LITMIR.BIZ

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knows there’s no such thing as a thirteenth floor. It’s straight-up bad luck. Look at any control panel of elevator buttons, whether in an apartment building, hotel, skyscraper – there will never be a 13. But Apollyon LLC did the thirteenth-floor thing with pride, though it had apparently been re-christened ‘The Penthouse’ by Dorian Holder, CEO in some covert operation.

      Because he could do that shit. He could do whatever he wanted.

      Still can.

      The thirteenth floor was actually the thirty-first floor (see what they did there?) and last I had known was a sweet little bar with a view of the city, and a couple of faux offices in which I assumed private dances happened. Maybe a random handjob or two. Seeing as Mr Colossimo’s and his ever-changing Vice Presidents’ desks had always been next to the conference room on the nineteenth, and that I was always a sucker for water-cooler gossip, that wasn’t an unreasonable call. My poor former boss was not only afraid of climbing stairs, riding the elevator apparently stressed him to the max. If it had been me, I’d have been hanging on the top floor all the frigging time.

      Anyhoo.

      The People Who Matter held business meetings, bachelor parties and whatnot on the mysterious thirteenth floor, but none of the businesses in our building had ever done any office nesting, per se. Or they’d done some nesting, of course, but no settling in. Nothing wholesome or businesslike.

      Must admit, I was beyond curious.

      When the massive metal doors spread open, I was surprised to find that whatever was once the thirteenth had been transformed into yet another generic-looking level, sans busy cubicles. That was the transformation of the businessmen’s club? A smashing disappointment. It was as though I’d just been summoned to the headmaster’s office, which, in a sense, I had.

      Why did that thought turn me on? Headmaster. Not as if I would do anything about it with Mr Holder, I thought. I mumbled ‘headmaster’ three times, and pictured Dorian Holder in what were likely to be boxer-briefs. Rather than easing my fear, my anxiety went up a notch. Danger on the horizon.

      * * *

      Dorian Holder’s green office door was all oaken majesty and power, looming at the far end of a narrow white hallway. All the other new offices were sterile and empty, with glass doors reflecting a ghostly image of me as I trudged down the impossibly long industrial-grey carpet. But there was no turning back. The door was, like, a million feet tall, as intense and commanding as an entrance could be. He had already got a new plaque:

      DORIAN H. HOLDER

      CEO HOLDER ENTERPRISES

      ACTING PRESIDENT, APOLLYON LLC

      The contractors had been busy. As I mentioned, nobody ever utilised the mysterious thirteenth floor for anything non-recreational, so they must’ve put all of this newness together in a week. Right behind Mr Colossimo’s fat back! Well played, Mr Holder.

      I rapped my knuckles against the hard wood, feeling very much as though I were in a fairy tale, sans prince. Lily in Wonderland.

      Much to my surprise, a slammin’ hot blonde, whom I hadn’t seen around Apollyon ever, ushered me in. The brand-new she-creature flashed her expensive-looking teeth while looking me up and down. Her eyes stopped at my shoes, and she sneered, ever so slightly. But I caught the scorn. I was supposed to. What was up with these newcomers and their shoe fetish? I stared down at my feet, wanting to just melt into my Steve Maddens, which had never looked more awful to me.

      ‘Right this way,’ she said, not sounding particularly inviting. She might as well have said, ‘Get out’. After all, I was already standing in the office. Her office. If the – I glanced at her desk.

      BEATRICE COLLINS, ASSISTANT TO

      DORIAN HOLDER, CEO

      HOLDER ENTERPRISES

       OK, then. Real original, Holder, fucking the imported secretary.

      Beatrice Collins looked about eighteen, though she was surely my age, just with some surgical trimmings and tuckings. Question was, how did someone get a job like hers so young, while I seemed to be in a holding pattern? Granted, ‘Assistant’ is not the greatest title, but you could bet she made several times what I did, and could work wherever she wanted. Dorian Holder would surely give the best recommendation.

      Meanwhile, my life was on pause.

      You know, I went to the wrong school, that’s what. Boston College doesn’t groom one for that certain something Beatrice Collins and Dorian Holder had. That confidence, that self-assuredness, that sense of entitlement. Liberal arts just make you bitter and leave you with a BA in English, concentration in Communications. Should so have gone the business track.

      Or been born to a more well-to-do family. Something told me Beatrice was a daddy’s girl, and, heck, I don’t even have a daddy. My fate was sealed while I was still in utero.

      ‘Thank you, Beatrice.’ Taking a brief glance around, I added, ‘Been a busy day, right?’

      ‘Not a problem.’ Her tone was icy. ‘Ms Dewitt.’

      It clearly was a problem. I wasn’t supposed to call her Beatrice without permission. ‘Thanks, anyway.’ I matched her voice. ‘Ms Collins.’

      ‘Mr Holder has been waiting for you.’ Beatrice Collins wrinkled her adorable nose, strutted back to her desk and pretended to shuffle papers. Without looking up again, she added, ‘For quite some time now.’

      ‘Got it. I apologised, remember?’

      Should I just be straight up and tell her I’m hardly a threat? I wondered. Anyway, Ms Thing sat back down at her desk and pushed a button. ‘Mr Holder? A Lily Dewitt is here for your meeting.’

      ‘A moment, Ms Collins.’ His deep voice was smooth even through an intercom.

      ‘Of course, sir.’ Beatrice Collins nodded at a row of severe-looking chairs lined up by a coffee table. ‘Feel free to sit.’

      ‘Thank you.’ I followed her directive, but added, ‘Freedom is a good thing.’

      No response. She began tapping away at her keyboard again, a shade too loud.

      Anyhow, the dullest-looking magazine collection a girl could ever ask for was fanned in a perfect semi-circle on the table. Money. Forbes. Wired. Sail. Oh, wait: National Geographic Travel. That would have to do. I flicked it open and escaped from reality, immersing myself in the Virgin Islands, almost smelling the salty air. Images of turquoise waters, colourful fish and coral reefs were most soothing to my frazzled countenance. Imagining a vacation someplace I will never afford, swimming in a warm ocean, soaking up the island breeze, was even better than picturing Dorian Holder, CEO naked, as in my mother’s advice about stagefright.

       Imagine he’s in his underwear.

      Come to think of it, picturing him this side of naked was probably not the best coping method. Not soothing, not at all.

      In fact, the coping method had somehow faded to a sexual fantasy and was causing wicked tingle-action. No fair. Maybe later, when hanging with my electronic companion before I fell asleep, that would be a soothing thing. Dorian Holder, boxer-briefs, black and white, Calvin Klein … For the record, Dorian Holder totally didn’t deserve to be thought about naked or thereabouts while I got off. Hopefully, I’d see some other, nicer, better hottie on the way home to star in my dreams. Yeah, right.

      So I stared at pictures of wise-looking sea turtles, mentally transporting myself to a land far, far away …

      ‘Ms Dewitt?’

      I gasped, dropping the magazine.

      No fair. You shouldn’t just sneak up on a girl like that, especially if you’re a guy who’s hot, interesting and a domineering asshole. Like, if you happen to get lucky enough to be born Dorian Holder, CEO. Or something.

      Flustered,

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