“You bet I remember,” she whispered. “It was good, wasn’t it? Most people say that first time isn’t enjoyable. A lot of people have trouble with it. But you and me…”
She didn’t have to finish. She knew Turner would remember as well as she did. Everything had worked like a well-oiled machine that night. They’d been naturals.
“I remember when you took it out that first time and how I ran my fingers over it,” she continued reverently. “I was afraid to touch it at first, but when I took it in my hand, it felt so good to just hold it and look at it. I’d never seen one up close like that before. It was so long and smooth. So…forbidden. And then, when you told me to put it in my mouth, it was so exciting. So arousing. I wanted it in my mouth. I couldn’t wait to close my lips over it. And I loved it when I started sucking it. I kept sucking it harder and harder, and it tasted so good, felt so good, and I just filled my mouth with—”
“I remember,” he said thickly, cutting her off. “It was incredible that night.” He inhaled deeply, releasing the breath in a long, lusty sigh. “Again, Becca,” he said roughly. “Just one more time, before we go back to work. That’ll get me through the rest of the day. I need it.”
“Okay,” she immediately conceded…yielded…succumbed…whatever. “I need it, too, Turner. I need it so bad.”
“C’mon, baby,” he crooned, “light my fire.”
Becca’s heartbeat quickened as she reached toward him, a thrill of exhilaration racing through her. But just as she closed her fingers over his long, smooth rod and drew it into her mouth, just as she was indeed about to light his fire, the door to the closet was thrown open wide, and the harsh light of day—or, rather, the nasty glare of fluorescent lighting, which never did anybody’s complexion any good—poured into their cloistered little grotto.
“What the devil is going on in here?” a booming voice exclaimed.
And not just any booming voice, either. Robert Englund’s booming voice. And not just any Robert Englund, either. The Robert Englund who’d lent his name to the company Becca and Turner worked for. And she knew that if there were three words to describe her boss, they would be puritanical, puritanical and puritanical. No way would he approve of what he’d caught them doing.
She squinted in the bright light, able to make out only her employer’s rounded silhouette. The booming voice, though—not to mention that puritanical business—went a long way toward letting her know just how angry he was.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” he thundered. “Are you two doing it again? You’re going to burn down the building the way you go at it. How many times do I have to tell you? There’s no smoking on the premises! Now put out that cigarette.”
With that, he stalked off, leaving Becca and Turner crouched in the closet with a still unlit cigarette and a completely unquenched desire. It was just like the song said. They couldn’t get no satisfaction.
“OKAY, TURNER, NOW are you convinced we have to quit? Or would you rather we lose our jobs?”
Becca picked at a piece of nonexistent lint on her snug, black wool skirt, tugged down the sleeves of her claret lamb’s wool sweater and watched her friend and co-worker pace restlessly the length of the Englund Advertising boardroom. Although neither of them much cared for the dress code of their workplace, finding it a bit too conservative for their tastes, Turner was decidedly less businesslike in his business attire than she was.
His charcoal Dockers weren’t quite in keeping with the suits their employer demanded, especially since she’d seen his houndstooth jacket slung carelessly over the chair in his cubicle. And instead of the white dress shirts Englund dictated, Turner wore a creamy button-down oxford. He had, however, conceded to the necktie requirement. Of course, the necktie in question had a scantily clad hula dancer painted on it.
Then again, Becca’s suit jacket hung on a peg in her own cubicle, and her sweater wasn’t a dress shirt, either, so maybe she still had a bit of the rebel in her, too. Sorta. Kinda. In a way.
Outside the windows enclosed the boardroom on two sides; a light snow was sprinkling the Indianapolis skyline, even though November was barely half over and it was too early for any accumulation. Twenty minutes had passed since Englund had caught them smoking in the closet, long enough for him to summon them to this very boardroom, where he’d given them a good dressing-down.
He had said, among other things, that he intended to keep a close eye on both of them, and if he ever caught them smoking at work again, he would fire them. Period. And Becca would just as soon not have to look for another job. She liked this one in spite of its conservative dress code and shortsighted no-smoking policy. And its unwillingness to explore brave new advertising frontiers. And its archaic mission statement. And its choke hold on creativity. And its lousy health care plan. And its abrasive receptionist. And its appallingly bad coffee.
All right, all right, so maybe she wasn’t all that crazy about her job. But she didn’t relish looking for a new one, especially with the holidays looming on the horizon.
“Turner?” she echoed when he offered no response. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yeah, I heard.” He reached the far side of the room and spun around to pace back again. “I just don’t like it,” he added irritably. “Becca, it’s not fair that he can make a rule like that.”
“Maybe not to you, but it’s his business,” she pointed out. “He can make all the rules he wants. And he’ll fire us if we don’t quit smoking.”
“We don’t have to quit completely,” Turner countered, halting in midpace. “We just have to quit doing it at work.”
“Oh, yeah, and that’s going to be so easy,” she said. “When was the last time we made it through an entire workday without lighting up two or three times at least?”
“Then we’ll just go outside to smoke,” he said, crossing his arms over his broad chest in the internationally recognized body language for “I’m right, so there.”
Becca dipped her head toward the window behind him. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Turner, but we’re eighteen stories up. Englund takes up the entire floor, and the businesses beneath us are almost all smoke-free, too. We’d have to go down to the street to smoke, and half the time it takes us ten minutes just to get there, because the elevators run so slow. Unless you think we can slip out unnoticed for a half hour here and there, going outside to smoke isn’t doable.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but she quickly cut him off.
“And it’s snowing today,” she added. “If memories of third-grade science serve—which they may not, because most of what I remember from third-grade science is you grossing me out with bug statistics—that means the season of winter is upon us. And I don’t want to stand outside in the bitter cold just to have a cigarette. I’ll end up spending even more on Chap Stick than I already do on cigarettes.”
Turner expelled an impatient breath of air but said nothing.
“And we’ve got that big account we’re trying to win,” she further reminded him.
“That big account we’re going to win,” he corrected her.
She nodded. They would win it, she knew. Because the pitch they were working on was nothing short of brilliant. She and Turner had been at Englund for five years now, long enough to have won some small seniority as account reps, but they still weren’t in line for any major promotions. At this rate, they’d be stuck in Cubicleville until retirement. Winning this account for Englund would speed them much more quickly up the corporate ladder. They’d be headed straight to Officetown.
“And once we win the account, we’ll be stressed to the max,” she pointed out.