Your boss kept the company Mercedes on the top floor of the building's garage. You took the elevator up at 10:14 because he had texted that he needed it brought down. The keys were in the magnetic box under the front bumper. The driver's seat was warm. The cabin smelled like leather and his cologne. There was a small vial in the cupholder. You did not know what it was for. You uncapped it.
The smell was sweeter than perfume. You closed your eyes for a second. When you opened them the city below the windshield was at a different angle — you had sunk into the seat. The headrest had stopped fitting the back of your head. Your hair shortened on your neck and the vent blew across a bob that was not yours. Your jaw narrowed against the seatbelt strap. Your throat felt thinner. You did not look in the mirror. Not yet.
Your shirt pulled tight across your chest and then the buttons were not buttons anymore — the fabric had become a strip of red across your sternum. Your jeans softened into denim that ended high on your thigh. You looked at your hand on the steering wheel and your nails were painted. You did not paint them. The bangle on your wrist clinked against the leather. The wheel felt large under your hand. Your hand had thinned.
You did not turn the car on. Your phone vibrated in the passenger seat — an address you did not know, a name you did not recognize. The garage elevator dinged two floors below you. The dashboard clock said 10:21. You sat up. The leather creaked under you. Your knees pressed together by themselves. A man's heel scuffed against the concrete behind the car, and a hand reached for the passenger door handle.
***
The man got in without speaking. He smelled like single-malt and rain. He pulled the passenger door shut. He looked you up and down. "You're new," he said, and it wasn't a question. You did not know what to say. He reached over and his hand was warm at the back of your neck.
He pulled you across the console and kissed you. His mouth tasted like the whisky. His hand went under your skirt. He pressed you into the steering wheel and the airbag cover dug into your back. His other hand went to his belt. You climbed across and he was already inside you as you lowered yourself, your weight on your hands against the console. He was fully dressed. You were half-naked. The wheel was at your back. He kept his fingers on the back of your neck. Your skirt was around your waist. The skyline was outside the windshield.
He moved under you. The seat groaned. Your boss's name surfaced for a moment in your head and then sank. The address on your phone was for you. The car had been for you. You braced your hand on the dashboard. The bangle on your wrist clinked against the leather. He came inside you and you came around him. You did not know whose name you had been answering to an hour ago.
You sat still on him for a long minute. He kissed the side of your throat. He said the name on your phone and it was yours. You said yes. The dashboard clock said 10:39. The garage lights had come on. His hand stayed on the back of your neck.