I hate office parties.

Call me old fashioned, but if I’m going to get drunk and kiss some guy I don’t know, I’d much rather do it in a dark nightclub with loud music where I don’t need to worry about seeing the guy the next morning in the staff kitchen.

And work functions always have such a weird atmosphere. You end up in a dangerous balancing act where you have to drink enough to look fun and social, but not too much that you make a fool out of yourself.

This isn’t just any office party; this is a law firm office party. A group of serious professionals desperate to prove they’re fun people who know how to have a good time.

I pull up in the parking lot and check myself in the mirror. I’m not trying to impress anyone, but Mom always said you should look your best at all times.

You never know who you’re going to meet or when, Kara.

Mind you, what does Mom know about meeting guys? She married Dad.

Inoffensive pop music hits my ears when I step out of the car into the warm night air. I walk to the entrance of the law firm and dial John’s number to be let in. He answers the phone but the music’s too loud to hear anything. I shout “I’m outside,” into the phone and a minute later he shows up to let me in.

“Hi, Kara,” John says, a faint smell of beer on his breath. “Glad you could make it.”

He says it as if I were invited. Like I said, I hate office parties. Fortunately, I’m not here to party; I’m here to clean.

“What are you all celebrating?” I ask. July seems like a weird time of year for a party.

“We’ve just closed a huge deal,” John replies. “The staff had to do a lot of overtime, so this is our way of saying thanks.”

“That’s nice,” I lie.

Thank you for all your efforts over the past month. Now, please stay late on Friday for mandatory fun time. You’re welcome.

“We like to look after the staff here. That includes you.”

“Thanks.”

John certainly takes a very hands-on role in recruitment for a partner in a law firm. Instead of just paying the cleaning agency I work for, John insisted on interviewing me in person to make sure I was a good fit. I’m not sure why I need to be a good fit to clean the toilets, but each to their own I suppose. He even had me prepare a resume, which was frankly embarrassing, given how little there is to put on there. He never noticed the gap of just over a year; probably assumed I was unemployed. That’s not the case, but the truth is worse, so I’m glad we avoided that conversation.

John can’t seem to stand still and is swaying from side to side a little. He’s probably had a few drinks and wants to get back to the party.

“Can you point me in the direction of the supply cupboard?” I ask. He did show me when I came to interview, but I’ll be damned if I can remember. This place is a maze of corridors, cubicles, and offices.

“Sure,” John says eagerly. “This way.” He leads me away from the noise of the party to a cupboard at the far corner of the floor. “Here you go. It’s not far from my office,” he adds, pointing at a door just down the hall. “Feel free to come by if you have any questions.”

“Won’t you be at the party?”

“Oh yeah. Well feel free to come by the party if you want. Be warned though, a few of the lawyers here are known to appreciate a pretty face.”

I smile with my apparently pretty face. I should be safe from wandering hands, unless the lawyers here also like a large ass and a few too many curves in all the wrong places. Mind you, John’s eyes are lingering on me a little longer than I’d like. It’s probably just the booze.

“When does the party finish?” I ask, before John’s gaze becomes uncomfortable. “It might be easier to tidy up tonight instead of coming in tomorrow morning.”

“Should be done by about eleven,” John replies. “Maybe midnight by the time all the stragglers have left. Actually, that reminds me, you should clean Damon’s office in the next hour or so. Don’t leave his until last.”

“Which one is Damon’s?” I ask.

John points to a corner office. “Damon Caldwell likes to… uh… entertain in his office after parties like this one. You wouldn’t want to walk in on anything inappropriate.”

I manage not to cringe. “Gotcha. Thanks.”

Damon is one of the named partners, so he’s likely at least fifty and probably not in the greatest shape. He probably ‘entertains’ busty blonde secretaries or eager young attorneys desperate for a career boost. Working as a cleaner can be disgusting enough as it is without walking in on a load of soft, wrinkly flesh jiggling around on top of a desperate young bimbo faking pleasure like a porn star.

“I should probably head back to the party,” John says. “Come get me if you need any help.”

“Thanks,” I reply. He does seem genuinely nice, but he clearly needs to get laid. The white line around his ring finger where a wedding ring used to be suggests he’s not going through the best of times right now. I’m not going to tell him off for staring at my chest after a few beers.

I grab a small cart of cleaning supplies from the storage cupboard and head straight over to Damon’s office to get it over and done with. He has a huge corner office with an oak desk and a chair that looks like it costs more than my car. There are bookcases filled with legal textbooks and paper files cover his desk. I empty the trash can and take a sneaky look at the names on the files. Most of them are companies I’ve never heard of or “Project” names that are used to keep things vaguely confidential.

I move the files around to give the desk a quick clean and then run a duster over the bookshelves. There’s no way I’m going to this much effort every night or for every office, but I want the boss to have a nice clean desk to fuck on later. I’m considerate like that.

A framed picture on the bookshelf catches my eye. A guy in his mid-fifties—presumably Damon—is presenting an award to a ridiculously handsome man in his mid to late twenties. I have no idea why Damon is presenting an award, and I don’t really care. I just want to find out who the hell the young guy is. The caption reads: Damon Caldwell is presented with Young Lawyer of the Year 2012 by Philip Morris.

Holy shit, Damon is the younger guy. Christ. Suddenly the thought of him having sex on the desk is a lot less disgusting. Hell, if I imagine myself as the one on the desk then it becomes outright appealing.

“I’m not a young lawyer anymore.”

I gasp and spin round, whacking my hand against the cleaning cart in the process. Damon is standing in the doorway arms crossed, leaning against the frame. He hasn’t aged a day in five years. Dark hair, broad shoulders and sleeves rolled halfway up his forearm. He looks exactly the type of guy to fuck women in his office after a party, but he doesn’t look anything like a partner in a law firm.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I was just cleaning the shelves.”

“Looked to me like you were staring at my picture.” His accusation is as smooth as it is arrogant.

“Checking for dust,” I reply.

I try to meet his gaze, but his stare is too intense. It makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong, even though I’m doing my job. Kind of. I place my cloth back on the cart and push it towards the door. He doesn’t move.

“You missed a bit,” he says, nodding back towards his desk.

He’s being an asshole, but he’s also the boss. It’s bad form to get dismissed on the first day. I turn back to the desk not expecting to see anything, but sure enough, there’s a scrunched up piece of paper on the floor.

I can feel his eyes burning into my back. I squat down to pick up the paper instead of bending over. I’m not that stupid.

I hear a groan of disapproval from Damon which just confirms that I did the right thing. I fiddle with the cleaning supplies in my cart again desperately trying not to look at him. He’s still standing in the doorway staring at me.

What do I do now? I just want to get out of here and get on with my job.

Yeah, good one, Kara. That’s what you want to do. You’d rather empty all the trash cans than have him kiss your lips and slide his tongue inside you. You just want to clean toilets instead of having him push you up against the desk and shove his hand up your skirt. Who are you kidding?

I better not look at him while thoughts like that are running through my mind. I push my cart to the door until I’m about to push it into him.

“Excuse me,” I say, politely, but firmly.

Seconds pass excruciatingly slowly until he finally steps to one side. I push my cart around the corner and don’t look back, even though I know I’ve gone the wrong way.

I’d assumed Damon was an aging sexual predator who liked to fuck his employees. It grossed me out, however I prefer that version to the truth. He’s a devilishly handsome lawyer who likes to fuck his employees on his desk. Worst of all, I wish I were one of them.