The Plan (4 page)

Underneath his tongue would be smooth and sweet.

My ankle would wrap around his leg, and he’d lift me against him before pushing me down against the desk that I would henceforth never be able to look at again without thoughts of Alaric Canon.

Hands everywhere. I’d feel him at my ribs.

I’d fumble with his buttons. He’d tear mine free.

I would touch his face. He’d wrap my legs around his waist, grind into me. Deep. Hard.

Even through clothes, it’d be better than any of my real sex.

One hand at my throat, thumb under my jaw, lips parted and panting down on me, his fingers would tear through my hosiery, slipping, slipping—

“Emma?”

Wha—?

“It’s after five.” Rebecca looks at me questioningly. “Are you having difficulty completing all of your work? I haven’t overloaded you, have I?”

“I’m fine.” Load-free even. Regrettably so.

We both turn to the sound of Canon’s door opening. He looks to Rebecca briefly then goes on his way.

I feel my cheeks burn.

It’s no big deal.

One more office daydream.

Not like I’m going to let myself get even more obsessed with him.

I clock out.

Day of Employment:
362

8:11 p.m.

*
Day
: Different.

*
Shit
: Same.

*
Workload and Course Load
: Big, steamy load.

*
Consider
: Pro v. con of liquid diet.

*
Shopping List
: One bourbon. One Scotch. One beer.

M
R
. T
HOROGOOD
, Y
OU
S
IR
, are a culinary genius.

Inebriated academia is not in the mix for me. High alcohol tolerance and low fiscal flow preclude sufficient acquisition of libations.

In summation: What is commonly referred to as “broke.”

Clara is in my room and, with all her traditional subtlety, suggesting I get gussied up to go out with her and have gentlemen buy our drinks. That’s just not my thing. My bar crawl phase was short, sweet and sour.

Not to say I no longer have scandalous, wild times now. Example: I routinely spend long, late night hours having as many as four men entertain me in my bed.
Men like Fallon, Kimmel, O’Brien, and Letterman.

“Do you even own fancy duds anymore?” Clara says, scavenging through my barren closet.

I shrug. Turn the page in my textbook.

“Emma,” she faux whines. “Let’s get stolen.”

Stolen? My brow furrows. “That doesn’t sound pleasant.”

“Then you have never been properly stolen.” She sticks her tongue out playfully, then winces. I am pretty sure she just realized she smudged her lip color; however, this setback, much like everything else, doesn’t ruffle her for long.

“What has become of my fine, feathered friend?” A few hangers slide against the rod in punctuation.

There is no point in pointing out the ludicrousness of most of Clara’s asides. If it were my job, my 401(k) would be fully vested.

Further, my personage has not, at any point in my longer-than-I-care-to-admit existence, been either fine or feathered. I may have, however, recently allowed Canon to make me cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.

Jury is still out on that.

Ha. See? And they said law school is not a joking matter.

What really is not a joking matter is the $1,800 in textbooks that, conveniently for the university’s budget, never ever, ever seem to be used by any instructor the following semester. I have given up even venturing to the campus bookstore for buyback.

Clothes shuffling racket stops abruptly. On the uppermost shelf, a black box seems to hold Clara’s attention.

“Hey, when is your company’s yearly shindig? In just a couple days, right?”

My left eyebrow lifts. Clara fishes the box down with a hanger.

“Oh, no, you do not. Something along the lines of what I wore last year will be quite enough.” Heck the identical outfit as last year, more than likely. It’s not like anyone is gonna notice.

“People will notice,” Clara says, as if she can hear my every thought. “I know what you’re thinking, Emma.”

I wasn’t even kidding.

“It does no good for Emmarella to acquire fabulous shoes if she never wears them to a ball.” One half of a pair of crystal adorned strappy heels is a pendulum from her index finger.

1:03 a.m.

*
Textbook
: Pillow.

*
Osmosis
: Needs to be a viable study method.

I AWAKE T
O
T
HE
S
OUND
of my bedroom door being knocked on. Well, beaten on. Repeatedly.

Needlessly, too, I might add as it is wide open.

Clara bounces on the balls of her bare feet.

No other parts bounce. She is disgustingly fit for someone who spends all day surrounded by baked goods.

“Gooooood morning, Emma,” she half-slurs sarcastically and points back toward our living room. “I have something for you!”

“Is it a sleep?”

“What?”

“Never mind. What is it?”

“Inspiration.” She smiles beatifically, spins, wobbles, and commences to tromp about the house.

On the sofa sits a shopping bag filled to the brim. It bursts with items ranging from satin to silk to what I hope against hope is not white latex. Predominantly lacy, uncomfortable looking underthings. Frederick’s of Hollywood kind of things.

I do wish there were assless chaps. Not that I would wear them. But there is nothing funnier than the words
assless chaps
.

But, tangentially, answer me this: Do any chaps actually
have
asses?

I enjoy lingerie even more than the next person. Don’t get me wrong.

That being said, I am exhausted and have no wish to humor her and go through these items. Clara would never allow me to go back to sleep if I deny her this. So, with as much desire to handle objects as is typically reserved for radioactive isotopes, I reach in and grab out whatever is nearest the top.

Electric blue coordinated bra and panty set. Nice.

Plum and lavender inset bustier with matching cheekies. I will wear this one some day soon just for me.

A bra so padded it could double as a Muppet. I would have to refer to my breasts as Kermit and Fozzie.

Hot pink fishing line.

Oh, wait. It’s a thong.

I cannot be expected to wear a thong. I am not a stick figure. Thongs ride up my butt crack. The removal of undergarments is not supposed to launch a full scale search and rescue operation.

I refuse to go spelunking just take off my undies.

“I am
not
wearing these,” I say.

Clara snatches them away. Snorts.

Day of Employment:
363

1:11 p.m.

*
Personal Assistants Who Started Today
: 3.

*
Personal Assistants Still Employed:
1.

*
Fit to be Tied
: Rebecca.

*
Actually Tied
: Bert and I. We placed identical bets.

“HOW C
AN
I B
E
E
XPECTED
to accomplish anything constructive if I have to replace personnel every damned minute of every damned day?” Rebecca fumes. She must be very upset; her blotter and stapler no longer run at perfect, intersecting lines. She buttons, then unbuttons her suit jacket on repeat.

Madeline smartly tucks the betting pool notebook behind her back. “Wonder why Mr. Canon is acting nastier than usual. Do you suppose it’s the holiday blues? I always hear the holiday season can cause depression and loneliness.”

Bert laughs. “If that guy is lonely, he has only himself to blame. He probably ate all his young.”

Oh, low blow. That hardly seems fair.

There is no replicant technology that affords androids procreation.

8:59 p.m.

*
Final Exam
: Impossible to complete in the three hours allotted.

“E
MMA
! E
MMA
!” A particularly nice girl from first semester study group snags me in the hallway immediately after I leave the classroom.

“Hey, lady,” I say, as I try to cover for being unable to recall her actual name. Anything would be preferable to calling her what I remember her as: Age Inappropriate Pigtails.

“Are you taking Klassen’s Divorce and Child Advocacy intersession course?” She scoots to the side to allow others to pass, ringlets swaying below her ears.

“Yes, I rented the texts last night.”

“Great,” she says. “We’re forming a study group. We’ll probably meet right after class every afternoon in room one-nineteen. See ya!”

She leaves too quickly for me to tell her that I have to use all my vacation time every morning just to be able to attend the class. I won’t have enough time this year for any real vacation. Or study sessions. Or a life.

Day of Employment:
364

8:41 a.m.

*
Laundry
: Sorted. Categorized. Pre-treated.

*
Basically
: Everything but actually washed.

*
Kitchen
: Suffers from an appalling lack of donut.

P
OUT
. I A
M
H
ENCEFORTH
R
EIMAGINING
the word as more than a mere verb and noun. It denotes my entire state of being at this moment. My outlook.

It’s a good thing today is Saturday. I’ve expended the bulk of my waking moments foraging for the day-old goods that are the greatest perk of being Clara’s roommate.

Erm, I mean, apart from her being my oldest and dearest friend. My sister from another Mister. My Sole Sister—highest of honors between us Heel Hoors. Yikes. Must sort priorities.

But seriously: Homer has a point. Donuts equal yum.

“Clara, are you trying to torture me? Quash my will to live?” Cabinet doors bang. I rummage and search to no avail. Not a single cream puff to be had. Not even a stale apple spice cake donut to soak in my black gold. I mean coffee.

Clara is missing.

I will earmark a few minutes later in the day today to rationalize why I noticed that fact after the donuts. About forty minutes after. And a hunt that would’ve located D.B. Cooper if he had the misfortune to smell of cruller.

She’s always home long before now. Her workday starts around 2:00 a.m. weekdays and as early as midnight for the extra heavy Saturday sales.

That Time to Make the Donuts commercial guy was a fairly accurate portrayal of Clara’s nocturnal adventures. The more successful her entrepreneurial efforts, the more zombie-esque she has become. Which is not exactly an insult in her mind, either. One of the eccentric things that endears her to me is an inexplicable affection for the extraordinarily terrible film
I Walked with a Zombie
. Which, I must admit begrudgingly, may have grown on me over the years of coerced viewings.

There are days I half expect to find a check from the Sadist Sleep Study Institute in the mail. Compensation to us both for being participants in a long-term deprivation experiment we are both far too exhausted to remember signing up for.

Clara’s text tone sounds out. Her shop is slammed, and the help went home sick.

No need to ask.

My successful lobbying at work helped nudge her catering bid to victory. Even fully staffed it was shaping up to be a huge production day for her. In under three minutes, I tie my hair up, throw on blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and Keds, and back the car down the drive.