Page 103 of Pierced

“Oh, my God, Myrtle. I’m so sorry. I thought—”

“I said,” I say, gritting my teeth so I don’t fly off in a rage, “I didn’t want it to feel like Halloween. How in the world did you think this was my vision?”

“I came by several times this week to run all this by you, but your assistant told me you were too busy, so I just asked your co-workers and they all agreed I was on the right track, so…” She stops, realizing there is no good way past this fuckup.

“Which co-workers?” I growl.

“Well, all the ones around your office who had time to talk to me.”

“So the other VPs,” I say, looking around. There are dozens of people in here now, all of whom are wearing one version or another of what Josh and his sex demon have on. “They told you I’d like girls in cages?”

“Yes,” Maggie says. “They did. They were sure of it.”

“Great party, Myrtle!” I whirl around, find Josh standing in front of me. To his credit, he did get the mask right. Because it’s just a simple black thing with eyeholes. But he’s still holding the whip. And his little demon is still handcuffed to the cage. She’s doing a damn good impression of a stripper as she sways and bends to the beat of string quartet music. How that’s even possible, I’m not sure. I might have to chalk it up to talent.

I open my mouth to say something but I’m blinded by flash photography. “Perfect,” a tall, gruff man coos. “I’m going to call this one Mistress Myrtle,” he whispers, then moves on to take pictures of a crowd of people entering the auditorium.

I’m about to follow him so I can steal that camera and drop it into a punch bowl, when Valerie walks up wearing her version of the little black dress.

This isn’t happening.

Because her version is something I’m gonna call Demon Black Swan. “What is this dress?” I ask.

She laughs, leaning forward to whisper, “No one will mistake me for Little Bo-Peep.”

“They certainly won’t,” I say, turning back to Josh. “Did you tell Maggie that I wanted girls in cages?”

“I love them, Myrtle. So great. This is the best party ever. I mean, I knew you’d throw something fabulous when you stopped by my office to lecture me about the dress code in that sexy outfit, but this? Wow!” He holds up his whip, cracks it, nearly hitting Gretchen, Eden’s old boss, who is wearing… what the fuck is she wearing?

“This is amazing!” she yells over the music and conversation. “Best costume party ever!”

I wonder how long she’s had that Elvira costume in her closet, just waiting for Myrtle Rothschild to throw a Halloween party.

Another flash as the photographer catches Josh and Gretchen mid-jubilation.

I just stand there, turning in a slow circle, as people file in wearing every version of black suit and black dress their Halloween imaginations could come up with.

Witches. So many witches.

And to be fair, my perfectly-worded dress-code warning did not include no witches.

Or sex demons. So much worse than Josh’s girlfriend could think up.

Most of the men are in regular tuxedos, but some of them, like Ryan in accounting who has spruced his up with stab wounds, and Dave, the VP of media relations, who appears to be an undertaker leading a girl by a leash, just decided the only real requirement was that they be dressed in black.

What is happening?

How did this go so wrong?

Another flash, then another. And with that my nightmare manifests in perfect clarity.

This is who they think I am.

All of them.

I am not just that weird woman who gets paid more than Josh Washburn and took his office.

I am Myrtle. Dungeon mistress. The kind of woman who cracks a whip while wearing black lingerie. The kind of woman who locks her boss in a cage and blindfolds him as she spanks his ass and then threatens him with a cock cage.