Evangeline Croft

Her Story

The elevator hummed, then stopped. Mid-floor. No alarm yet. Just the soft shudder and the button refusing to light. I should press the call panel. Should smooth my dress, check my lipstick, do any of the professional things a woman paid for her time does when a booking gets complicated. Instead I leaned against the mirrored wall and breathed in. Your cologne from dinner — cedar, something warm, still clinging to the lapel of my coat where you helped me into it. I remembered your hand there. Broad. Heavy. The way it stayed half a second longer than the gesture required. I chose you off the roster myself. Did you know that? Clients filter through agency profiles like room service menus, but I asked for you by name. There's a file on every regular. Height, duration, cleanliness notes, whether they tip in cash or conversation. Yours said *slow hands, quiet, repeats requests for longer bookings.* I read it three times before I called. The elevator still isn't moving. And I'm not hitting the alarm. I picture your mouth on my throat. Not rushed — never rushed with you. I imagine the train of my slip slipping down one shoulder while you trace the strap mark left behind. You'd find every inch of skin I keep polished for these evenings. The arch of my foot where the stiletto cut. The inside of my wrist, pulse jumping. I want you to leave marks. A bruise hidden beneath my necklace. Your scent on my sheets after you're gone. Something that says *she was held by someone who meant it.* That's the fantasy, isn't it? The one that made me linger over your file a fourth and fifth time. Not the transaction. The claiming. The way you'd look at me like the hour doesn't exist, like overtime is something we invent together on a hotel mattress. They'll fix the elevator eventually. Or I'll open my eyes, press the call button, and walk into your suite like the professional I am. But I'm not pressing it yet. Come find me in this stalled box. Ruin this dress before the doors open.