Dahlia

As soon as I get back from the storeroom to my desk, my phone double vibrates, the alert for a regular text message. I assume it's going to be Bunny, but when I turn the phone over, the name on the alert stops my blood in my veins.

It's August. He's contacting me directly?

Heart pounding, I tap on the message to open it, but quickly flip my phone back over when Lori’s blonde hair catches my attention from the corner of my eye.

“I want to thank you for following up about Kirkman,” she starts, her eyes sweeping the room distractedly. I'm grateful that she's not looking at me directly, because I know that my cheeks are flushed, and she could probably see my heart beating like a cartoon right now if she looked at my chest.

“Oh, yeah, sure…” I croak, swallowing nervously. I can't get August out of my mind and I try desperately to push thoughts of him aside and focus only on Lori. I need to be in this moment right now.

“I got a hold of his manager, or whatever she is. Was she there too?”

“Manager?” I repeat, confused.

“Yeah, I figured it was Melanie. Anyway, she wasn't sure that there was an opportunity available there.”

“Oh,” I mutter, not sure what to say. The realization of what she's saying starts to sink in: she actually reached out to Kirkman to try to get this contract. She failed, but that's not really the point. I almost created a nuclear catastrophe. What if Melanie had said yes?

Another tidal wave of guilt washes through me as I remember that I've got an unanswered text from August sitting right here on my cell phone.

“So, anyway, I wanted to thank you for trying, Dahlia. It really means a lot,” Lori says distractedly. It seems as though she's giving me this speech out of obligation, as though it's an item on her to do list.

“Don't mention it,” I mumble in response, but I don't think she's listening. She knocks the top of the cubicle wall twice as a way of saying goodbye and then strides off, veering between the rows, looking at everyone like she's trying to pick her next prey.

A sick feeling sloshes through my stomach as I pick my phone up again. The message from August is right there, glowing from the small screen.

I need to speak with you. Please call.

My mouth is as dry as sand as I press the tiny phone icon and listen to the imitation ringing noise. He picks up before it completes.

“Dahlia,” he growls.

“Yes…” I whisper. My heart is beating so loudly I barely hear his voice. Even though I'm terrified he's angry at me, I'm also still sweating and trembling from touching myself in the storeroom not five minutes ago. August may not realize it, but he was just telling me to touch myself, and I was doing everything he asked. I'm so confused, I barely know what to say.

“I think it's better if we do this in person,” he says in clipped, restrained syllables. “Can you please meet me at my home office?”

“Home office?” I repeat, realizing that I'm not going to be even in a public space. I will be trapped with him, alone, unable to conceal anything from his piercing, steely eyes.

“I'll text you the address,” he says, and then the line goes dead. Three seconds later, the address pops up on my screen.

My hands tremble as I try to go back to work, typing the same phone number into the data entry field three times before I get it right. My fingers are shaking so hard they're not even obeying simple commands to type the right keys. After ten minutes or so I realize how useless I am, how distracted. Just hearing his voice — so raw, so direct — is almost too much for me. Though I'm terrified to go, I know I will. I have to. I don't have a choice.

The ride to his house is only a few minutes and passes like a dream. I'm just being drawn in, doing as I'm told, unable to resist. When I press the security button on the panel to the front door, he doesn't even answer. I only hear the click of the bolt as he remotely allows me in.

Tentatively I push open the security door and cross the foyer, wondering what to do next. The stairway door opens at the end of the hall, swinging inward and he steps out. His gaze is fiery and crystal-clear all the way from the end of the hallway as he jerks his chin toward me, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His forearm muscles are ropey and knotted, his stance wide as he holds the steel security door open with his back.

Meekly I come forward, following him up the three flights of stairs to another security door. He slides his hand across the biometric panel and it opens silently.

I can't stand it; he's not saying anything. Helplessly I simply follow him through the large, loft-like room. It's a high-ceilinged space with minimal furniture in it. Bare brick walls loom twenty feet up, disappearing into the gloom around the ceiling. Banks of reinforced glass block filter light into the sparsely decorated living spaces. Simple, sturdy pieces are arranged in geometric patterns: a boxy leather sofa, two chrome chairs, a slab of petrified wood among them serving as a coffee table.

I can't help but look around, curious. In comparison with his generic Instagram feed, this is startlingly authentic. This is his real life. This is his home, which I've never seen before.

It's vast, stretching on for what feels like a whole football field. The furniture is laid out to create rooms even though there are no walls. There are voids between the furniture groupings, indicating to any observer that he intended for the living room to exist because there’s a sofa. He intended for the dining room to exist where the table and chairs are. He intended to for the bedroom to exist where the bed is…

Which is right where we are heading.

My footsteps echo on the polished concrete floors, bouncing off the brick walls and coming right back to me. I cross the room swiftly, trying to keep up. Finally, he comes to a table and snaps open a laptop, tapping angrily until a photograph appears on the screen. Then he steps aside.

“This is you?”

I squint at it, trying to make it out. At first I don't understand, but then… Oh my God.

“This is supposed to be what, exactly?”

“That is Kirkman East's penis,” he growls. “What do you know about this?”

I shake my head, wanting to cry but not even understanding exactly why.

“I don't know anything about this. Why are you showing this to me?”

“I need to see your hands.”

He walks toward me with his hands out. I lift my arms, holding my hands in midair, unsure what to do. When he reaches me, he holds my wrists, flipping my hands over. As soon as our skin touches, I feel faint. I want to crumple where I stand.

“You're not wearing any nail polish.”

“No,” I croak.

“When is the last time you wore nail polish?”

I shake my head. “I usually… I mean, I don't? Just my, um, toes?”

He raises an eyebrow at me. I dare to look him right in the eyes, to see what he's really feeling. As our eyes meet, I feel him soften slightly, but he is still on edge, dangerous.

“Your toes?”

“Do you need to see those too?”

Suddenly, a small smile curls the corner of his lips. Relief floods me. I feel like I can finally let my breath out.

“No, I don't need to see your toes,” he sighs, dropping my wrists. My hands fall limply back to my sides, and immediately I miss his touch.

His shoulders slump slightly as he walks over to the bed, and then he turns around and sits heavily on the end of it, leaning forward to cradle his head in his hands.

“I'm so sorry, Dahlia… you must think I'm insane.”

I shake my head. What is he talking about? Did he figure it all out? Is he here to accuse me?

“God, I really hate musicians,” he groans. The groan dissolves into a chuckle and he looks up at me, shaking his head apologetically.

“This job can really make you crazy,” he shrugs helplessly. “Sometimes… these clients…”

“Oh, I understand,” I smile back, relieved that we have something in common to talk about. “It's like herding cats or something.”

He scrubs his palms over his stubbled chin, rolling his eyes and nodding. “That would be easier. Cats make more sense.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I shift my weight from hip to hip uncertainly. My eyes drink in all the details of the space. King-size bed, with a charcoal gray comforter spread neatly across it. Not a fluffy comforter like mine, but a light, thin cotton one with rectangular quilting dividing the surface. Three pillows stretch across the head of the bed, precisely arranged to meet the edges. Even though it is tailored looking and angular, so different from my fluffy floral bed, it still looks inviting. Part of me aches to try it out, like Goldilocks.

He stands up again, more relaxed this time. His eyes drift over me, lingering at the straps of my sandals, the sash of my dress around my waist. Then he seems to catch himself again and he forces his eyes to meet mine. He blinks several times, shaking his head tightly.

“Well, thank you so much for coming,” he says, clearing his throat. “I'm sorry to have disturbed you. I just really need to see… nothing. Never mind. It's just work.”

I take a tentative step toward him. “You just needed to see, what?”

He shrugs. “Your nail polish. I’m looking for blue nail polish.”

I shake my head apologetically. “Blue nail polish isn’t really my style.”

He smiles at me. Such a relief to see it, such a relief to see him up close. There is such a new dimension to the communications that we've been having, and being close to him in real life now adds so much to the experience. In a way, I feel so much closer to him than I ever have, and now it seems inevitable. We've already shared so much…

“I'm glad to hear that,” he says, his voice low, “your nails are fine the way they are.”

His eyes drift down again, to my sandals.

“Pink,” he says.

I wiggle my toes lightly, watching his eyes track the movement. Then, holding my breath, I take another step toward him.

He glances at me, startled, and begins to step back. Before I know it, I've reached out a hand to stop him. He stares down at it, surprised. My fingers close around the fabric of his shirt. And I don't want to let go.

“Dahlia, no. We can't…”

“I feel like we have to,” I breathe, hearing the truth in my words as I finally dare to speak them out loud.

“Dahlia,” he says again. I love the sound of it. He's been saying tell me so many times, and I imagined his voice every time. But now, hearing my name on his lips, I have crossed the threshold. I can't go back again.