Chapter 1: Stockroom After Hours
The stockroom’s fluorescent lights buzzed like dying insects, casting a sickly yellow glow over everything. Towering pallets of mismatched condoms and half-empty boxes of lube created narrow canyons of shadow. Some boxes were still stamped with the cheerful blue Cloud 9 logo; others were torn open and discarded, their contents spilling into plastic bins where last night’s stock was left to “rest.” The air hummed. It carried the faint, chemical scent of cleaning fluid, the musk of dust, and underneath, something sweeter, something human, clinging to the cardboard and plastic.
Amy leaned against a pallet of ultra-soft, four-ply toilet paper, the plastic wrap cool through her thin polo shirt. She’d been counting lightbulbs for fifteen minutes, the numbers blurring. Not because of the inventory, but because of the echo of his footsteps two aisles over.She heard him before she saw him—that particular shuffle, a mix of purpose and hesitation. Jonah rounded the corner, a clipboard in hand, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“Hey,” she said, her voice cutting through the hum.He jumped, almost dropping the board. “Amy.Hey.I didn’t… I was just doing the count on paper towels. Garrett says we’re missing a whole skid from the delivery.”
“Garrett says a lot of things,” Amy replied, pushing off from the pallet. She walked toward him, her sneakers silent on the concrete floor. “Most of them are stupid.”
Jonah smiled, that earnest, slightly crooked smile that always made her stomach do something inconvenient.“Probably. But the numbers don’t lie.”
“Numbers lie all the time,” she said, stopping just a foot from him. She could smell his detergent, something like cedar and linen, cutting through the stockroom funk. He was tall, so she had to look up. His floppy brown hair was a mess, probably from running his hands through it.He looked down at his clipboard, then back at her.“Everything okay? You seem… intense.”
“I’m tired, Jonah.” The words came out sharper than she intended.
“Of the counts?I can finish them if you—”
“No. Not of the counts.” She took another step, closing the distance. The bulk of the toilet paper pallet was behind him now, a white, cushioned wall. “I’m tired of waiting.”
His breath hitched.The clipboard hung limp at his side. “Waiting for what?”
“For you.” Her hand came up, not to his face, but to his chest, fingers splaying over the cheap Cloud 9 fabric.She felt the solid warmth of him, the quickening beat of his heart. “For this.”
“Amy, we’re at work,” he whispered, but he didn’t move.His eyes were wide, dark, fixed on hers.
“I know exactly where we are.” Her other hand came up, palm flat against the plastic-wrapped pallet beside his head, caging him in.“And I know you’ve been thinking about it, too. All those looks. All those almosts in the break room.”
“I didn’t want to… I mean, with your situation, and the policy…”
“Forget the policy.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, rough at the edges.She leaned in, her lips almost brushing his ear. “And forget my situation. Right now, it’s just this.”
She moved her hand from his chest, sliding it down the flat plane of his stomach, feeling the muscles tense beneath her touch. His breath came out in a shaky rush. When her fingers found the waistband of his khakis, she didn’t hesitate. She dipped her thumb beneath the fabric, feeling the heat of his skin, and hooked it on the button.
“Amy,” he breathed, a protest that sounded like a prayer.“Shhh.” She looked up at him, holding his gaze. “You talk too much.”
With a deft twist, she popped the button open. The sound was obscenely loud in the buzzing quiet.The zipper was next.She didn’t use her fingers. She lowered herself, her knees pressing into the hard, gritty floor, and kept her eyes locked on his as she leaned forward. She caught the metal tab of his zipper with her teeth, tugged it down slowly.The metallic grind was a visceral counterpoint to the fluorescent buzz overhead.
Jonah’s head fell back with a soft thud against the toilet paper.A stifled groan escaped his throat. His hands came up, not to stop her, but to fist helplessly at his sides.
She freed the zipper, spat the tab from her mouth. “See?” she murmured, her hands now on his hips. “No more waiting.”
The world narrowed to the stretch of fabric before her, the charged space between them, the oppressive, buzzing yellow light. The cardboard and plastic of Cloud 9’s overstock formed a silent, judgmental audience. She was about to pull him free, to take him into her mouth and make him forget about paper towels and Garrett and every other damn thing, when a sudden, sharp crackle shattered the moment.
The walkie-talkie on Jonah’s belt erupted with static, followed by Dina’s voice, tinny and impatient. “Simms!I need you at customer service for a code spark.Some kid smashed a display of glitter glue. It’s a biohazard and an eyesore.Now.”
The spell broke. Jonah’s eyes snapped open, wide with a panic that wasn’t about glitter glue. Amy rocked back on her heels, letting out a long, frustrated breath she felt in her bones.
Jonah stared down at her, his face flushed, his pants still open. The reality of the interrupted moment crashed over them both, harsher than the fluorescents.
“You should…” Amy began, her voice hoarse.She gestured vaguely.“Right. Yeah.” His hands fumbled, rushed, trying to restore order.The zipper sounded much louder going up.The button took two tries.
He looked at her, still kneeling on the floor, a complex storm of disappointment and raw need swirling in his eyes. “Amy…”
“Go,” she said, pushing herself up, brushing the dust from her knees. Her heart was pounding a wild, furious rhythm against her ribs. “Dina needs you for the glitter glue.”
“This isn’t…” He gestured between them, helpless.
“I know what it isn’t,” she said, turning away before he could see the heat in her own cheeks, the tremor in her hands. “Just go.”
She listened to his retreating footsteps, quick and awkward, fading down the aisle.The buzz of the lights seemed louder now, a mocking chorus. She leaned her forehead against the cool plastic of the condom pallet, the promise of the moment evaporating into the sterile, sweaty air, leaving only the taste of metal and the sharp, unsated ache of want.