I was just finishing a meeting with a client when my superpower twitched. They'd invited me to join them for lunch and I was about to accept-- mostly because one of the lawyers was an exquisite Black woman with the most delicious Caribbean accent-- but that twitch was insistent.
Do I have a secret superpower that gets me into women's panties (and other intimate venues) at unexpected times? I still can't decide. But I listened to it this time and, well...
I didn't know what was going to happen. I stayed alert in the elevator but no one joined on the way down except an elderly couple complaining about the prices at the street level café. The building was mixed use, offices above and commercial below, with an underground garage. The couple got out at the garage level ahead of me so I didn't see the woman until I'd almost reached my car. She was attractive in a suburban sort of way. Modest blouse, loose pants, practical shoes. The twitch poked me again, down there. The look on her face, however, showed anything but erotic thoughts.
As I came up to my spot she saw me. Did I spy a flash of panic? My eyes followed hers to my car. One fender sported a long, ugly scratch that hadn't been there before. Her eyes returned to mine. She seemed ready to cry, an extreme reaction, it seemed, to such minor damage.
Next to my car was a late model SUV parked at an odd angle in its spot. I took in the scene. I knew exactly what to do: nothing.
"That's... your car?"
As an answer I pressed a button on my key fob. My trunk opened and I placed my briefcase in it. I don't usually carry a briefcase. Backpacks are much more practical. But for a meeting with high octane financial people I wear a criminally overpriced bespoke suit and carry a briefcase covered in a cloud-soft Italian leather that could bring a dominatrix to her knees. I took my time taking off the jacket and tie, folded them carefully next to the case, rolled up my sleeves.
I could tell she liked what she saw. But then she took in the attaché, the suit, the very expensive vehicle, my stern silence and precise movements, and nearly burst into tears right there amid the concrete and chrome.
"I'm so sorry. I really don't know how this happened. I just--" she flapped her arms like a bird trying to fly out of a trap. "I was just-- and then I heard this sound--" She looked around wildly but there was no help, only harsh ceiling lights and echoing silence. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what I'm going to do."
I waited. At the moment she was about to start babbling again, I said, "License."
"Oh. Oh, of course." She fumbled in her purse. She really was a pleasant sight. 30ish, very wholesome, pale skin nearly transparent.
I photographed her license and returned it. Then I spent way longer than necessary photographing the damage, shaking my head and making noises to communicate my distress. "Insurance. Registration."
"Um, yes." When she opened her purse again I knew I had her. Who keeps that stuff in their purse? She snapped it closed and for the first time really looked me in the eye. "I need to explain." She searched again around the garage without finding the tiniest bit of aid or comfort. Nor any in me. The silent treatment was getting to her. The elevator dinged. She trembled as if the FBI were about to step out and arrest her.
I opened the passenger door to my car and gestured. She got in. What else could she do? I got in my side and turned in the driver's seat to face her.
She waited for me to start whatever conversation she hoped I would start, an expression of sympathy, perhaps. That was not to be. I waited, like a cat with a cornered mouse. A mouse with green eyes. Her complexion was flawless, her lips a strawberry pink that I didn't think was paint, her neck a sculpture carved by a master from the finest Carrera marble.
"It's just that-- this is so embarrassing. It's just that it's not mine. My car. So--"
I made the tiniest glance toward the offending SUV.
"It's insured. I know it is. I mean, it's supposed to be if he--"
She got a raised eyebrow in response. She face forward, staring though the windshield. "It's just that I can't, I won't be able to--" She closed her eyes.
I really liked her long eyelashes, especially shining and moist. I imagined them wetting my abdomen. Reaching across, deliberately invading her personal space, I pressed the control to tilt her seat back a bit to a more comfortable angle. I didn't know yet what her problem was, but I had a good idea I knew where it was going to lead those lashes.
Her hands stroked the seat. More soft, expensive leather. A bit less tense, she finally began her sad tale. "My ex is an asshole." A moment to breathe. "He took the car and I got the condo. I'm borrowing..."
Let's cut to the chase. Her ex got the vehicle and bank account and she got the real estate. Typical. But she was going back to school, getting her MBA, and couldn't afford her own transportation, even a used piece of shit econobox. She had to clear out some of his crap and conveniently he was out of town with his new girlfriend and she happened to have (I politely didn't ask how) his extra keys. And happened to stop on the way at the cafe upstairs. And here we were. It was time to press my advantage.
I took her hand in mine and massaged it. She studied me with hope, no doubt expecting sympathy. Pretty girls in tears get sympathy, right? Wrong. "So you didn't borrow it. You stole it."
"No! I just--"
"Can I assume you passed your commercial law course?" I didn't wait for an answer. "And now you've caused an accident while committing a felony. I understand why you're concerned." I leaned over her. I put a hand on her thigh while placing her hand, still in mine, on my own thigh. "You're in a serious jam. But I'm happy to help you out."
A glimmer of optimism passed over those moist, very green eyes. She didn't know yet how happy my help was going to make me; nor did she seem to notice how physically close we were. "That's... great. Thanks." She lifted her head toward me. Big eyes like emeralds.
"My guess is that the body work will run at least three grand. Just make out a check to me now and I'll trust you for the rest later when I get the official estimate. Your ex doesn't need to know."
She fell back to the headrest. "I don't-- three thousand dollars? It was just a scratch!"
"New fender air freighted from Italy, paint match, skilled labor. It adds up." I removed my hand from her leg briefly to wave at my luxury interior. Then put it back on her higher up. She was showing a bit of camel toe. "Oh," I pretended to realize, "You mentioned that you're a little tight, aren't you?" Now it was my turn to hope: that her tightness wasn't just financial.
"Tuition. Taxes." She was staring at the roof, probably going over her impossible budget in her mind.
"Perhaps," I said in as friendly a voice as possible, considering my growing lust, "We can make an arrangement."
She sat up immediately. "I'm an accountant! Experienced!" Like Dorothy discovering her shoes can fly her back home from Oz.
My laugh instantly demonstrated her naiveté. She did look a bit like a young Judy Garland. That wholesomeness just begging to be turned inside out. "I already have more accountants than I care to admit. What I don't have..." With that I brushed a finger along her trembling lips. I think they really were naturally strawberry. She could have worked her way through school modeling for a cosmetic company.
