Dave led the way through a glass-paneled corridor that connected the front lobby to the back offices. Jon followed, his heels clicking in a steady, confident rhythm that still surprised him every time he heard it. Jon could feel the eyes of the office staff on him, but he pointedly ignored them.
Dave stopped in front of a door marked SECURITY/BADGING and held it open. "After you."
Jon stepped through and found himself in a small, windowless room. There was a stool in front of a white backdrop, a tripod-mounted camera, and a desktop computer that looked like it hadn't been updated since the Clinton administration. A laminating machine hummed on a side table.
"Sit there," Dave said, gesturing at the stool. "I'll get the camera set."
Jon lowered himself onto the stool, the pencil skirt riding up his thighs as he did. He tugged it down, knees clamped together, the silk of the blouse shifting against his bare skin.
Dave fiddled with the camera, squinting at the viewfinder. "Okay, look here. Chin up a little."
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, patently aware of the cushion of his rear but more importantly, the different feel of his face as he tried to put on a neutral expression. Muscles and misplaced fat that he wasn’t used to.
You gotta relax," Dave said, not unkindly. "You look like I'm pointing a gun at you, not a camera."
"Sorry. I'm not—I'm not great at photos."
"Just... think of something nice. Or whatever girls think about. I dunno." Dave shrugged helplessly. “Make sure to smile, the higher-ups will kill me if you’re frowning in your profile picture.”
Jon schooled his expression and gave a small, closed-mouth smile. With nothing else to focus on, he could distinctly feel the plumpness of his lip,s and he almost shuddered.
The camera clicked.
Dave pulled the camera off the tripod and turned the display screen toward Jon. "See? That's a good one."
Jon stared. The woman in the photo was—there was no other word for it—attractive. The mahogany hair, pinned up with those loose tendrils framing the jawline, caught the light in warm chestnut tones. The oversized glasses gave the face a bookish, approachable quality that softened the sharpness of the cheekbones and the fullness of the lips. The smile was neutral but pleasant to look at, and the top of the cream blouse strained visibly at the very bottom edge of the frame.
"Yeah," Jon managed. "That's... fine."
Dave was already at the computer, importing the photo and typing in details. He would occasionally glance back at Jon, his eyes settling on his lips or drifting lower, before they would dart back to his screen. Jon got the sense that his eyes darted away more out of a desire to get his job done quicker than any thought of propriety. Jon wasn’t sure if he was liking the last aspect of his wish.
He shifted in the chair, blood rising in his cheeks.
A minute later, Dave peeled a warm, plasticky card from the laminator and handed it over.
ARCHWAY CONSULTING Jules Gibson — Intern
“My– my name isn’t Jules…” Jon said awkwardly, swallowing.
“It sounds nicer, don’t you think?” Dave replied with a hungry smile. Jon opened his mouth to retort, but the words didn’t come, and then Dave was talking again. "Clip goes on the waist," Dave said, handing him a small plastic clip.
Jon stood, smoothing the skirt, shivering at the sensation, and clipped it to the waistband of his pencil skirt. The laminated card dangled there, warm from the machine, tapping gently against his thigh when he shifted.
"And this—" Dave produced a small plastic rectangle from a drawer: a pin-backed name tag, white with neat black text. JULES. "Goes on the left. Above the, uh—" Dave gestured vaguely at Jon's chest. "Tits... I mean... You know. The left side."
Jon looked down at it.
“Well, put it on!” Dave said in a tone that Jon knew was supposed to be encouraging, but… he shakily unbuttoned the top few buttons of the creamy silk blouse (not enough to truly show anything, thankful for the thickness of the silk), fully aware of Dave’s stare. He slipped the back of the pin beneath the silk and pinned the name tag above his left breast. It was a bit of a struggle to rebutton as the blouse strained, but he managed it even with his new slender fingers.
Dave gathered his tablet and phone. "You're all set. System login is jgibson, temporary password is on your desk in a sealed envelope. Change it when you log in. Don't write it on a sticky note—I will find it, and I will judge you."
"Got it. Uhhh... Thanks, Dave."
Dave paused at the door. He looked back at Jon—at the badge on the hip, the name tag on the chest, the photo-ready face with its shy smile and big glasses—and seemed to be working very hard to say something professional.
"Welcome to Archway, Jules."
Then he was gone, and Jon was alone in the badging room, staring down at the name pinned above his left breast, the ID clipped to his waist, the heels planted firmly on the linoleum, and the stone tucked safely in the laptop bag slung over his shoulder.
He took a breath.
The silk tightened across his chest, and the name tag rose.
Jon wondered what Karyn was up to. Was it too much to say he already missed her?
It was at that moment that someone burst through the door, and Jon yelped, jumping back and nearly falling on his high heels. Sylvia from the front desk earlier.
“You can’t leave the front desk unmanned like that missy.” She was angry, but there was a softness in her face that suggested that she hadn’t expected any better from him. It hurt as much as it caused arousal to swirl in Jon’s gut. “Oh, good, Dave got you set up. Anyways, there’s no time. I need you right now.”
