Meet Me at Midnight

“Just make sure that Ned is the one who gets these edits, okay?” Denise requests as she sets a stack of thick cardboard slides that contain content tag lines for a popular soda company on my desk.

“Will do,” I tell her, standing up and stretching my legs. I don’t normally sit for more than five minutes at a time around here, but this morning has been an absolute email onslaught.

I smooth my hands down my wide-leg Prada gabardine pants, adjust the brown Hermès belt around my waist, and pick up the slides from my desk. They’re bulky but thankfully not heavy, and I’m only slightly awkward on my walk to the elevators without being able to see my feet.

It’s not like I normally stare at my shoes when I walk, but something about taking them out of sight completely makes me feel off-kilter.

Juggling slightly as I step on the elevator, I punch the button for the fifth floor until it lights up—it’s finicky sometimes—and wait as the doors close in front of me. I adjust the cardboard where it digs into my ribs and dance from side to side to pass the time. Now that I’m up and moving, my bladder is awake and screaming for a potty break after I drop these off to Ned.

The ride is quick from the fifteenth to the fifth, but just as I’m stepping off the cart, my phone vibrates inside my pocket.

I want to check it now, but a whole slapstick comedy routine of me and the slides and a split the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders would be jealous of plays in my mind at the thought of chancing maintaining my tenuous grip with one hand.

People smile at me as I power walk down the hall to Ned’s office, dropping the slides on his empty desk and peering around to see if he’s anywhere nearby. When I don’t find him—or anyone else, for that matter—I pull out my phone and use the sanctuary of his office to read it with privacy.

It’s a notification from Midnight, and since I have zero willpower, I open the app and go to the one and only chatbox I have attached to my profile.

But I’m completely unprepared for what’s inside.

ThunderStruck: I’m sitting in an important meeting right now, but I can’t stop thinking about what color your panties are today.

I bobble my phone in my hands and let out a gasp, startling even further when Ned’s polite voice greets me from the door.

“Oh hey, June. Didn’t know you were down here.”

I clear my throat twice before tucking my phone back into my pocket, even as it buzzes a second time, and dab at my now-fiery cheeks with cool hands. “Yeah. Yep. Just dropping off some slides from Denise. They’re for…” I shake my head, desperately trying to remember the account name instead of my white panties. “SoPop.” I snap my fingers, and Ned smiles.

“A long Monday already, huh?”

I chuckle, the sound a little brittle around the edges. “Yeah. I guess it’s that time of year. Fourth quarter and all.”

Ned nods. “Yep. Everything needs buttoning up. Did Denise say when she needs these back?”

“No.” I frown over my lack of knowledge. “Do you want me to run up there and ask?”

He shakes his head. “That’s all right. I’ll call.”

“Okay!” I rush through the door as he steps to the side, dismissing myself with a wave over my shoulder and bolting for the elevator. When the doors close me into solitude, I pull out my phone with shaky hands and read the remaining Midnight message.

ThunderStruck: I want to tease you. Make you feel what you’re making me feel by making me want you so bad but not telling me who you are. I want to put my mouth right there, right on your perfect pussy, but I’d make you keep your panties on so all you can feel is the warmth of my breath. And I’d keep my mouth there until you are soaked all the way through.

Holy hell, is it just me, or is it hot in here? Maintenance should look into this elevator being one million degrees.

I should be ashamed of myself for the faint throb that’s made itself known between my legs, but I’m not. I’ve dreamed of Beau saying these things to me for much longer than I’d like to admit, and I deserve to revel in the excitement of it actually happening…right?

Maybe I should make that trip to the bathroom, but instead of dealing with my bladder, I should hide in the stall and take an actual picture of my pussy and send it to him.

I’ve never, in my life, sent a guy a picture of my pussy. Never even considered it.

But over the past few weeks, I’ve danced on the line. Hell, just yesterday morning, in the wee hours before sunrise, fresh on the booze of going out with Avery after paddleboarding, I sent ThunderStruck an up-close-and-personal view of my breasts, hard nipples and all.

It was wanton and uninhibited, and when he woke up to it, he left me a slew of messages that talked me right through yet another orgasm when I got up just after noon.

On shaky legs, I walk off the elevator on the fifteenth floor, go through the front door, pass my cubicle, and head down the hall, my sights set on the bathroom.

But as I pass by one of the large conference rooms and spot Beau sitting at the head of the table and several of the members of his Midnight campaign team around him, I get a different idea.

Impulsiveness—and pent-up sexual frustration—driving my decisions, I double-back to snag a Post-it note from my desk and book it down the hall to where Beau’s empty office sits. I survey my surroundings, making sure no one is paying too much attention to me, and slip inside. I’m thankful the blinds are down, covering the see-through glass walls, and pull the pen from behind my ear to quickly write out a little note on the pink Post-it in my hands.

I stick it to the edge of his open laptop screen and turn for the door—just as Avery is coming through it.

Shiiiit.

I move away from the note and Beau’s desk as subtly as I can as she dives right into conversation.

“Oh my God, June! You wouldn’t believe what I just heard about Helen Fox. You know, the girl who got pregnant in eighth grade and left school to go to Germany?”

My head swims as I try to shift gears from one Banks to the other. “Vaguely, yes.”

“Well, you know that Toby Vincent, who got her pregnant, was always a prick and got what he deserved when he got dishonorably discharged from the Navy a couple years ago. But Helen just got engaged to a billionaire—with a B—in Dubai, and I heard from Taryn, who heard from her mom, who heard from Toby’s aunt, that he’s positively upchucking over the news.”

“Wow.” It’s all I can manage in the face of the salacious gossip, but evidently, it’s enough, because Avery carries on.

“I know! Anyway, I’m really happy for her. I always love it when the fucked-over humps back, you know?”

I nod. If there’s one thing about Avery, it’s that she’s for the girls. She may gossip, but it’s never to bad-mouth anyone who doesn’t deserve it.

“What are you doing in here anyway?” she questions, stepping around me and heading straight for his desk. She plops down into his desk chair, rooting around in his files on top, and I want to die a very slow death at how close she is to that damn Post-it note.

“I…uh…I had to drop something off to him.” She quirks an eyebrow, and I force myself to pull it the fuck together. “What are you doing here?”

“Seeing if he has any money lying around. I forgot my wallet, and I’m dying for an iced mocha latte. And my credit card doesn’t work. They sent me some email about being over my monthly limit. Like, those things have limits? Whatever.”

“Oh,” I say, making my voice sound as laid-back as I possibly can, even though my heart is beating so fast it feels like someone is actually chasing it inside my chest. Her eyes start to move toward the screen of Beau’s laptop, and instant panic clutches my chest. “You want to go to lunch?” My voice is a startling blurt and far too loud for the occasion, but Avery is too focused on the lunch part to notice. Thank goodness.

“Finally, yes!” she says through a relieved sigh. “I was getting ready to put you in workaholic rehab. But…” She pauses and points an index finger at me. “I get to choose, and you have to pay. I forgot my wallet, remember?” She starts to search Beau’s desk again, muttering about how she can’t believe he doesn’t have any cash lying around, and I jump into action.

“You got it,” I agree, grabbing her elbow to drag her to the door.

“Geez, June,” she complains, pulling out of my grip to smooth out her sailor-inspired Miu Miu navy wool dress. “What’s your deal—oh my God. Look at this!” Her voice is equal parts disgusted and appalled as she snags the Post-it note from the screen of Beau’s laptop and shoves it at me.

My hand shakes as I take it, and she stomps her heel in anticipation.

“Read it!”

Funny thing, friend, but I already read it because I wrote it.

I do everything I can to see it with fresh eyes, but as the author, I have no idea if I pass.

White lace panties.

Who’s the tease now?

-M.W.

“It’s pathetic, right?” Avery questions, finally putting me out of my misery and removing the note from my hand with a yank.

“So pathetic,” I respond, feeling exactly that.

From Avery’s perspective, it looks like some slutty chick in this office is trying to seduce her brother, which is pretty pitiful. But when you consider that the slutty chick is me, it gets even sadder.

“Damn, these hoes are desperate out in these streets,” she says, looking down at the note again before looking back at me. “Good grief, he’s like a modern-day Lothario, pulling thirsty chicks from every direction. It’s so tiring. At least I never have to worry about you pulling this kind of shit with him.” She laughs. “Like, could you imagine?” She laughs harder. “Maybe I could take up employment as his pimp?”

My smile is brittle, and the laugh I have to force from my lungs is the very definition of miserable.

“Who do you think M.W. is?” Avery questions, her thinking cap making her Botox-filled forehead try to move. “Because I am not above going through HR files to figure it out. It has to be initials, right?”

The very last thing I need right now is Avery going through files. Like, sure, there’s no way to track me to M.W., but with hundreds of employees, at least ten innocent women are bound to get involved.

“I bet it’s some inside joke or something,” I try to excuse, hoping she’ll take the bait.

“Oh, you’re probably right!” she quietly exclaims, pointing a finger toward me. “Plus, it’s not like I have time to go looking through HR files. Like, I’ve got enough work to do, you know?” She rolls her eyes. “My brother can deal with the floozies himself.”

I don’t even tease her about the work comment, I’m so relieved.

“Anyway,” Avery singsongs and crumples up the Post-it note in her hands before dropping it into the trash can next to Beau’s desk. “Let’s go to lunch.”

Shit. That was a close call.

Frankly, it was so close that my whole body feels seconds away from imminent detonation.

If Avery would’ve stepped into Beau’s office just a minute earlier, she would’ve seen me putting that on his laptop, and everything I’ve been hiding would be out in the open with a certifiable belly flop into the raging waters of my sins.

Avery rambles about the lunch place she’s decided she wants to eat at, and even though I’m doing my best at making small talk, on the inside, I’m falling apart.

These anonymous chats with Beau are getting dangerous. Playing with fire, to be exact.

And today made something I’ve been ignoring painfully clear in a way I can’t just shake off—I’m not the only one at risk of getting burned.