket of his shirt. “Hey, Reagan.”

  I slide onto the bar stool beside him. “Thanks for meeting me and bringing the phone, Brown-Sweater Guy.”

  He looks at me with fun in his eyes. “Perhaps it wasn’t the smoothest way of describing myself, but nothing else I came up with was appropriate for your work email.”

  I swallow hard, a number of alternatives running through my mind. Stupidly hot guy. Complete stranger who offered to whip me. I was intending to mock him a little, tip the balance back in my favor, but all I’ve done is get myself flustered again.

  “Here’s your phone.” He hands it to me. Reflexively, I check that the password is still working. It is. But the display lock shows the manufacturer’s generic image of a forest in fall. Of course, it does. I erased all my data on Saturday.

  “I didn’t hack into it.”

  “I know you didn’t,” I say quickly, but his expression is gently mocking. “I can’t stay, but can I buy you a drink to say thank you?”

  He lifts a hand in a careless gesture. “Thank you for the offer, Reagan, but I never drink alone.”

  I bite down on my bottom lip, a habit I thought I’d cured myself of in my teens. “A coffee then?”

  “Did you think about the riding crop when you got home on Saturday?” His tone is even, smooth as molasses, and it makes his words even more startling.

  Saturday night when I lay in bed and masturbated while I thought about him? “No, I didn’t. I told you I’m not interested in kink.”

  “Your lips might have told me that.”

  There’s a sudden warmth between my thighs which I’m trying hard to ignore. “I should go now. Thanks again for bringing me the phone.”

  “Where’s the fire?”

  “I-I’ve got things to do.”

  “A boyfriend waiting for you at home?”

  “No,” I say, and I’m annoyed once again that his direct questions have a way of coercing me into telling him the truth.

  “It wasn’t easy to find you, you know. You owe me a few moments of your company at least.”

  I hesitate. I am eager to know how he located me. “Okay. One drink.”

  “Great.” His grin is boyish and too appealing for his own good.

  He stands up and collects his things. “Let’s sit over there.” Without waiting for me to follow, he strides over to a corner table and slides onto a worn, leather bench. Heads turn in his direction—girls with hungry eyes. I notice a reserved sign on the table as I sit down at a right angle to him. I’m not a fan of sitting opposite guys on first dates. Way too intense. Not that this is a first date.

  He hands me the menu, which turns out to be a very sophisticated cocktail list. Monica would be impressed. It’s darker here, but I read by candlelight.

  “There’s a lot of choice here.”

  “That’s why I love this place. It looks like a dive bar, but Jack has a passion for ingredients and mixing.” He leans close and points to some of his favorites, and I pick up the scent that I remember from the Sexpo. It’s a weird combination of familiar and exotic. Kind of intoxicating. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say I assumed he liked it because it looks like a sex den, but I rein myself in. A very pretty server with a blond undercut and a lot of piercings comes over to take our order, and I pick a Hot Buttered Rum and he has a Wormwood Old Fashioned.

  “Okay, tell me, how did you end up with my phone?”

  “You must’ve left it someplace.”

  I think back to the night again. Did I leave it in the restroom? No, I had it after that. How about when I was freaking out over seeing Jeremy? I was in full-on panic mode, my thoughts all over the place. Maybe I took my phone out of my pocket to send a message, and someone distracted me. Could I have put it down on the edge of the bar when I was buying a drink?

  “I can’t remember doing it, but I guess.”

  “Are you flaky?”

  “Not usually. How did it come into your hands?”

  He gives me a sly smile, pleased with himself. “Someone showed it around the organizers and performers at the end of the night, asking if any of us recognized the girls on the lock screen. I picked you out right away.”

  I change my background image often, and I vaguely recall the photo—it’s a selfie of Monica and I, grinning into the camera during my leaving drinks in Springfield. The lighting was dim, and I’m surprised he recognized me from it.

  “I looked for you, but the place was almost emp
ty. You must’ve left already, and then your phone died.”

  “The battery sucks,” I confirm.

  “I took it with me because I thought if I left it at the venue, it might disappear.”

  I nod. “And then?”

  “I had to set off for Maine early the next day, visiting family, but I got a charger on the way, and when I arrived, I took a photo of your lock screen with my phone, put the photo into Google and image searched you. It took a little while, but I eventually got a match with a college soccer team photo.”

  I can’t resist a grin, knowing the one he’s referring to. We’d just won a regional championship, and I had a similar grin plastered to my face.

  “And then it wasn’t too hard to place you at Koln & Mathers. Very impressive, by the way.” The drinks arrive, allowing me to disguise my shock at how much information about me is available online, just derived from my face. Suddenly I feel as exposed as if I was naked.

  The cocktail is sensational—rich and wintry and delicious. We clink glasses.

  “To the power of Google,” he says.

  “I’m grateful for your efforts.”

  “But a little freaked out that I might already know so much about you?”

  I shrug. “Everything’s online for anyone to find these days.”

  “If they know where to look.”

  “Are you a tech-head?”

  He gives a short laugh. “Not at all. I like to know how to use technology to make my life easier, but I’m not obsessive about it. I only learned how to do image searches recently, actually. Otherwise I would’ve had to do things the old-fashioned way.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I would’ve tracked your friend down, the burlesque performer.”

  “Which would’ve been a lot less effort since she has her email address on her flyer.”

  He reaches into his pocket for something and holds it out on his palm. It’s the flyer for Dominique’s show, more worn than last time I saw it.

  “Yes, she does,” he says. “But finding you this way has been a lot more interesting.”