Megan Hart - Switch

communal pot. I didn't want the calories or the germs. I

did crack the top on my second can of cola, though.

"Why were they lucky?" I asked mildly, not so much

because I cared, but to make conversation.

"The ones who quit had to put up with a lot more garbage,

that's al. I heard the last girl he had went to work at some

grocery store after she left here, that's how desperate she

was to get out."

"That's pretty desperate." I stretched. As I started to get up from the table, pain sliced the back of my thigh.

Brenda startled at my cry. "What? What's wrong?"

I craned my neck to look over my shoulder, my leg stuck

out behind me like I was a balet dancer getting ready to

perform some complicated dance move. My skirt hit just

above the knee and I could make out the ragged line of a

run in my stocking, but nothing else. "Something snagged

me."

"It's the chair," Brenda said. "It's ful of splinters."

I rubbed the spot stil stinging and smarting just behind my

knee. "I can't tel if it's in there or not."

"Shoot. I gotta run. Wil you be okay?" Brenda stuffed her

trash into the plastic box where a few scraps of lettuce stil

clung and tossed it al into the garbage can.

"Sure. Of course." Sort of like a bee sting, the pain had

turned from sharp to a dul throb. I was more upset about

the panty hose I'd have to replace.

In the bathroom I used the ful-length mirror to check out

my injury, but could stil see nothing. I ran my fingers over

my skin around the sore spot but felt nothing poking

through. I didn't have time to keep searching, so I stripped

through. I didn't have time to keep searching, so I stripped

off the ruined panty hose and went back to the office.

"Just in time," Paul said from the doorway between his

office and my smal work space. "I was beginning to think

you weren't going to make it."

I looked at him sharply. "I'm hardly ever late, Paul."

"Oh, I know you're not." He glanced at his watch. "C'mon, it's time."

I pushed Brenda's warnings to the back of my mind. This

was the best job I'd ever had, and while I never assumed it

would be the best I'd ever get, I wasn't in any hurry to lose

it.

My task during the teleconference was to type up the

notes. Paul not only had notoriously bad handwriting but

he was a hunt-and-peck typist. As he got settled into his

chair, I picked up my AlphaSmart Neo, the portable

keyboard/word processor I used rather than a notepad

and pen. Paul might be a slow writer, but he could be a

superfast talker, and typing was the only way I could keep

up.

I couldn't decipher half of what they talked about. Profit

margins, balance sheets, long-range planning. I was

ignorant, and fine with that. I didn't need to understand

what they were saying to take it down. In fact, the less I

knew the better, because my mind could wander while my

fingers kept track.

Not so many years ago I'd have been expected to hover

on the edge of my seat, pen poised over my steno pad

while I took vigorous shorthand. Typing was so much

easier. I'd learned shorthand in school, one of those skils

they stil found necessary to teach even if nobody would

actualy use it. The clacking of my nails, kept to a practical

length, tap-tapping on the keys couldn't replace the

sensual scratch-scratch of a pen sliding across paper, in

my opinion, but typing was much faster, and being able to

download the document directly into my computer for

processing was better than having to retype it al.

The cal ended abruptly, at least to me. I looked over the

last few sentences and saw I'd actualy typed the

goodbyes without paying attention. God bless multitasking.

Paul sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Wel, that's over.

Thank you, Paige."

Thank you, Paige."

Brenda could say what she liked. Paul might be particular,

but he was also very polite. "You're welcome."

I'd been sitting with both feet planted firmly on the floor

with the keyboard on my lap. When I shifted to get up, the

sudden flaring sting of pain from my invisible splinter

surged so fiercely I gasped. The keyboard fel to the thick

carpet with a muffled thump, and I bent to grab it at once,

hoping it hadn't been damaged.

Paul had already rounded the desk. "Paige, are you al

right?"

"Yeah, I just…I caught my leg on something earlier. I think

there's a splinter."

The keyboard hadn't broken, thank God. I put it on the

conference table pushed off to the side of Paul's desk.

Warmth trickled down my calf and I strained to see it.

Blood.

"You're not fine, you're bleeding. Stay right there. Don't

move."

Paul's office had pale beige carpet. I assumed he didn't

Paul's office had pale beige carpet. I assumed he didn't

want me staining it, so I did as he said for the thirty

seconds it took him to grab a handful of tissues from his

desk.

He ought to have handed them to me so I could tend my

own wound. Like compliments and free lunch, taking care

of my boo-boo was probably a no-no. So why didn't I

protest when Paul told me to put my hands on the table?

Or when he knelt on that pretty beige carpet and slid the

soft tissue from just above my anklebone al the way to the

back of my knee?

I said nothing because no sound would come out. I didn't

move because my fingers refused to do more than twitch

on the polished surface of the table. I could see the faint

shadow of my reflection in it, the startled O of my mouth

and the curved arch of my raised eyebrows. But I didn't

move, and I didn't speak.

"There," Paul said in a low voice. Through the tissue the

warmth of his fingers pressed against my suddenly chiled

skin. "I can see it. Stay right there, Paige. Let me find

some tweezers."

I'd placed my hands slightly more than a shoulder width

I'd placed my hands slightly more than a shoulder width

apart and far enough toward the table's center I had to

lean forward just a little. I didn't want to know what I

looked like, my skirt riding up the backs of my bare thighs

and my face flushed.

"It's a big one," Paul said in a moment. "Hold stil."

I pressed my lips down on a squeak trying to escape at the

touch of the cold metal tweezers. Paul's hand curled

around my knee, holding it stil, while he probed and

puled.

I felt the splinter slide free, snagging my flesh, and the

further slow trickle of my blood painting a line down my

leg. I closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to see the blurred

woman in the table, the one with my face looking as I'm

sure lovers had often glimpsed, but I never had.

The soft press of tissue again slid up my leg as Paul wiped

away the blood. I heard the crinkle of paper and his

fingers smoothed something on me. An adhesive bandage.

I could feel it puling the soft hairs I never managed to

shave. Then the stroke of his fingers along the secret place

at the back of my knee, so swift I might have imagined it.

"Al done."

"Al done."

I turned. Paul had already stepped away. In one hand, he

held the tweezers. In the other, the shredded paper

wrapper of the bandage.

I didn't strain or stretch to look at his handiwork. "Thank

you."

Twin spots of bright color bloomed on his cheeks. "No

problem."

Before he could say anything else, I grabbed up the

keyboard and left his office with a nod.

Later, in bed, I would fal asleep thinking of two things.

One was the smooth, expensive card and the beautifuly

written list. I wanted that paper, that pen, whatever it was.

And two, the feeling of Paul's fingers on the back of my

knee.

Chapter 09

My Monday-night gyno appointment went as wel as

could be expected for an event that had my legs in the air

and my ass exposed to the entire world. I weighed less

than I had the last time I'd been to the doctor, which was

good, and I found out I no longer qualified for the same

reduced fees I'd been used to getting based on my income,

but that was fine. I had insurance now.

"Wish I could lose ten pounds," said the nurse-practitioner when she read my chart and looked me over. "But I like to

eat too much."

"Me, too. It just takes…" Discipline was the word that rose to my lips, and I was thinking of that note again.

"Work."

She patted her round hips and bely and sighed. "Yeah,

doesn't everything?"

Of course it did. You didn't get very far in the world

thinking you could get away with anything less. But I didn't

say anything else, just took my shot and paid my bil and

went on my way.

went on my way.

I thought about it, though.

Discipline.

I thought about it on the drive home and up the elevator to

my apartment, where I changed into a pair of black yoga

pants and a formfitting white T-shirt with the words

Frankie Say Relax in block letters across the front. It was

a good conversation starter. On my feet I put a pair of

trainers that had actualy cost more than the Madden

pumps and were the most expensive shoes I'd ever

owned. I'd discovered I could deal with sore feet for

fashion's sake, but not when I was trying to exercise.

Discipline.

Today, you wil extend your regular workout by fifteen

minutes.

I grabbed a cereal bar from my snack drawer and wolfed

down the chewy jam center and crust as I cracked open a

can of diet cola and drank it back in a few gulps, then filed

a water bottle with ice and water from the tap. My shoes

might be designer, but my water was generic.

I took the stairs to add a little extra to my workout,

laughing at myself for obeying a command meant for

someone else. My heels rang on the metal stairs as I took

them two at a time al the way to the basement. I flung

open the metal door, too, and it clanged against the wal.

Riverview Manor has a nice, if outdated, gym, though it

was hardly ever used. Not trendy enough, I guess. There

was someone at the eliptical machine when I came in. He

looked up but didn't speak around his huffing and puffing.

It was him.

Of course. Why shouldn't I have to sweat and strain next

to the man, that handsome man, I kept running into al over

the place? I drank back some water to give myself

fortitude and hopped on the treadmil.

After five minutes my legs were screaming, and I shot him

a glance. His mouth had set into a tight, hard line of

determination. Sweat ringed his armpits and neckline, but

far from being disgusted, the sight of it made me go al

tingly in my pink places. There's something so fucking sexy

about a man who's working hard.

I saw him shoot me a glance, and his machine beeped, but

I saw him shoot me a glance, and his machine beeped, but

he punched the button to go longer. Uh-huh. I got it.

Bound by sweat and bad television programming, we

worked out on neighboring machines and forced each

other to keep going even when we wanted to stop. Wel, I

did anyway. It had become a point of pride to keep

grunting and groaning my way through the treadmil's fifty-

minute program even when I wanted to hop off.

The fact this guy had the body of a god and stopped

briefly to strip off his shirt didn't hurt. Not one bit. Every

time his abs and pecs rippled I thought about how his

sweat would taste if I ran my tongue along the rim of his

ribs and around the concave cup of his bely button. I tried

to be grossed out at myself for thinking such crude

thoughts but couldn't convince my traitorous body that

wanting to ride his thigh was wrong.

I blamed the TV.