I groaned and bumped my forehead against the top edge of the payphone itself, closing my eyes. Who was I kidding? I was so late there was only a slim chance of redeeming myself at this point, and I was struggling to recall if the job opportunity had even given me a phone number to call. Sighing, I straightened and stopped as an oversized coin slot, far too thick for any American currency, caught my eye from the weather-worn chrome of the phone case. Rubbing the weird not-dime between my fingers, I realized it would fit almost perfectly. What were the odds of that?

  A quick, suspicious glance around found no cameras or lurking social media influencers through the grimy booth windows. Was this some kind of weird, unmanned art installation? Given that I was already in the middle of god-knows-where and well past my interview time, I shrugged and surrendered the silver owl-stamped coin to the thick slot, chasing a fatalistic kind of curiosity.

  The phone rang.

  I jumped at the unexpected noise coming from the phone itself, rather than the receiver still resting in my hand. Confusion swept in after the second ring: this wasn’t how payphones worked, was it? I’d never had to use one before, but in the movies it looked as if people put the money in and then dialed a number themselves. Maybe it was just extremely coincidental timing, or a wrong number?

  My fingers squeezed the receiver handle before I considered it too deeply, lifting it to my ear with a voice still breathy from surprise. “Uh, hello?”

  “Milo. There you are. Got a little lost, did we?” The rich, masculine tone on the other end of the line was full and low, like it was having a good-natured joke at my expense. A jolt of arousal tumbled through me: I’d always been a sucker for deep voices. I blinked at the weather-worn stickers trying desperately to peel themselves away from the top of the payphone, trying to make sense of what I was hearing.

  “I-Sir? I don’t understand how you know where…” Looking frantically through the windows of the booth again, I frowned as I realized there were no buildings tall enough to look down on this sidewalk, on this booth. “...where I am. I apologize for being late, I’m not familiar with this part of town and the driver drop-” I stopped my rambling, straightening my spine, recentering my thoughts, and falling back on what I’d been working on with my therapist. Express gratitude for patience, not apologies for tardiness.

  I gripped the receiver handle, pushing confidence into my voice. “What I mean to say, Sir, is thank you for your patience. If you’re still willing to give me an hour of your time, I’ll do anything-”

  “Are you asking to see me, Milo? I can’t invite you here unless you really want to come.” The voice on the other end, evidently the man who’d placed the ad I responded to, used my name with a familiarity that left me feeling off balance. I had no idea what his name was, though I wasn’t stupid enough to assume the first name-basis thing went both ways. I wished I could call him something other than Sir. There were certain non-work-friendly connotations to that title that made my brain go inconveniently fuzzy.

  “Yes, Sir. Absolutely. If you just give me an hour of your time, I promise to make it worth your while.” My stomach did somersaults in the decades-long pause that followed, the receiver handle going slick with sweat in my nervous death grip.

  “Well then. You’ve got yourself a deal. Leave the booth, turn around, and walk one block up. Turn left and you’ll see the building. 13th floor. I’ll see you shortly.”

  The droning hum of the disconnected line told me I’d been dismissed and needed to hustle. There was something appealing about my potential—no, definitely my future damnit, think positive Milo—boss’ efficient, no-nonsense command. Decidedly-after-hours parts of me liked it too, but I shoved those thoughts down like the overdue bills piling up back home. Work first, fun later: I couldn’t jeopardize this chance by letting my libido off the leash with the guy that would be signing my paychecks.

  Then again, it had been months…

  No. No, bad Milo. Jesus, keep it in your pants for the interview at least. He’s probably some balding middle-manager type anyway.

  After a deep breath and sternly ordering myself to get back in line, I hung up the receiver and edged out of the booth. Spinning around, I walked with a purpose, the creases in my stiff dress shoes digging uncomfortably into the tops of my feet as I ate up pavement. The block passed quickly, anxiety starting to crest that I still didn’t know the name of the company or what the building looked like. As I turned left and crossed another oddly-quiet city street, some of my tension ebbed away: there was only one building that could have fit 13 stories.

  The front was museum-like in its grandeur: stone lions roared above stately columns, flanking a glossy black sign that read Weaver Incorporated in large, tasteful engraving. My stomach tightened: even wearing my best suit and uncomfortable new(ish) shoes, I might be underdressed for this. My last job had been mindless filing for a shabby lawyers office downtown, vanishing a few months after I was hired when he was disbarred for tax fraud. This seemed bigger.

  Tugging the heavy front open, the cold brass of the elongated handle soothed my overheated palm. Black stone tiles echoed with my footsteps, leading into a cavernous front lobby dotted with pricey-looking potted topiary trees. Classical muzak piped in quietly from hidden speakers, a musical trickle of water nearly overpowering it as I realized I was the only soul in the room. On the far wall to my left, a water feature gently cascaded from the ceiling, flowing down a ridged, golden panel and sluicing into a slender river that snaked beneath glass floor tiles in front of an imposing reception desk.

  The counter was bank-height, but a quick peek over it told me my ears hadn’t deceived me: I was alone. Nervous energy flooded my senses again as executive dysfunction throttled my temporary calm: should I just head upstairs? My potential—no, new—boss had given me the floor, so he obviously intended me to go straight there, right?

  A soft ping blessedly solved the issue for me, a warm light illuminating on a nearby wall as it slid open, revealing a gold-framed, mirrored elevator interior that probably cost more than my entire shabby apartment.

  I hustled into the elevator, wincing as my briefcase thumped off a brass bar as I turned to face the buttons: if the bar hadn’t been there, I would have shattered one of the mirrors. I had to get my nerves under control or I was going to blow this opportunity. Jabbing the 13 button, I closed my eyes and took a few slow, deep breaths, concentrating on them the way my therapist had taught me.

  Four seconds in, four seconds out. Repeat.

  I was on my third breathing cycle when a sensation wiggled into my zen state: I no longer felt the upward swoop of the elevator in my stomach. I opened my eyes to find the doors had beat me to the punch, and my presumptive new boss was not a balding middle manager type. He was in fact 6 foot three of deliciously-muscled greek poured into a power suit, a storm of tasteful gray fabric and dark hair, wearing a bemused expression that told me he’d caught my last-minute meditation. Fuck me.

  “Milo. Glad you made it. Step into my office please?” He gestured over a broad shoulder as he headed up the hallways towards an open door. My feet moved of their own accord, arousal and trepidation duking it out in my gut: I secretly loved when others took command, but I already felt like I was being hauled into the principal’s office. But this was a job interview, for gods’ sakes—I couldn’t be in trouble if I didn’t even work here yet, could I?

  I followed meekly behind him, grateful to finally have clear direction despite the apprehension still swirling in me. Well hell, I’d done it, at least. I’d gotten here, sort of on time, even though it felt like the entire universe had conspired against me. At a gesture of the man’s broad hand, I sunk into a surprisingly plush black leather couch opposite his expansive wooden desk. Blessedly, I caught a name plaque perched on its glass-topped edge as I set my briefcase down: Anderson Tropos, CEO.

  Clearing my throat, I held eye contact with my new boss-to-be, even though it almost physically pained me to do so. I was not a people person, at least when it came to people I wasn’t screwing, but first impressions mattered and mine was already off to a rocky start.

  “Mr. Tropos, thank you again for making time to meet with me. I feel that my skills could translate very well to a position here at Weaver, and I’m happy to answer any questions you have.” I smiled with all the confidence I absolutely did not have, silently thanking whatever was listening that I remembered the goddamn name of the company from the building’s front.

  “It’s truly my pleasure, Milo. Your experience was impressive, you’re an ideal fit for the position I had in mind, and frankly, I’m eager for the relief you’ll bring to this office.” He smiled warmly, and I shifted on the cushion, mentally screaming at myself to stop fidgeting all the while. But I was working on half a very inconvenient erection, because for some reason everything he’d just said sounded filthy. Like the really good kind of filthy.

  “I apologize if I’m, uhm, being presumptuous here Sir, but I thought this was an interview? I mean, I’m happy to start working the moment you want me to, but I assumed there were other candidates to…?” I trailed off, hoping like hell I didn’t sound desperate. I was desperate, I needed the money or I was going to lose my apartment, but my new boss didn’t need to know that before we’d discussed pay.

  He laughed, a deep, sexy rumble that went straight to my dick. I set my jaw and forced a smile, folding my hands casually in my lap to help conceal the effect it had on me. “No, Milo, not at all. I selected you specifically, and there are no other candidates. I knew from the moment I saw you—that is, your resume—that you were the one I’d been looking for. And please, call me Anderson.”

  “I—well, that’s incredibly flattering, Mr. Tropos—Anderson.” I resisted the urge to diminish myself, deflect the arrow-directness of his compliments, my annoying-yet-correct therapist mentally reminding me that I was worthy of praise. “I’m happy to get right into it, then, and start today, if you’re willing. I can help file, organize, whatever you need. What would you like me to start with?” My gaze skated over the four-drawer-high filing cabinets that took up half of one substantial wall, fingers already eager to skim the folder-tabs inside. My law office job had ended abruptly, but the sorting of things, setting them right, had been unexpectedly fulfilling. I’d missed it.

  Anderson nodded approvingly, a glint in his soft gray eyes as he studied me. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, actually, and I know exactly where I want you to start. I’ve got a really big problem that I need you to handle, right here under my desk.”

  My eyes went so wide I felt the stretch in my temples as they flew from the filing cabinet drawer labels to my new boss’ smirk. My voice was a squeak more suited to the aforementioned drawer tracks. “Sir?”

  With an amused huff, Anderson’s desk chair slid back an inch as he toed the edge of a drab filing box out towards me, shuffling it along the carpet from beneath his desk. “Damn thing’s been crowding my legs for a month. I’m not going to tell you our filing system just yet, though. Consider it your first test. I want to see how you perform under pressure.”

  Okay, he had to know what he was doing, right?

  He gave a soft sigh and shrug. “Sorry, we’re still getting an office set up for your position, and I’m afraid my desk is—” He gestured at the glass surface, covered with surprisingly tidy piles of folders and papers. “—a bit of a mess, at the moment. You don’t mind getting on your knees for this, do you?”

  He was flirting. He had to be flirting. Okay, well, I had the job already, right? He’d said as much. So I could—very carefully—flirt back, couldn’t I? As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I could practically feel the angel on my shoulder throw his tiny hands up and flutter away from yours truly, the lost cause. But hey, silver lining: that meant more real estate for the devil on my other shoulder.

  “Psh, of course not. I do some of my best work on my knees, Sir.” I bit back a smile as I dropped to the carpet and sat on my heels, wiggling the cardboard lid free to reveal an interior packed tightly with paper-stuffed folders.

  “Duly noted.” Anderson’s already-deep voice dropped a little lower as I finger-walked through the files, which weren’t organized by any system I could determine. “I have something to attend to for a few minutes, please continue your work. Oh, and Milo?”

  I looked up to find he’d soundlessly risen from his desk and was startlingly close, a prominent bulge in his dress slacks directly at my current eye level. I swallowed thickly, forcing my eyes back to the files, my voice breathy where I’d aimed for breezy. “Yes, Sir?”

  Whoops. Slipped into an honorific again. Well, at least it wasn’t ‘Daddy’.

  Anderson paused with his hand on the office doorknob, voice softer as he crossed the threshold. “Don’t look in the files.”

  And with a soft click, I was left alone with my hot new boss’ strange demand, a box of unfamiliar files, and an erection that could bend steel.

  Without an audience and wincing at the pinch of my damned dress shoes, I tilted backwards to sit cross-legged instead as I pondered the box. First paycheck, I was absolutely replacing the fucking things, which had only been worn once to a funeral two years ago. I longed to take them off entirely, but I figured wandering around in socks was probably frowned on, especially on one’s first day.

  With a sigh, I wiggled loose one of the folders, seating the edge in my palm to open it like a book before I caught myself. Right, don’t look. Maybe Weaver dealt with highly classified information or something? It seemed unlikely, considering I hadn’t been put through the rigors of Human Resources paperwork or a background check yet. Still, I wasn’t about to chance a peek: who knew if Anderson had cameras in his office?

  After shaking off a particularly tasty daydream about using said theoretical cameras to watch my new boss manually relieve some stress, I mentally smacked myself upside the head and studied the folder again. Was it my imagination, or did the folder look…pink? A glance around the room found no lighting or surfaces that would have given the drab manilla folder a pink cast, but my scan did stop on something else odd. One of the three tall filing cabinets also had a pink cast, which it definitely didn’t have earlier. It was extremely faint, more of an overdeveloped photograph sort of aura, practically invisible unless I was looking directly at it.

  Getting to my feet slowly, I made my way across the soft carpet and reached for the topmost drawer handle of the “pink” filing cabinet with a frown. Now that I was closer, each of the four drawers had a different intensity of pink hue, almost as if different lights were turned on inside each drawer. The topmost drawer was the darkest pink, with each level fading to a softer version. I let go of the handle and held the folder up, crouching until the colors matched up perfectly on the third drawer. Pushing the opening button with my free hand as I tugged the handle, the drawer opened smoothly on an oiled track, revealing files clearly organized by…brightness? I looked down at the tidy row that grew dimmer towards the back of the drawer, moving the folder in my hand until its glow perfectly aligned with a space in the stack. Tucking it in and wedging it down evenly, a barely audible chime sounded, more impression than actual noise.

  Huh.

  I straightened, crossing my arms and glancing down at the filing box on the floor a few feet away. It…wasn’t glowing. Turning back to the filing cabinets, they were also the same dark wood they’d been when I first entered the office: no pink, no glow at all. What the fuck was going on? Was I hallucinating or something?

  I frowned and dragged the impossibly-heavy file box across the carpet to sit in front of the cabinets. Still no glow. I prised loose another folder from the box, and this one glowed…gray? I bent the filing tab gently, not opening the folder exactly, but allowing more of its strange inner light to shine. This one was a darker color, but a brighter intensity than my first folder had been. Almost dreading what I’d find, I winced and peeked at the filing cabinets through one barely-opened eye. The cabinet on the right was definitely glowing an answering gray.

  I was confused and a little scared, but I repeated the process in the name of research, locating the drawer and file placement more quickly this time. Another chime, but if the first one had been a happy ding, this one was more of a stern temple bell calling monks in for prayer.

  Before I could grab a third folder, voices murmured beyond the office door, drawing my attention. I wouldn’t say I was proud of the skill, exactly, but my gossip-loving ears were well-honed from years of eavesdropping at various jobs and parties. I made a show of sitting to rifle through the box again, straining to listen.

  Anderson’s deep tones were gently cutting off another man mid-sentence. “—and I understand that, Lawson. But you’ve…been more concerned…defining than observing.”

  The other speaker had a faster cadence, almost nervous, but emphatic. “Anderson, mine are the…difficult, I’m just saying if…can’t⁠—”

  Footfalls echoed in the hallway as another voice piped up, this one warm and, from the sounds of it, in his mid-twenties like me. “He’s…more rye…companion, Law. An Argus. Trust….”

  I sat up straighter as my last name floated through their conversation, which became suddenly inaudible as a heavy door closed elsewhere in the hallway. Damn. There went my unsettling entertainment. I was pouting at the files in front of me a moment later when the sudden twist of the doorknob made me nearly jump out of my skin. How the hell was a big guy like Anderson so fucking stealthy? I kept my eyes on the box like it held the secrets to life, determined not to ogle my boss or give away my curiosity that his coworker was casually dropping my last name in their conversation. Yeah, it was on my resume, but what the hell did the guy mean by an Argus?