Aching for Always by Gwyn Cready

lungful of air—“handle it?”
    â€œNo problem,” Joss said, and added a brisk trombone motion.
    Rogan grabbed the wall for support. “No, don’t handle it!”
    â€œDon’t handle it, sir?” Pat said. “Or handle it? I’m confused.”
    â€œUh . . . uh . . .”
    â€œI’ve got the report right here. I could show you—”
    â€œ
No!
Just . . . take . . . to . . . Finance . . . report . . . GAAP . . . handle.” The effort was clearly overwhelming. He looked like he might begin to cry.
    â€œYou want me to handle it with Finance?” Pat said, clearly befuddled.
    â€œYes, please!”
    â€œDo you mind if I just head home from there?”
    â€œNo. No.
Go.
”
    Joss, who had no real musical ability, found herself moving easily from trombone to harmonica.
    Pat said, “You’re all taken care of?”
    He let out a long, strangled cry that ended in an affirmative squeak.
    Pat clicked off.
    â€œNo, no, no,” he croaked, but he was clawing at the air like a lobster in a tank. “Not like this.”
    â€œLi’ wha’?” Joss gazed up innocently.
    He scrunched his face and curled his arms, as if he were summoning the spirit of the Hulk or perhaps pulling himself inside out face-first. With a grunt worthy of a lumberjack, he pushed her shoulders back and freed himself.
    â€œTchhhhhhhhhhhhk-k-k-k.”
He gasped.
    Oh, God, the cerebral cortex has risen from the dead! She was in big trouble.
    He swung in a circle, dazed, making him look a little bit like a Geiger counter having a run-in with high-grade uranium.
    She considered making a dash for it and hiding out until Tuesday, but it would only delay the inevitable; and, in any case, she didn’t see her bra or blouse anymore, which would make for an awkward interlude on the elevator.
    He swept her off the floor and into his arms. “Desk,” he demanded hoarsely.
    Your own fault, sister
, she thought, clinging tightly as he hobbled wildly across the room. Supercharge him like that, and who knows what’s going to strike his fancy. She was lucky she wasn’t going to be smooshed against his window, performing an unorthodox game of office charades for the accountants across the across.
    Rogan dropped her in front of the monitor. She shifted her hips to get them off what had to be either a torturer’s mace or Brand Industries’ famed Innovation Star award. This was going to be a pretty innovative initiative.
    Somewhere, maybe next to the cash flow statement, wherever that was, her phone vibrated with an incoming text. Rogan didn’t seem to be inclined to let her get it. He lifted her legs and repositioned her closer to him, knocking a stack of annual reports and the clock to the floor with a crash.
    â€œCondom,” she commanded.
    â€œNot likely.” Reaching around her skirt, he found her zipper and undid it. The skirt went the way of the reports. Only a thin pair of panties stood between her and the red zone.
    He gazed at his handiwork. “Oh my God. This is the most awe-inspiring sight. Like Angkor Wat and Megan Fox rolled into one.” He grabbed his iPhone.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œNothing.” He held the phone at arm’s length and pointed it at her.
    â€œRogan.”
She flung her arms across her chest.
    â€œJust checking my call log. I think I might have missed something.”
    â€œYou know how I feel about photos.”
    â€œYou’re right.” He lowered the phone, contrite. “I shouldn’t expect you to be as adventurous as Daphne. It’s unfair to you and unfair to her.”
    â€œ
Daphne
did this?” Daphne had breasts the size of Strawberry Whoppers and a chin that receded so far, it had to follow her in a cab.
    â€œEveryone’s different, of course. I respect your boundaries.”
    Joss hoisted herself up on her elbows, twisted one hip toward him and thrust her