The Walk-In by Mimi Strong

Part 1: The Dress Shirt
    How are you supposed to meet people these days if you aren’t a computer nerd? I’ve tried nightclubs, but you can’t hear what a cute guy’s saying over the music, and two or three drinks doesn’t exactly help your judgment. If you do hook up with someone attractive, you have to do the morning-after walk of shame, with your panties in your purse, and the worst part is, that deep craving has turned into an unfulfilled ache, because the drunk guy who seemed hot enough at the bar turns out to live in his mother’s basement and thinks foreplay is something you do on the golf course.
    I’d just returned from such a shameful walk when I got the call. I tossed my keys into the bowl by the door and sat on my vintage chair while I jotted down the details. Some rich jerk was having an organizational crisis, and it was time for me to have a shower, put on my Bitch Boots, and go color-sort a wardrobe full of designer ties and sixty-dollar socks.
    Such is the life of a professional organizer who caters to the needs of the mega-rich. Oh, I used to cater to the needs of the just-rich-enough, but then I discovered the Bitch Boots, and they promised me the power to break into the mega-rich market. Or so I believed. In any case, I’d started dressing better, and the jobs had gotten better, and I wasn’t complaining about either. You gotta love a quality fabric.
    Over the phone, I told Suzanne I’d drive to the client’s in an hour. I checked my breath on my hand. “Make that an hour and a half,” I said. “I need to hydrate.”
    “Not acceptable!” she yelled into the phone from her side. “We’re on the cusp, here, Lexie. Be there by eleven or I’ll send another girl.”
    “You wouldn’t.”
    “I’ll send Trisha,” she said, but her voice had that quiver that said she was bluffing.
    “Trisha’s in Boston, visiting her mother. I’ll be there by eleven-thirty.”
    Her voice steely, she said, “Eleven-fifteen.”
    “Suzanne, have I ever told you what an excellent pimp you’d make?”
    I went on to elaborate about pimp-style wardrobe choices and pimping out her little Honda, but she’d already ended the call.
    The address I’d jotted down looked familiar. Was it that mansion I’d drive by and gaze at when I was feeling like a have-not and wanted to make myself feel even worse? No, it couldn’t be. Whoever lived in that place would have full-time staff and wouldn’t mess around with contractors like me.
    I looked down at the cell phone in my hand, which I was absent-mindedly rubbing across the ache between my thighs, the edge of the phone digging a little deeper by the second. If only I’d gotten off last night or this morning, my mind wouldn’t be such a mess.
    A quickie in the shower would take care of my problems, at least for the day.
    Unfortunately for me and my aching nub, the phone rang again—the one on the wall, connected to the intercom. Mrs. O’Hara was at the front door and needed help with her groceries. I cursed my inner Good Samaritan and took the elevator down to help her. No good deed goes unpunished, as they say, so Mrs. O’Hara treated me to a libido-crushing anecdote about having a cyst lanced. I got her and her groceries loaded into her condo and refused her offerings of lemonade.
    Back in my place with no time to spare, I barely had time to splash some water on my face, pull on my I-Mean-Business gray suit (the most expensive thing I owned, that I was still paying off) and my Bitch Boots, and dashed down to my car.
    On the drive over, I wondered what kind of job was ahead of me. Suzanne hadn’t told me how much work there was, or how many days I’d be on the case, but I didn’t care.
    The address was in the rich part of the city, and, while I love organizing almost anything, there’s a very special joy I get from handling designer suits and ties and those custom-made shirts. Oh, those shirts!
    My loins were still aching, unsatisfied. I had to organize things