My guilty orgasm seems to have propelled me into a full-on sleep-athon, and I can tell that it’s late when I open my eyes. I reach for my phone to find out the time and remember it’s gone. I creep out of bed, grab my laptop, and crawl back underneath my warm comforter. It’s two p.m. and I never sleep that long. I hit Find my phone again and blink as the map zips across the screen until the little green dot lands someplace else. It’s in Maine, several hundred miles away. Someone has stolen my phone and already taken it all the way to Maine. And charged it. What the fuck? I should probably notify the police. The usual me would call them right away, but the current me can’t be bothered. Too many things to deal with. It was a crappy old phone anyway, and the contract’s up in a couple of weeks. I press the Erase phone? button, and it’s gone.

Dominique is out, and I use the opportunity to take my comforter to the sofa and spend the afternoon eating mac and cheese, watching romance movies, and thinking gloomy thoughts.

Early in the evening, my best friend Monica Internet calls me when she’s finished her shift at the co-op. At the sound of her voice, I almost burst into tears. I miss her like crazy. She sounds like home, and everything else I miss about sleepy Springfield. I’m tired of life being so hard in the big city, of hardly knowing anyone, of my cramped apartment, of work. I used to think that once I nailed my first graduate job, that would be it. I’d be crossing the finish line. I could finally relax and enjoy the fruits of my labors. But I’m coming to realize that it’s just the beginning. I feel like the guy who was doomed to spend eternity rolling a big rock up a hill, only to have it fall back down again.

“Tell me everything!” Monica says. “It’s so quiet here. I can’t wait to hear your news!”

I take a deep breath and launch into the Sexpo story. Monica laughs a lot, as I knew she would.

“I’m sure your boss feels worse about seeing you than you do about seeing him.”

“And that’s exactly why he’s probably going to downsize me.”

“And then you can come back to Springfield!” It’s an old joke. Every time I moan about my difficult life, she tells me to come home, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it is. In parallel with my lifelong ambition to make something of myself, part of me has always yearned for a simple life. A good-hearted husband working for his dad’s company. Me doing a nine-to-five job. Two kids. A pretty Victorian with a big yard out back. And I’m starting to wonder what’s the point of it all. Why I was so eager to leave my home town where I had close friends and a decent family.

“Maybe I will,” I say.

“Are you okay, Rea?” she asks, concern tinging her voice.

“Yeah. I’m overworked and underpaid, but everything else is good. The apartment is nice, if small. And Dominique is a lot of fun.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“I guess I’m a little lonely, too.”

“You just need to find a boyfriend. Someone to hibernate with through the cold months.”

“I met a guy last night,” I say without thinking. I’d been trying to forget about my weird encounter, but Monica and I have been best friends since we were five years old, and it’s impossible to keep anything from her.

“Tell me.” Her tone immediately becomes mischievous.

“Not a guy, guy. I just had a moment. He’s not even my type.”

“I love it when you get cryptic.”

“Stop. At the Sexpo, when I was by myself, this guy came over and said some stuff to me.”

“Like freaky stuff?”

“Kind of.”

“Was he a weirdo?”

“No, he was good looking, actually. Well, maybe a weirdo, but a good-looking one.” Again, I think of those eyes—fathomless pools of intensity. “Just not my kind of look, though.”

“Too emo?”

I giggle. “Nope.”

“But not clean cut enough?”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense. What did he say to you?”

“It’s hard to explain…” I falter, try to collect my thoughts. “I happened to be holding a whip, and he basically offered to use it on me. And when I said I wasn’t into S-and-M, he said he could get the same effect using just his voice.”

“Huh? What did he say exactly?”

I repeat his words, speaking way too fast in my embarrassment. I’m expecting Monica to laugh, but instead she lets out a long breath.

“Hawt,” she says at last.

“You think so?”

“A sexy guy offering to do dirty things to you? Dominate you? Hell, yes.”

I sigh. “Am I a prude?”

“No. But maybe you need to spend some time having fun instead of throwing yourself into long-term relationships.”

“You know too much about my sex life.” I smile to myself. In our late teens and early twenties, while I was always Miss Settled, Monica had a wild sex life. She always dated alternative guys who were only too happy to indulge her desires. Even now, she and her new husband have a sex swing in their bedroom.

“Did he ask you out on a date? Or anything else?”

“No. We didn’t exchange numbers.”

“Shame.”

“That’s what Dominique said.”

“So he just came up to you, said some stuff, and disappeared?”

“Pretty much.”

“Interesting. Wait—where did you say the Sexpo was again?” I tell her, and I can hear her typing furiously. “Okay, I’m sending you a link. Open it up and tell me if you see him.”

It’s a page from the Sexpo website, displaying a ton of photos from the night. The first row are all action shots of Dominique, looking fabulous, followed by the rest of the performers.

“They’re official photos. I can’t see any of the audience,” I say.

“Protecting attendees’ privacy.”

“So he’s not going to be there.” I scroll almost to the bottom, and then I see him. There’s a girl on stage, tied up with a series of intricately knotted ropes that suspend her more than a foot off the ground, face up in an almost horizontal position, legs hitched up high and wide apart. There’s a man standing beside her in his forties, shaved head, in a black T-shirt and jeans. And to the right of him, at the edge of the stage, is the guy.

“That’s him. Image two-sixty-two, beige V-neck.”

“Holy shit! He is insanely good looking!” Monica shrieks. I enlarge the photo and peer at it. He is, by anyone’s standards. He should be modelling for Hipster Daily. Monica makes her trademark sound of appreciation—somewhere between a purr and a yowl. “And what a body. I love it when a guy’s pecs are really big and his shirt just hangs off them. He looks like a nice guy, too.”

I laugh. “And how can you tell that from a photo?”

“He’s got a nice smile. It’s not cocky or arrogant.”

“He’s smiling at the other guy as if they’re sharing a joke. Do you think he’s just finished tying the girl up?”

“You didn’t see the whole show?”

“Nope. I was too busy handing out Dominique’s flyers.” As I scan the trussed-up girl again, there’s heat in my chest. Something akin to envy.

“He’s not dressed for the occasion. He’s just wearing street clothes. I think the guy in black tied her up.”

“Maybe he’s friends with the guy.” I zoom in on his lips, and I imagine him whispering those things to me again. Abruptly, my clit wakes up with a spark of arousal, and there’s a little twinge between my thighs.

“Maybe he’s the girl’s boyfriend.”

“No. He wouldn’t stand by while another man tied her up,” I insist.

Monica breaks into a gale of laughter.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.” My cheeks warm.

“I think he might be just what you need, Rea.”

“No. It’s not me. You know what I’m—”

“I know—friends first,” Monica interrupts, her voice laced with sarcasm.

“Exactly.”

“Which is fine if all you’re looking forward to is warming your slippers by the fire. But if you want a real, passionate connection, there’s nothing wrong with starting with sex.”

“Not that kind of sex.”

Monica hmphs.

“Anyway, enough about me,” I say quickly. “Tell me all your news.”

I’m relieved to change the topic, as talking about the sexy stranger has gotten me all hot and uncomfortable, and I relax as Monica lulls me with stories from home, of all the people I’ve known all my life.

By the time we’ve finished chatting, I have a warm feeling in my belly. I stay in for the rest of the night, watch a comedy, and manage to forget about work for a few hours.

* * *

Early Monday morning, I approach the black glass monstrosity that is Koln & Mathers, my palms sweating beneath fleece-lined gloves. When I slide my ID card through the slot on the automated gate, it goes bleep, and the two glass barriers ahead of me whoosh open. Okay, I haven’t been banned from the building. My anxiety notches down to a manageable eight out of ten. Maybe he’ll be waiting for me at my desk. I enter the elevator, and one of the other account execs dashes through the doors just as they’re closing.

“Hi, Reagan! Good weekend?” Catherine chirps.

“Yeah, quiet night on Friday, party on Saturday,” I say, being as vague as possible. “And yours?”

“Bradley and I went skiing in Vermont with his family.” She begins to tell me all about it, boasting about how cute her boyfriend is and how amazing their life is, and I fix a grin on my face and drift off. All of us execs pretend to get along, but it’s a bunch of bullcrap. In accordance with the cutthroat ethos of the agency, there are only three positions for second-year execs, and there are six of us, the agency believing that a little competition is healthy, as they told us at our induction presentation. Yeah, sure. As long as we don’t die in the process. As a result, we’re bitter rivals, always looking for an opportunity to destabilize each other. I say “we,” but it’s really not my deal. Everything I’ve achieved so far has been through working my ass off, and the thought of winning through deceit makes me a little nauseous. But, as they say, when in the snake pit…

I stride over to my cubicle on wobbly legs. Jeremy Standish isn’t hanging around like the grim reaper at least. But of course he isn’t. He’s way too important. He’ll just get human resources to deal with me. I wave hello to my nearest colleagues and slide into my seat, turning my computer on at the same time. The minute and a half it takes to fire up the email program is torture. If there’s nothing, it means I’m in the clear. If he’s going to do something, he’ll do it right away, not wait until I’ve had a chance to gossip.

I gaze around the achingly trendy space I’ve inhabited for the past months, wondering if it’s the last time I’ll see it. Expensive Swedish ergonomic chair, glass desk top, low walls made from glass bricks. Virtually no privacy at all. Because it’s cool to be observed every second of the day, like a rat in a cage.

At last, a train of unread messages populates the screen, and I start to scan them.

“Reagan, can you come look at this?” my immediate boss, Jenny, calls. Heart hammering, I stand up and follow her spike heels and skinny ass over to her cubicle.

“You worked on the recent Soda Naturals campaign, right?” she says over her shoulder as she tucks her leg awkwardly beneath her and sits down.

“Yes, I did.”

“Great. We’re bidding for a new client, also in the soda market, and I thought you’d be well-placed to assist me.”

“Sure.” So much oxygen has been pumping around my body that I feel a little lightheaded, but I manage to keep my voice steady and present her with my most eager smile.

“We’ll be assisting Jeremy Standish, the Account Director. Have you been introduced?”

I gulp. “Yes,” I say through my strangled voice box.

“Good-o. I’ll just share the client brief with you, and then we’ll have a meeting with him in an hour to discuss specifics.”

“Okay, great.” She hands me the brief and talks me through it. Concentrate. This is something positive. Someone must have recommended me from the Soda Naturals campaign, which is a really good sign. Don’t stuff this up. I sit down at my desk, ignore my emails, and go through the brief, forcing the words and images into my mind until they make sense. But too soon, Jenny is calling me into Jeremy’s office.

“You remember Reagan Lockhart, don’t you?” Jenny says.

“Of course,” he replies, smiling politely, the expression in his eyes inscrutable. My stomach churns.

The meeting goes fast. He’s an efficient speaker, rattling through all the necessaries with no digressions. Masterful, I think. And that image of him in latex rolls back to me queasily.

When the meeting is over, I sneak out to the smoker’s alley, hoping to scrounge a cigarette. Dino, the IT guy, is just finishing up, and he gives me the last one from his pack. I suck on it gratefully, leaning my head back against the alley wall. Jeremy seemed so calm throughout the meeting. But of course he wasn’t going to react in front of Jenny.

Wait—what if HR already left me an email to go see them, and he was actually shocked to see that I was still there? I take a triple drag, grind the cigarette out, and hurtle back upstairs.

I go through my emails carefully, opening each, even the innocuous-looking ones. There’s nothing. I let out a long breath. Nothing at all. I lean back in my chair and let my eyes go out of focus. I’m off the hook. And then a new message alert flashes up in the bottom right of my screen before disappearing again. The subject is Fwd: Saturday night. But it’s not in my inbox. I click on my spam. There it is:

It just crossed my mind that not everyone checks their weekend mail. But please take a look at the email below.

Yours,

A.

The forwarded message was sent to me just before midday on Sunday. It reads:

Hey there,

Unless I’m mistaken, you’re missing your phone. I took it for safekeeping, as I didn’t want it to get lost at the venue. I’m out of town until Tuesday, but I’d be very happy to meet you then and return it to you.

The guy in the brown sweater.

Brown sweater? What the fuck? It’s the guy from the Sexpo. Not that his sweater was brown. It was more beige or oatmeal than anything. And kind of sexy, actually. The low V-neck, the flash of pecs. My nipples tighten at the recollection. He has my phone. And he’s somehow managed to find me on the internet. All these things are pretty darn startling by themselves, but rolled together, they’re a giant ball of freakiness.

I email Monica. She probably won’t see it for a while, but I need to share.

Her reply comes immediately. So everything’s okay this morning?

I giggle. She’s being cautious because it’s my work email, and this is code for “So you haven’t been fired yet?”

Everything’s fine so far. No big surprises. But, seriously—HOW did he manage to find me???

Maybe he went through your phone?

It has a password.

Anyway, who cares how he found you? You’ve got a reason to meet him again!!!

I care! And I care a lot if he’s a stalker, or a phone hacker or whatever, and he’s gotten into my phone and looked at all my personal details.

It’s not that easy to hack phone passwords, you know. But please tell me you didn’t pick something obvious?

I didn’t, I lie. Only my birthday. But he wouldn’t have known it, of course. You know, I don’t really need that phone back. I can get an upgrade in a few weeks.

A few weeks is a loooong time not to have a phone. Quit making excuses and meet him! I have to start work now. Love you! xx

She’s right. It is a long time. I hit reply to his message. But then Jenny calls me over again because Jeremy wants to workshop some ideas with us.

We don’t get a lunch break. Instead, Jeremy has some sandwiches delivered from the new gourmet Italian deli across the street. I’m almost too stressed to notice how delicious the combination of mozzarella and Napoli salami is. My head is not in a good place. I’m trying not to be distracted by thoughts of Brown Sweater Guy’s email, and every time I look at Jeremy, I feel sick.

The afternoon passes excruciatingly slowly, but at 4pm, Jeremy suggests we wrap it up. I follow Jenny out of his office, but at the last moment, he calls my name in a low voice. I turn, a spike of adrenaline piercing my chest. As he beckons me over to his desk, my heart thumps so hard a pulse pounds in my throat. Is this it? The abrupt end to my fledgling career?

He regards me steadily. “I’m glad that we share an interest in the—uh—unconventional,” he begins, “but, unfortunately, not everyone feels the same way. And such revelations can be damaging for all concerned. So I hope I can rely on your discretion in the office.”

I blink, not sure that I’ve heard right. “Of course, you can,” I babble. “I value my own privacy, too.”

“Good. Then we have an understanding.” He gives a single deep nod—conversation over.

I flash him a smile and leave the room. He thinks we have a pact. I’m safe, as long as I don’t tell on him. Which is never going to happen. And, even better, he can’t fire me now. I want to let out a whoop and do a dorky fist-pump.

Back at my desk and high on endorphins, I finish replying to the message.

Hi!

That’s amazing! I thought I’d never see it again. I don’t know how you found me, but I’m glad you did. I can meet after work on Tuesday. What time’s good for you?

Thank you so much!

Reagan.

As I hit send, I’m already regretting being so gushy. But what the hell? I feel a little giddy and like celebrating the biggest irony of the year—Suzie Straightlace secures her career, not through working her ass off, or even by shafting her colleagues, but by making someone think she’s into kink. Amazing.

I minimize my email and return to the brief I’m working on, but within 60 seconds, a new message alert pops up.

My pleasure, Reagan.

Let’s meet at The Black Heart. 8pm.

Yours,

Adler.

“Adler,” I whisper. That’s a sexy name. And it suits him. A hell of a lot better than guy in the brown sweater. I’ll reply later. I close the email program and get back to work. Discovering that I’m not about to get fired has given me a giant burst of energy, and all kinds of ideas are sparking off each other in my brain. I work like a machine until 7:30 p.m. when I stop and reward myself by googling The Black Heart. It’s in the center of The Village, down a set of stairs, and it looks like a dive bar. Reviewers praise the “intimate atmosphere” and “wickedly dark cocktails.” Hmmm. Not the kind of place where I usually hang out. But it doesn’t matter. I’m just going to pick up my phone. I’ll offer to buy him a drink to thank him, and then I’ll leave. That’s all. I write Adler a simple message saying I’ll see him there and shut down the computer before he has a chance to reply.