by Hart, Alexa
Leaning forward in a spur of curiosity and boldness, I will her to look at me.
“Who are you, Sophia Williams?” I can hear the change in my voice, low and enticing, and I love to watch her react to it. Her lips scrunch and purse in indecision, presumably of how to answer my question. I don't let up, leaning forward to hold her attention. Finally, she meets my gaze head on with a determined raise of her angular chin.
“I’m your best associate, might be time to start thinking about promotions.” The small half joke fractures the tension in the room as we both let out a laugh.
“Aaron does speak very highly of you,” I concede, taking another swig of the lager.
“Oh sure. Me or my low-cut blouses?”
The inquiry was surely meant as a joke, but that small bit of logic leaves me as my head whips up, suddenly serious.
“What?”
“Oh, no, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to—I was just joking,” Sophia trips over her words in a haste to calm my evident anger.
“He looks at you?” My teeth clench at the thought of my friend gazing at her in any way less than appropriate. If it were any other conversation, I’d probably enjoy the way she is currently squirming under my scrutinizing gaze.
“No. Well, yes. But it’s not a big deal. All of the male partners flirt with the associates, I didn’t mean to get anyone in trouble. Please don’t reiterate what I said.” Fear fills her voice as she imagines the consequences of Aaron finding out that she mentioned it to me. I begrudgingly assure her that I’ll keep it between us, watching the stress ease in the posture of her shoulders, making a mental note to handle the issue later.
Silence fills the room around us as I work to ebb my own anger. Sophia studies me for a moment, a suspicious look in her cup-of-coffee eyes. Lifting a small pale hand, she hesitates for a split second before resting it on my upper arm, squeezing a bit.
“Thank you, Michael.”
“For what?” I raise my brow with the genuine question – I haven’t done anything to resolve the issue. Yet.
“I don’t know. For caring about it.” I drop my eyes to her signature rosebud lips, trying to decipher if they’re naturally that pink, or if she’s wearing some sort of lipstick. I know she can see me – see where my attention is pointed – but I don’t care. I silently curse the thin cotton material of my shirt, wishing it away so I could feel the warm softness of her skin on my own. I almost growl, pulling away from her and averting my gaze. It is all I can do not to grab her and pull her small body into me to thoroughly test out that lipstick theory, up close and personal.
Sophia flinches at the sudden rejection, her beautiful features flashing strawberry-red. I wonder if she’d turn that same color if I kissed her. Shaking the thoughts from my head, I decide that we better call it a night.
“I think you should probably go now.”
“What?” She asks, bewildered. Her eyes study me for a moment, waiting for an answer. A clear hurt evident on her face, I try to force myself to speak, but nothing comes out, instead I simple meet her shocked glare head on. We sit like that for several moments before she remembers herself.
“Yes, sir.” Reverting back to cold-cut professionalism, she stands to gather her things. I resent the coolness in her voice, and the newfound lack of her touch. Without so much as a goodbye, she walks out the door, shrugging her coat over her shoulders on the journey to the elevator.
“Fuck,” I send the forgotten paperwork billowing towards the floor with a strong swipe of my hand. Running my fingers through my hair I try to shake the thoughts of her from my brain, and the nagging desire to chase after her from my chest. It’s going to be a long night.
Chapter 6
Sophia
The shrill sound of my morning alarm forces my tired eyes to drift open. Reaching across the full bed towards the source of the offending sound. 9AM. Damn, this must be the latest I’ve slept in weeks. Begrudgingly I stretch my limbs, reveling in the burn as I clench them, sitting up, crumpling the plush down comforter.
Padding down the grey-brown wooden stairs of my warmly decorated townhome, I make my way to the coffee machine, unable to do much else before I’ve had my morning coffee. I’ve lived here almost a year now, and after spending months of painstakingly curating each perfect piece of furniture and decoration, it is exactly how I want it. The muted tones of tan and grey grant a warm, homey feel. The only real color in any of the rooms comes from the sparsely placed flowers, planted in vases of various bright hues.
I almost moan at my first sip of the clarifying liquid, trying desperately to drink the tired away. I arrived home after midnight, perplexed and annoyed with Michael’s ever-changing personality. One minute he looks like he might reach across and kiss me, the next he’s throwing me out of his office? The rejection settled in my chest like a weight, unshaken by the night’s sleep.
By the time 10AM rolls around, my phone is predictably ringing.
“Do you ever sleep?” I answer Maya’s call lightheartedly, despite the fact that I’ve already been up. Knowing me well, she catches me.
“Please. You’ve been awake for an hour at least.” Laughing, I confirm her guess.
“Okay,” I sigh dramatically, “what time does the torture begin?”
“No, no, none of that. We are having fun tonight. You remember what that is right?”
“Hm, not quite, remind me again?”
“To answer your question, be here at eight, for the pregame.” Her voice is alight and excited at my agreement. I can’t remember the last time I went out, usually passing over the opportunities to stay in and work, or read a good book. Tonight, though, I couldn’t, because it is Maya’s favorite and most indecent holiday: Halloween, and our friend Kacey scored a VIP table at 1 Oak from her excessively rich parents. I didn’t ask for the particulars, but knowing the reputation of the swanky New York City club, I’m sure it must have cost over a thousand, at least.
Riffling through a forgotten bin at the bottom of one of my storage closets, I find the scrap of college-era silky bubblegum material that I am looking for; the matching tail and ears are not far behind. Dropping my plush cotton robe unceremoniously to the floor, I step into the boy shorts and haphazardly pull the matching corset onto my torso. Peering in the mirror, I’m a tad shocked it still fits. I’ve long since lost the blonde wig, but anyone with half a brain will recognize the infamous Elle Woods costume, even without it. Tossing the pink silk on my bed, I gulp down the remnants of my coffee, and turn the shower handle all the way to hot.
“Mmm,” I sigh deeply as I step into the hot spray.
The thick droplets crash into my skin, soothing my wound muscles and washing away the week’s burdens. Squeezing a generous serving of strawberry scented body wash into my white bath pouf, I lather the sweet smelling gel over every inch of my body, shaving as I go to prepare for the night.
* * *
“So what’s it like working with Satan himself?” Maya giggles, biting down on a lime wedge in an effort to kill the last remnants of the sugar-coated tequila aftertaste from our latest shot. The liquor washes over me in waves of blurred vision and uncontrollable laughter at nothing in particular.
“Who’s Satan?” Kacey’s voice calls from the kitchen, where she’d generously been refilling our cups, “I mean – I know who Satan is… You know what I mean.”
We erupt again, a fit of music as we gulp down our mixed drinks with scrunched noses and nostalgia for our college-aged alcohol tolerance, cognizant of the time.
“It’s not so bad, actually. He’s listening to my ideas, which is a bit of a shock,” I answer. I consider telling them about last night, and him throwing me out of his office, but decide against it. Maya hates him enough already.
“No seriously, who’s Satan?” Kacey askes again in her signature high-pitched voice.
“Our gorgeous boss.” Maya hiccups, “he’s an ass though.”
I nod, giggling. She’s right on both accounts. “Okay, okay! Enough
work, it’s time to goooooo.” I sing my last word, standing unsteady on my pink heels.
“Mmmm you’re right.” Maya slurs, “you’re right.”
Taking my lead, they both stand, “okay – jackets, or no jackets? Are we still pretending we don't get cold in our slutty outfits?” Kacey asks, laughing at her reference to our college and law school days. We all share an amused look, before deciding in unison.
“No jacket.”
Chapter 7
Michael
“Mike, where you at?” Aaron’s voice catches my attention, earning a particularly venomous glare at his use of the hated nickname. Holding his hands up in the typical ‘I surrender’ position, he explains.
“Sorry, sorry. What’s got you so distracted?” I grimace, remembering the fear in Sophia’s voice when she thought I might tattle on her. Can I even really “tattle” to someone who works for me?
“It’s the associate,” I surrender, knowing full well that he knows I know her name. A smug smirk pulling at his lips, Aaron nods.
“Told you, she’s good.”
“I threw her out of my office last night.” I sigh, frustrated with myself. I can feel Aaron’s incredulous gaze on me, but I don’t acknowledge it, instead focusing on the New York City streets rushing past us, filled with costumed lunatics.
“I mean, are you going to explain further or shall I just guess?”
I look over at him, contemplating how to decorously explain that I had to throw her out, or else I was afraid I’d lose control and take her right there on the carpet of my office, onlookers be damned. Aaron is dressed fairly normally – he chose a greaser costume, so, sans the excessive amount of gel in his hair, his outfit isn’t half bad. Crossing my black-clad legs, I change the subject.
“Remind me why we’re going to this again?”
“Because Phil brings a couple million a month in retainer alone, and he asked you personally.” Aaron laughs clearly at my discontent. I grumble, knowing he’s right. Phil Brantley is one of our biggest clients, and every year he insists on renting out the nicest table at the nicest club he can find, on Halloween; this year it’s 1 Oak. Though I’ve never quite understood the practice, he always invites me, and I always show up out of respect.
My costumes are always various degrees of nonchalant that Mrs. Collins, my assistant, picks out. This year she snickered when she handed me the small bag, filled only with a pair of matte black devil’s horns, to clip into my thick hair. Paired with an all-black 3-piece suit, I have to admit they do go well. They certainly gave Aaron a laugh when he stepped into the car.
“You could always just find a different associate.” Aaron offers the blatant solution, that until then hadn’t even crossed my mind. I could do that. I could do a lot of things.
“She’s the best associate we have.”
“I know, it’s a ruse. I want her back.” Aaron quips about his impossible suggestion, and I smile tightly, hoping he doesn't notice the reflexive clench in my fists from thinking about another man wanting her in any way.
“You ready?” I ask, ending the conversation centered around my favorite employee. The car comes to a stop outside the door, and with a sigh I button my jacket, and step out into the night.
We greet Phil warmly, taking the last two seats in the nicest VIP booth in the club. I nod to a waitress, and without even taking my order she brings over a bottle of Macallan 1926. Nice touch, I think, smirking into my sip of the amber liquid. The seats are in a slightly raised section of the club, granting us a full view of all of the occupants. We sit like this, sipping, making small talk for the better part of an hour before I see something in my peripheral that sends my pulse racing.
Aaron follows my focused eyes, letting out a small whistle when he lands on the object of my current, and lately always, attention.
“Damn, that should be illegal.” I down my second drink in silent agreement of his words. The waitress refills my glass generously, thanking me as I pass her a couple hundred-dollar bills.
Standing fifty feet from us, clearly drunk in another booth from the private section, is Sophia. But it’s not just Sophia, it’s Sophia in the skimpiest pink costume I could possible imagine. Her sky-high bubblegum heels tighten her impossibly long legs, lending an even rounder curve to her barely covered ass. The adjoining pink tights are sheer enough that I can see her muscles contract with each movement. She is wearing a pink corset, laced up in the back, and matching silk underwear, adorned with a fluffy white rabbit tail, that match the eared head band nestled into her soft hair. Fuck.
She’s laughing with another associate I recognize from the morning I met her in her cubicle, and some girl I don’t know. They are all clearly intoxicated, her soft face adorned with a wide smile I’d give anything to have caused. Surveying the room, I can see I’m not the only person appreciating her chosen outfit tonight. Every other booth is filled with eyes glued to her, and her two friends. They are the only women in the section, and they’re completely oblivious to all the attention they are garnering. I watch as another waitress approaches them, with several bottles of Dom. The girl I don’t know haphazardly points to her purse, and the waitress liberally tips herself, the girl not even caring enough to watch.
Sophia gingerly sits in the booth perpendicularly to me, and I have a full view of her perfectly arched back. She is taking generous sips of champagne, despite the fact that she is already visibly intoxicated. If she were mine she wouldn’t sit right for a week, for putting herself in danger drinking so much. My thumb twitches, tapping against my thigh as I study her. Her supple chest threatens to spill over the top of the corset as she leans in to speak with her friends, and I can’t help but see red at the many eyes currently on her, wishing for a wardrobe malfunction.
“You could just ask her out.” Aaron suggests, over the pitter patter of our comrades discussing menial things.
“She’s my employee.” I offer the weak excuse, though I’m sure the thoughts going through my head are plain as day. When I turn back to Sophia, there are two men standing above her at the booth, despite the clear disinterest on her features.
I stand immediately, making my way towards her with Aaron on my heels. From halfway across the room, I can see her rebuff the blond-haired man, turning away from him. Before she can take a single step he catches her arm in a grip so tight I can see it indenting her skin from ten yards away. But, before I can reach them to rip the man’s throat out, he is on the ground. Dropped by a single blow from her tiny fist. I stop in my tracks, in dumbfounded awe, before finding feeling in my legs again. Her two companions cheer as Sophia takes a sip of her drink nonchalantly turning from the man on the ground.
The second man reaches to grab her from behind, but I catch him just in the nick of time, twisting his arm back and dropping him effortlessly to his knees in front of her. Sophia’s jaw drops open, and her friends grow silent. I can’t bring myself to appreciate the curve of her lips, still ajar, because I am too preoccupied with trying not to murder the man in my grasp.
“Apologize to her. Now.” I order the belligerently drunk offender. He struggles in my iron-grip before realizing his efforts are futile, and submitting, mumbling an apology at her. With one solid tug on his arm, I am granted with a satisfying crack and shriek of pain as his shoulder comes out of its socket. Releasing him to the floor, I nod for security. They drag the men out with the sincerest apologies I imagine they could muster, and Sophia and I are left facing each other, with nothing but my boiling rage between us.
“Michael,” she greets me, her voice clearer than it should be from all of the alcohol. I run my fingers through my now disheveled hair, somehow missing the horns, declining to respond to her cool greeting. Great, I’m still facing some consequences from last night, obviously.
“Miss Williams, Miss Moore.” Aaron nods at Sophia and the one girl, holding a hand out to introduce himself to the third. She gives him her name, but I am too enthralled with Sophia to hear it.
“Wha
t the hell are you wearing?” The scolding in my voice as I address her causes the circle to quiet down, everyone’s eyes moving back and forth between the pair of us. Sophia pouts with drunken exaggeration, misunderstanding the motivation behind my question,
“It’s Elle, like Elle Woods? You don’t get it? I mean I know I don’t have the blonde wig but— “
Chapter 8
Sophia
“Grab your coat, we’re leaving.” Michael interrupts my explanation of my costume, his tone firm and heated. I furrow my brow at him, confused at his strange and intimidating demeanor, but the alcohol coursing through my veins has me emboldened in a way I’m not sure I ever will be around him again, so I decide to go with it.
“I didn’t wear one.” My voice is matter-of-fact, yet small compared to his, my cheeks start to burn at the revelation of not one, but two of my bosses seeing me in a ballet-pink corset, and a bunny tail. Michael’s jaw flexes in annoyance, at what, I don’t know. He shrugs his own silky black jacket from his shoulders, holding it up to me without question. I comply with the silent request, allowing him to drape the soft fabric over my shoulders. Once it’s in place he grips my arm tightly, spinning me to face him so he can button the jacket, granting me the only coverage he can.
Aaron agrees to stay behind to make sure Maya and Kacey get home safely. After a small thank you towards him, I wave goodbye to my friends, who are both sporting knowing smirks, winking at me with their farewells. Michael’s grip doesn’t loosen until we are safely in the privacy of his car. He presses a small button on the door, raising a black divider between us and his driver. The air suddenly shifts. We’ve been alone before, loads of times at this point. But never in private, close quarters. Never drunk. And certainly never dressed like this. I squirm under his gaze, unable to place the anger in his cerulean blue eyes.
