It's not like never thought I'd get rich with a Master's degree in studio painting. But I thought I could maybe move to L.A., get a cute little apartment in Silver Lake or wherever, and spend my days working in the art department on indie films. So after I graduated from Benson College, this tiny school in sleepy Iowa, drove off to the west coast in my Toyota Tercel. As I sped through the unending green flatness of Iowa, I dreamed of the loft apartment, the exciting work, and the fashionably skinny boyfriend that were all certain to be mine a few weeks after I arrived in the City of Angels.
That kind of idiotic optimism, dear reader, is how you end up working delivery for a pizza parlor at age 28.
In reality, I couldn't get a cool job on an indie movie set. I live in a cockroach-infested, closet-sized apartment in downtown, where it's terrifying to walk around after sunset. I deliver pizza for a living. My boss is an ex-drug dealer named Ansel who punches the fridge whenever a customer complains on the phone. And, as it turns out, it's not quite so cute to be underemployed and barely making rent when you're almost thirty, so in terms of the fashionably skinny boyfriend, nope, nada, nothing. I've managed to have a few brusque hookups with Mikey, a stammering Communications major at USC that I met on Tinder. Mikey tries his best, but he's so timid and obsequious that I can't come, even when he goes down on me. After he's finished and gone to sleep, I roll over and get myself off, then promise myself I'll never come back. Then, a few weeks later, I come back.
This unending chain of disappointments went on unbroken for so long that I forgot life could be good, that lucky coincidences could happen, that dreams might come true, and that I could, in fact, have an orgasm during sex and not just after it. I had forgotten all of these things until the day I met Oliver Clarke.
*
It was around 11 a.m., a Tuesday in early March. It was my day off, so I had taken the opportunity to have a little me time. I'd had a long, warm bath, had shaved my legs (not because anyone was going to see them, but because I own a pair of supersoft sweatpants, which feel amazing on smooth skin) and was lying in bed, scrolling through the internet on my phone, wondering when life was going to get better. I thought I should do something fun, but I couldn't summon the energy. I'll be honest—I was missing Iowa right about then. I'd had this professor, who—yeah—we'd had a thing, but older men, they're not timid. They see what they want, and they take it from you, not like poor fumbling Mikey. One time, Professor Sterling had taken me out to a quiet balcony on campus, while a class gallery showing was happening below. I could hear soft jazz, pretentious murmurs, and clinking champagne flutes. Sterling pulled my dress up from behind and leaned forward. I remember the scent of his aftershave, the soap on his skin, faint scent of the day's sweat. The stubble on his skin scratched my neck as he growled softly in my ear, "I'm going to fuck you, right now."
Sitting in bed, I let out a soft moan, reached down and began to touch myself, softly, thinking of the matter-of-fact way that Sterling had pulled my underwear down, that night, the way his breath quickened and trembled slightly in anticipation, the way I whispered back to him, begging him to—
DING. DING. DINGALY-DING.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
DING. DING. DINGALY-DING. In bed, I picked up my phone. It was Ansel calling.
Dammit, dammit, dammit. I was so close. I answered the phone.
"Aubrey!" he said. "Aubrey, I need you right now. I've got a huge delivery, ASAP. 30 pies. We need to get these pizzas out to Clarke & Thompson skyscraper on Fifth, right away."
"Ansel, my one day off," I said.
"I'll give you fifty bucks," he said. "This is a big corporate lunch. My car broke down."
Dammit.
"Seventy-five," I said.
And that's how I found myself in an elevator, going up fifty floors in one of those massive skyscrapers near Grand Ave and 5th Street, carrying two huge stacks of pizza, wearing the pair of jeans I wore yesterday. I didn't even have time to put underwear on.
The elevator dinged open at the fifty-first floor, and I stepped out into a gorgeous office space. Mahogany, or something that looked like mahogany, on every wall. Shiny brass name-plates. People stalking around, wearing Brioni suits and glancing at Rolexes. "Clarke & Thompson, Consultants," in big golden letters on the wall. A blandly pretty twenty-two-year-old showed me where to drop the pizzas off (a gilded boardroom with an extremely impressive table on it), then signed the credit card receipt. She'd given me a five-dollar tip on a $250 order. In a black mood, I stalked toward the exit, when a man stepped into the doorway. A tall man, salt-and-pepper hair, broad chest, charcoal suit, gold watch. A hint of stubble, and a glint of mirth in his eyes.
"Excuse me, were you from the pizza restaurant?"
I could feel myself blushing, for some reason.
"Yeah, that's me," I said, glancing at the carpet.
"Let me see that receipt."
I handed over the receipt with the tiny tip. The man frowned. He raised his voice. "Gretchen!"
The blandly pretty girl trotted in, face brick-red. "Yes, Mr. Clarke?" she said.
Wait a second, I thought. Clarke as in Clarke & Thompson?
Clarke looked at me levelly. "You work hard, don't you?"
"Yes," I mumbled, suddenly realizing how shy I felt.
"What's the longest shift you've worked at this pizza shop?"
"Sixteen hours," I said, recalling last Halloween.
Clarke turned to the girl. "Now, Gretchen, have you ever worked a sixteen-hour shift?"
Gretchen got even redder, if that were possible. "No, sir," she said, sounding as if she were about to cry.
"And how d'you reckon you'd feel if you worked a sixteen-hour shift, only to get a lousy five-dollar tip on an order of this size?"
"I'm sorry, sir," said Gretchen, and ducked away. Clarke smiled at me. "I'm Oliver," he said. "Come into my office and I'll cut you a check."
*
The first thing I noticed in Oliver's office was the window—there were three solid, windowless walls, then a vast window, where I could see the whole of downtown Los Angeles, the vastness of the city, and far off in the distance, the glittering Pacific. I suppressed a gasp.
"It's a great view," said Oliver. "Take a look if you want."
I walked to the window, careful not to touch or smudge it. The view was breathtaking. Oliver swept past me to sit down at his broad mahogany desk, and I caught a whiff of his cologne. I can find no way to describe the scent except for expensive. Like everything else in the office, Oliver looked—sounded—even smelled expensive.
"It's incredible," I said.
Oliver sighed, and I turned around. He was rooting through drawers. "I seem to have left my checkbook at home," he said. "Let me ring in Gretchen." He tapped a button on his phone and said, "Gretchen!"
"Yes?" said a shaky voice on the other side of the line.
"Bring me in a fresh checkbook, won't you, darling?"
"Yes, Mr. Clarke!" I could hear clattering through the line as the frantic Gretchen searched through her own desk.
"Gretchen!" said Oliver.
"Yes, Mr. Clarke?"
"Hang up your phone."
"Yes, Mr. Clarke!"
Oliver walked up to my side and gazed out the window. I didn't dare look at him.
"So sorry about Gretchen. You don't have to be back at the restaurant right away, do you?"
"Oh, no," I said, examining the streets and buildings below. "No, this is my last delivery."
"Good, good," said Oliver. I glanced over. He was smiling out the window. I realized that my palms were sweating. I frantically tried to think of something to say.
"Edward Hopper writ large," I stammered.
"It's absolutely bustling," Oliver said, immediately. "None of the sense of quiet and loneliness that you get in Hopper's paintings."
I looked at him. He was looking back and smiling.
"You know Hopper," I said.
"I try my best to be a connoisseur of the beautiful," he said, touching the small of my back. I felt goosebumps rising on my arm.
What the fuck is happening? I thought. My pulse was quickening. Then: God, I hope what I think is happening is happening.
"I, uh," I said, and the door opened. Gretchen. Of course. Yes. For the checkbook.
"Ah, thank you, Gretchen," said Oliver. His voice sounded different—crisp, neutral, businesslike. Or was I imagining things? "You can close your door on the way out."
Gretchen flushed again. "Yes, sir," she said, and ducked out.
Oliver sat down at his desk, pulled a fountain pen out of its holder, and signed the check with a flourish. I was still at the window; he walked up and handed me the check. I glanced at the amount section and saw at least three zeroes before stuffing it in my back pocket.
Holy shit.
"I once worked at a pasty shop in London when I was younger," he said. "Terrible hours. Terrible boss. So I have a bit of a soft spot for people like you."
"Th-thank you," I said. My head was spinning.
"Well, if that's all, then I suppose you should be on your way," said Oliver, walking toward the door.
"Right," I said, my voice shaking. "Right, sure." But I couldn't make myself move. Oliver walked, in easy, measured steps, over to the door, then turned around, his hand resting on the handle. He looked at me, frozen in place, and smirked.
"Unless there's something else you need," he said, laughter in his voice.
I forced myself to walk toward the door. Stupid thought anyways. I would go home and masturbate to the fantasy.
Then, about halfway to the door, I thought, dammit, if you don't try at least something, you deserve to be as frustrated as you are. So, as I walked up to the doorway, I turned toward Mr. Clarke, looked up into his eyes, and said, "Thank you. Sir. Mr. Clarke." And, as I turned toward the door, I brushed up against his groin in a way that could have been accidental.
Through his thin slacks, I could feel that he was semi-hard.
"Miss—" he said.
"Aubrey," I said.
"Miss Aubrey. Would you hold on one moment?"
I turned to face him and smiled. He was smiling darkly. He reached past me, brushing against my shoulder, and turned the lock on the door. I heard it click into place discreetly. I mean, jeez—even the locks in this place sounded expensive.
"Is there something else you need?" I said.
Fuck, I was starting to get wet. I remembered that I wasn't wearing any panties. Oliver leaned in close. My heart was pounding in my chest. I felt a ripple of excitement. I could barely breathe.
"Sir?" I whispered.
