Meg Maguire - Driving Her Wild

“Wait, wait, wait.” He tailed her, stumbling over a gym mat. “Don’t do that.”

She wheeled around. “Why on earth not? We’re trapped in a building with no power, with no working exits and no way to fix it. How is this not fire department–worthy?”

“Because whatever comes after that is probably going to cost an arm and a leg—getting some emergency electrician out here, or whatever they’d do. And whatever comes after that will definitely get me fired.”

“No offense, but you ought to be fired.”

“Listen...” He dredged his memory for her name, but the image of her naked body seemed to have crowded it out. “Sorry—what’s your name again?”

“Steph.”

“Right, right. Listen, Steph, I’ve got a mortgage to pay and—” The flashlight beam had dropped to her chest again. He raised it enough to register the murder in her eyes. “Sorry. I can’t lose this job.”

“You can’t perform this job.” She snatched the flashlight from him, illuminating her chin ghost-story style, the more seductive parts of her mercifully lost in the shadows.

“Let me call my cousin. He owns the company and he’s a way better electrician than me. I’ll get him to help me figure out what I messed up, and maybe you, me and him are the only people who’ll ever need to know about any of this...?” He let her see how desperate he felt, gave her the shifty hound-dog eyebrows and everything.

“Do you have any concept of how unprofessional this is?”

He ignored the temptation to suggest that flashing strange men in your place of work wasn’t exactly Employee of the Year material, either. “I do.”

“If there was a fire, we would die in here. And given how great my evening’s going so far, that’s the obvious next step.”

“Please. Let me call my cousin, and if he can’t walk me through it...” What, then? He didn’t have the first clue, but he really couldn’t lose this job. If he did, his house would go next, an idea too awful to contemplate. “Lemme call him, okay? Please, Steph?”

Her shoulders dropped. “Fine. I’m going to finish my shower, and if you still don’t have a clue by the time I’m dressed, I will call 9-1-1. I’m not sleeping in here all night.”

“Great. I’ll need my flashlight back, though.”

She slapped it onto his palm, hard enough to sting, and relit her phone, illuminating her way into the locker room.

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