by Robin Hale
Oh.
“Wow,” I murmured. “And these figures are —”
“From the eighteen-hour period surrounding your post. With comparable data from a month prior,” Carrie confirmed.
That was incredible. Those figures were — I needed to raise my rates.
“You know I have an email address?” I said once I looked up from the charts. “Professional and everything. Even a registered domain.” I handed the tablet back to Carrie, who looked amused. “On my website you can click on the ‘contact me’ link if you want to talk about consulting terms. The black car driving up alongside me was novel, don’t get me wrong! And Mr. Stevens is a sweetheart. But it’s not my usual way of making an appointment.”
The corner of Ms. Spark’s mouth quirked and she shot a heavy-browed glance at Carrie, who shook her head almost imperceptibly. Oh good. Practically telepathic silent conversations. Just what the day needed.
“We preferred not to have a written record of requesting the meeting,” Spark said after a moment.
Well that didn’t make sense. “If you’re worried about using a contractor like this — I can get you a list of clients who are happy to refer me. It’s not uncommon. Lots of companies outsource their social media engagement.”
“Of course, Ms. Kowalczyk,” Carrie agreed amiably. “But our proposal is a bit unorthodox. We don’t want to engage your services on behalf of SparkSignal.” Behind her, Spark’s eyes bore into me. “We’d like to engage them for Ms. Spark.”
“Ms. Spark,” I repeated.
“Yes. You see how the numbers respond to her, specifically, divorced from the context of the company?” Carrie continued.
“Sure. Yeah. That’s a little less common, but we can do that. I’d be happy to arrange for phone meetings if it makes you less nervous about your privacy.” At Carrie’s gesture, I perched on one of the chairs opposite Ms. Spark and she settled back into her own. “You said divorced from the context of SparkSignal. Is that the sort of campaign you want to launch?”
Iris Spark’s gaze never faltered. She was like a python waiting to strike, watching me to see if my twitch reflexes were going to give me away. She nodded. I tried not to gulp.
“The post you made — we think that’s likely to be a successful angle of attack for our current purposes,” Carrie said.
“For your current purposes.” I needed to stop repeating her. It wasn’t doing me any favors in that room. “What’s the goal of the campaign?”
Carrie’s lips parted but Spark’s voice was the one to answer. “Confidential, for now.”
I grimaced. Perfect. “I can’t design a campaign if I don’t know what I’m working toward. I wouldn’t know how to measure its effectiveness.”
“Your last post did the trick,” Spark said. “And you weren’t even trying.”
I looked helplessly between Carrie and Spark, twin looks of icy determination on their faces. I had the distinct sense that I was missing something extremely important.
“So you want me to…what? Make Ms. Spark the internet’s girlfriend? A…sex symbol?” If the entire contract was going to be like this, I’d decline it. I didn’t need a client who had mysterious expectations I wasn’t allowed to know. No matter how much money they were promising. And the ‘internet’s girlfriend’? That was a tall order. It required the sort of cross-segment coordination I had never tried to pull off. And it also tended to backfire in spectacular ways.
“No, Ms. Kowalczyk,” Carrie said, shaking her head and obviously trying to soothe me. “I want you to make Ms. Spark your girlfriend.”
I barked a startled, shocked laugh and involuntarily met Iris Spark’s eyes. It was a mistake. Eyes that blue shouldn’t burn. They should only be cold, unaffected. But there was heat in her expression that I didn’t know how to categorize. In the absence of anything better to do with it, I was at risk of thinking it was about me. And that I didn’t need.
I was in for one hell of a bad trip if I convinced myself that Iris Spark was romantically — or, judging by that glance, sexually — interested in me.
She held still, bringing to mind idiotic comparisons with predators in tall grass trying not to startle her prey. Oh God. I was beginning to regret getting rid of my tea. I needed something to cover my panic, to cover the way the feeling of Iris Spark’s eyes on me was making my mouth go dry and my thighs quake. What was wrong with me?
The situation was ridiculous from top to bottom.
“That’s —” The word was a failure, an aborted sound. “I’m not a sex worker?” It was a special kind of humiliation to hear those words come out of my own mouth like they were a question.
The flash of teeth from the blonde CEO was the strongest reaction I’d seen from her — it was almost enough to make up for my sheer embarrassment.
“Not a requirement, Ms. Kowalczyk,” Spark said smoothly. “I am proposing a strictly professional arrangement —” She caught herself, amended. “In line with your work as a social media marketer.” She leaned forward, bracing on the desk with one arm as she used her free hand to gesture toward the now-abandoned tablet.
Did she always look so calm? Or was this just a normal part of her day? Run, cup of coffee, proposition a freelancer to pose as her fake girlfriend, performance reviews at eleven?
“No touch that you are uncomfortable with, and none at all unless you think it is necessary to the campaign.” Spark listed each item like she was sitting in a tedious meeting and wanted to move on to something more worth her time.
A prickle of discomfort rose in my belly. I wasn’t insulted, not exactly, but I was severely out of my depth.
“Any potentially compromising situations are to be purely at my expense. Not yours.” Blue eyes glittered as Spark caught my gaze with her own. “My reputation is its own matter, but I trust you’ve never heard that I exploit contractors.”
That was true, at least. I’d heard that she terrified everyone from the mailroom to the board of directors, that she was a nightmare to work with, that she had impossible standards — but freelancers talked and I’d never heard of her failing to pay or trying to stretch a contract the way some clients did.
And yet.
“I’m sorry,” I said and stood up from the weirdly comfortable office chair. Professional, Kowalczyk. Be professional. You might need to work with her someday — I stifled a laugh at the thought. Sure. That was likely. “I appreciate your interest in my services —” There was no good way to phrase any of it, was there? “But I’m afraid I can’t commit to the project at this time.”
‘At this time’. Like maybe if she’d caught me next week it would’ve fit better into my schedule. Ye gods and little fishes. My mouth was doing ‘politely decline’ autopilot and I was keenly aware that I was sinking further into idiocy in front of one of the sharpest minds in Silicon Valley. All the better. She’d realize that I couldn’t pull off what she wanted me to do. She was better off looking for someone else.
I resolutely ignored the little flip in my gut at the thought.
Carrie and Ms. Spark shared another wordless glance but I didn’t let myself get caught up in it. I needed to leave. I needed to get out of that absurdly expensive tower and back to my weird little apartment with my roommates and my strange outlets that didn’t always work. Back to the coffee house that let me disappear and didn’t expect anything except that I’d use headphones if I wanted to watch a video, like a normal person.
I was most of the way back to the elevator by the time I heard footsteps behind me.
“Amber!” Spark called as she rushed toward me. “Amber —”
“Look,” I spun on my heel, hitting the elevator call button and trying not to notice all the eyes popping up over the laptops surrounding us. “I know it isn’t the answer you wanted but it’s the answer you’re getting.” It was a tall building, but surely the elevator could move a little faster? We were drawing more and more attention by the second. Most of the typing had slowed down if not stopped entirely, an
d very few of the programmers and designers huddled around the couches were even pretending not to stare.
“I understand.” Spark nodded but she didn’t back off, and I was left with the conclusion that she didn’t, in fact, understand. “Let me see you out?” For a split second, half a grin appeared on that perfect jawline and I would’ve sworn I saw a dimple. A dimple.
The universe was a real bastard sometimes.
“It’s been ages since I’ve gotten to give a real elevator pitch,” Spark continued, stepping past me into the elevator as the doors finally, finally slid open.
I could hear my pulse echoing in everything around me. Practically the whole damn building had coalesced into an extension of my body and all of it was hesitating on the threshold of the elevator. I held still for less than a breath, not long enough for Spark to arch one of those perfect brows at me.
I was ridiculous.
I boarded the elevator.
As the doors slid shut I caught one sound outside of the pounding of my heart: the tell-tale snap of a smartphone camera. My eyes went wide while I tried to see who had snapped the photo — where they were looking, how close they’d been — before the doors finished closing. No dice.
With the doors closed, Iris Spark managed to occupy every cubic inch of the elevator car. She was tiny, inches shorter than I was and slim in a casually athletic way. But the air was full of the electric energy that crackled over her. I could hear the synapses in her brain firing faster than the speed of light.
“Only the basics: I have a high-stakes project in flight that requires a personalized social media campaign you are uniquely positioned to execute. Your existing follower base has demonstrated they are the correct demographic, judging by the number shift.”
The words weren’t rushed, but hearing her speak was like trying to drink from a firehose.
“You’re currently romantically unattached —”
How the hell did she know that?
“You’re out to your followers and your more conservative family in the Midwest —”
Okay, that was getting creepy.
“And you have an impeccable reputation for professionalism.” Each statement had brought Ms. Spark closer to me, unable to keep from prowling when she was on a roll.
“I might be seeing someone,” I insisted weakly. “Maybe I don’t put that stuff on social media.”
“You would, though,” Spark murmured, eyes roaming my face like she was seeing something new and fascinating instead of just…me. “I’d thought your social media demeanor would be an act. But it isn’t, is it? You’re genuine with them.”
“Okay,” I conceded, backing against the wall of the elevator. Surely we were nearing the ground floor? “I’m not seeing anyone. You’ve established why I’m perfect. Why should I take the job?”
“You need the money.” Blunt, but not inaccurate. “It’s different from your normal work. I’m willing to bet you like different.” Blue eyes flashed in the strangely flattering overhead light. “It’s also strictly time-boxed at three weeks and I’m offering ten times your normal rate.”
Surprise jolted through me so hard I nearly swallowed my own tongue. Ten times? What could be important enough to justify ten times my normal rate?
My heart pounded and my fingers twitched involuntarily while every prey response in my brain wanted to flee. God, the money would help. The envelope on my desk, the one with the rent increase notice wouldn’t wait for my attention much longer. I couldn’t hide from it. And I knew that coming out of the project would only improve my position for future freelance work. Hell, Iris Spark’s profile was much higher than mine. I could only gain reach by partnering with her.
I could do anything for three weeks, right?
Even pretend to be the doting girlfriend of that strange Silicon Valley creature: the celebrity start-up CEO.
“All right,” the words slipped from my mouth and immediately sculpted a grin onto Spark’s face.
She was transformed when she smiled. She was always gorgeous, always that too-pretty that famous, wealthy people frequently were. But when she smiled? She was radiant.
“You’ll do it.” The words weren’t a question, they were a flag in contested territory. Iris Spark was claiming me for England. Or something.
The elevator slowed beneath my feet. The swooping sensation in my stomach — only partly attributable to Iris Spark’s overwhelming presence — was the only signal I had that the doors were about to open. Which meant I had very little time to do damage control on the incident that had started some number of stories higher in the air.
“Kiss me,” I said.
“What?” Spark blinked, victorious grin sliding into slack-mouthed confusion so quickly that I would’ve felt a surge of triumph if I had done it on purpose.
“A lobby full of engineers saw you chasing me while I yelled at you upstairs. We need something at least six times more interesting than that if we want to keep control of the social media narrative that’s unfolding, Ms. Spark.” The words were a jumble. No tightly-composed elevator pitch, just my rambling stream of consciousness.
“Shouldn’t you kiss me? Power gradient?” The hesitation in her voice settled something warm in my gut that I didn’t want to think about. Not yet. The doors were about to open.
“You’re the hotshot tech CEO. I’m the girl who’s internet-famous for her dumb corgi jokes. People expect to see you in control, Ms. Spark. Kiss. Me.” My jaw was tight, adrenaline coursing through every inch of my veins.
The doors slid open while Spark closed the remaining space, her fingers slipping into the short strands of my hair at the back of my head. Her body crowded close, pouring heat and the intoxicating smell of her in waves over me. She leaned up, tilted my head down, and let her eyes flutter closed as she whispered against my lips, “It’s Iris, you know.”
Then she kissed me.
Her lips were soft, sweet in sharp contrast to the tight grasp in which she held my hair. It wasn’t rough, wasn’t painful, but she touched me with confidence that she knew exactly how to do it. Like someone had whispered to her all of the secret, dark places that lurked inside me and she wanted nothing more than to take control of them all.
The doors were open, dinging again, and my heart was in my throat but I could hear the moment the people in the mall-like lobby noticed what was happening.
I waited for four shutter clicks and kept my eyes closed as Iris pulled back.
Her breath was rough, her voice low, and heat rose in my cheeks when she broke the silence. “I’ll send a car for you tomorrow. Seven o’clock? We’ll need a strategy session.”
I blinked my eyes open, noting the red curve of her lower lip, the way her kiss still shone on her own mouth. “Right,” I said weakly. “Tomorrow. Seven.”
Iris stepped back, dragging a hand through her golden mane, and quirked the corner of her mouth into something approaching a smile.
“Until then.”
5
IRIS
The chime of my phone snapped me from sleep in a blinding instant, awareness shattering the otherwise pristine calm of my still-dark bedroom.
Still dark. That meant my lights hadn’t begun their slow increase in illumination, my alarm wasn’t about to go off. What time was it? Blearily, I reached for my device.
3:49 AM.
1 New Message
Perfect.
I swiped open the screen — it had to be one of my VIP contacts to have gotten through at all, and if it turned out to be the one I was thinking of, I might have to cull the list. I swiped open the lock.
Aha. As expected. A message from Dahlia filled the screen, emojis and all.
‘Whoa whoa whoa
This family only has room for one scandalous wastrel, k?’
A deep breath slowed the sudden surge of irritation, and I tapped out a response.
‘It’s nearly four. Be more specific.’
The message had barely shifted from sent to seen before the scr
een was filled with an off-kilter snapshot of that moment in the elevator with Ms. Kowalczyk. With Amber. Despite the thumb obscuring part of the frame and the stunning talent of the photographer in overcoming the image-stabilizing efforts of literally dozens of engineers, the image was unmistakable.
I had Amber pressed back against the wall of the elevator, hands tangled in her ridiculous, distracting hair, kissing her like we’d just heard the war had ended. It was absurd. It was melodramatic.
It had been the best damn kiss I could remember. It was with a pained clenching that I conceded — silently, internally — that my mother might have been right when she said I needed to get out more. Date. Then maybe a kiss with the woman I’d hired to improve my image by pretending to date me wouldn’t be so affecting.
‘Ur buying me brunch.’
‘No.’
‘11 @ the Lovelace
If u don’t show I’m charging it to ur account anyway’
‘You realize it’s Wednesday?’
‘Ur fault for doing something juicy on a Tuesday’
A reluctant laugh burst from my lips and I closed my eyes against the impulse to continue arguing. SparkSignal wouldn’t actually shake itself to pieces if I took some time to get a meal with my cousin. If anything, it was more likely to happen if I didn’t.
* * *
THE ADA LOVELACE SOCIETY for Women in Computing and Technology — only ever referred to as ‘the Lovelace’ by her members — was a nod to the sort of gentleman’s club that should’ve been a relic of a bygone age. But where the wealthy and titled in Regency England had gathered together in clubs to keep their world spinning the way they liked it, the members of the Lovelace came together to make sure our world didn’t succeed in grinding us down.
It was seated in a gorgeous Victorian home donated by a woman whose age and social position had forced her to become a patron of technology rather than a creator. She’d provided the place, the name, and the mission. Primarily, it was to make sure that there was at least one place in Silicon Valley — even if the city was really too far north to be in range for the term — that a woman in tech wasn’t alone in the room.
