Hard Byte

by Misha Bell

  The food arrives. As I bite into my fried Nemo, I frown.

  It tastes different than usual.

  I hate it when that happens. If a dish has a name, it has to be consistent forever—that’s why I always go to the same restaurants.

  “What’s wrong now?” Gia asks.

  I explain.

  “Please don’t make a big deal out of this,” she says. “Pretty please?”

  I put my fork down. “Would you not make a big deal of it if they spit germs into your food?”

  She sighs. “That’s exactly what they’ll do the next time if you make a scene.”

  “I’m not going to make a scene.” I wave the waiter over.

  Gia cringes.

  “The fried Nemo was different than usual,” I announce. “And I don’t mean just the normal variation you can have in pollock.”

  “Different?” The waiter doesn’t seem as concerned as a professional should be.

  I explain that I’ve had the dish countless times, so I’d know better than anyone.

  The waiter gets the manager, who offers to make the meal free.

  “No,” I say. “I want the recipe restored.”

  The manager gets the chef, who claims the dish is the same.

  I challenge him to bring out the ingredients, which he reluctantly does. Then I proceed to taste it all, until I find the culprit: a different brand of beer in the batter.

  “That’s an impressive palate,” the chef says. “I’ll be sure to get the old beer going forward.”

  Whew. Order in the universe is restored.

  Since Gia was a trooper through this ordeal, I pay for the meal after all, then magnanimously lie to her face that I had a great time today.

  She grins. “Sure, let’s pretend you did. Good luck on your not-a-date.”

  “Thanks,” I say, matching her snarky tone.

  “Don’t mention it.” She leans in and lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Whatever you do, don’t complain about the food like you just did. That’s a sure way to turn a date into not-a-date.”

  “I won’t,” I say, and it’s true.

  How could I? I’ve never eaten at the place where the party is happening, so I don’t have a baseline for what the food ought to taste like.

  When I get home, I check my email. Seems that Buckley has impressed Robert and quickly too; they’re having a chat today. Great. The throat-clearing might cease even sooner than I hoped.

  There’s an email from Alison too, filling me in on the Chortskys’ move into the office. Apparently, both gave a speech and everything. She says they promised I’d lead the most important project—suit integration.

  Speaking of the latter, an email from Robert gives me a link to the source control with the code I’ll need to review. I don’t look at said code just yet. I’m not in the state of mind to focus with everything that’s happened already, not to mention my anxiety over what is about to happen in a few hours.

  Since the Devil is proceeding with his part of our arrangement, I email Dr. Piper and tell him that I’ll be able to get 1000 Devils on board. To make sure that actually is the truth, I email the Wicked One and ask him when he wants to meet to talk about the games.

  Once my inbox is clean, I can’t help but begin to worry.

  What will the Devil’s family be like? How sure am I that this isn’t a date? What if his father doesn’t like the gift I picked out—a tiny can of caviar that put me way over my usual birthday gift budget?

  Also, what if Bella asks about the suit tonight—a query I now have an obligation to respond to?

  Would she bring that up at her father’s birthday?

  She seems like the kind of person who might.

  I level a speculative glance at the suit. It’s charged now, so in theory, I could go through that last step of the demo now. It might even be wise. I’ve got so much pent-up sexual energy in me I might flirt with the Devil tonight… or worse.

  If I use that suit now, it would be like that scene from There’s Something About Mary, where Ben Stiller jerks off as a way to seem less twitchy on the date.

  But no. That didn’t work out so well for Ben Stiller—the last thing I want is for the Devil to end up with my pussy juices as hair gel. I’m sure I can control myself, and in any case, my post-wax skin is tender down there, so getting rubbed by the suit material isn’t what it needs.

  So, no sex with the virtual Devil for me… for now. If Bella brings it up, I’ll ask her about the testing documents the Devil mentioned. That should delay things until I see her next.

  Yeah, that’s it. Now the question is: where are those details the Devil promised me? Where is the place and what time is the event?

  Dare I hope he doesn’t provide them? I obviously can’t go if I don’t know where to go. But in that case, did I go through all the ordeals with Gia for nothing? Also, why does it seem like I might get upset if—

  My phone dings.

  Wow. The phrase is “speak of the devil,” but thinking of him works just as well.

  What’s your address?

  Since he can look it up in HR records anyway, I text it to him.

  I’ll pick you up at seven.

  I have no words—via text or otherwise. In fact, I’m so flummoxed I visit Euclid in VR, but even that doesn’t lower my blood pressure. It takes two episodes of Downton Abbey and several chapters of Emma to calm me down enough to put on my new clothes and double-check that the makeup still looks tidy.

  It does. I’m all set to go.

  I just hope I don’t die of awkwardness by the time the night is through.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As I step out of my building, my waxed privates are still on fire, and I feel almost naked in my new dress.

  If this is what sex goddesses feel like, it’s a marvel they don’t commit suicide in droves.

  I’m a couple of minutes early for the pickup, so I pace the sidewalk, my new shoes making it sound like I’m tapdancing. My heart rate is through the roof again, and not just because I’m about to see the Devil.

  Okay, fine, mainly for that reason.

  “Holly?” a deep, sexy, Russian-accented voice says, and I nearly jump out of my skin—an act that would be made easier by how much of it is exposed by the bloody dress.

  I turn on my heel and gasp.

  It’s the Devil, but he looks different.

  Better.

  Tidy.

  Dressed up.

  Groomed.

  To say he cleans up nice wouldn’t do it justice. We’re talking drool pooling in my mouth, heat gathering in recently waxed places, and a standing ovation from my ovaries.

  His hoodie and jeans have been replaced with a perfectly tailored suit. The stubble is gone. Even the unruly hair is tamed—though not as much as I would’ve liked. There’s some product in there, but all he must’ve done is run his fingers through those dark locks instead of combing them back, as would’ve been ideal.

  Still, combined, the look robs me of coherent thought.

  His cerulean eyes gleam as he gives me an equally thorough once-over. “You look amazing.”

  “No, you do,” I blurt, and an English proverb pops into my head: “When flatterers meet, the devil goes to dinner.”

  His wicked smirk is back. “Thanks.” He gestures to the sidewalk. “This way.”

  A limo is waiting for us. He gets the door, which makes him somehow look even more dashing.

  Must. Stop. Ogling. My. New. Boss.

  Doing my best not to flash him any lady bits, I climb into the car, and he follows.

  Will he sit next to me?

  Please sit next to me.

  I mean, don’t sit next to me.

  He sits across from me.

  Good. Why am I disappointed? Also, can he see under my dress from there?

  Just in case, I cross my legs.

  His eyes suddenly look hungry.

  Bugger. Did I accidentally pull a Sharon Stone from Basic Instinct?

&
nbsp; No. Impossible. I’m wearing knickers.

  “Do you want something to drink?” he asks, his voice low and smooth.

  I do feel parched, but I’m not sure I can handle alcohol at the moment. Or ever around him. “Is there any tea?”

  What am I saying? Of course not. This isn’t the UK.

  And yet, he grins and opens a cupboard on the side.

  Wow. It’s tea porn in there. There’s every variety I can think of, from black to white to matcha.

  I blink. Nope. The tea isn’t an illusion. “Why does this limo have so much tea?”

  He pulls out a box with Russian writing on it. “Because it’s my ride, and I love tea.”

  “You love tea?” Maybe the fact that he has his own limo should be more of a surprise, but it’s not.

  His grin widens. “Why can’t I love tea?”

  “I love tea,” I say dumbly.

  He winks. Winks! “Now we have this in common.”

  A shrug is all the reply I can manage.

  “What kind do you prefer?” he asks.

  “Um, Earl Grey.”

  He shakes the box he took out earlier. “What about Russian Caravan tea?”

  “I’ve never had the pleasure.”

  He opens the box and takes a sniff. “Want to try?”

  Why was that so seductive—the question and the sniff?

  “What’s in it?” I ask unsteadily.

  “It’s a blend of oolong, keemun, and lapsang souchong,” he says, and now I’m wondering if he’s trying to tempt me on purpose.

  I mean, a prime number of ingredients listed in that sexy voice of his?

  “It’s very aromatic,” he continues. “Sweet. Malty. Smoky.”

  Is there such a thing as a nosegasm?

  “What do you say?” He shakes the tea box again.

  “I want.” Great reply. Then again, it’s better than “shag me.”

  He chuckles and reaches into the bar to pull out an ornately decorated metal contraption that reminds me of a funeral urn.

  Weird. Does he want to drink a cuppa for his departed grandmother who happens to be inside that thing?

  “This is a samovar,” he says as he putters with it. “Russians traditionally use these for tea.”

  Ah. I think I’ve heard of a samovar. Never thought I’d see it in real life… especially in a limo.

  A minute later, he’s handing me a teacup on a proper saucer.

  As the handover commences, his fingers brush against mine again, sending pleasurable energy through my nerve endings and rendering me capable of nothing more than blowing on the bloody tea.

  Then he starts blowing on his, and I watch his puckered lips in fascination. Why do they look so beautiful that way? So kissable? So... lickable?

  Eventually, I recover my wits and tire of blowing… the tea.

  Taking a dainty sip, I have an honest-to-goodness teagasm.

  There might even be a moan.

  Those kissable lips curve. “Better than Earl Grey?”

  I eagerly bob my head. “I didn’t think that was possible. Where can I get this?”

  “Online or in Brighton Beach. That’s our destination, by the way.”

  Ah. It’s also known as Little Odessa—a part of Brooklyn famous for the high population of Russian-speaking immigrants. Not surprising that his father would want to have his birthday there.

  “I think I’ll get some and make this tea part of my daily ritual,” I say.

  “Here.” He hands me the box. “Use that for now.”

  “Thanks.” I reverently accept the gift and hide it in my purse.

  “Don’t mention it. It’s just tea.”

  “Amazing tea,” I say.

  He smiles widely. “How was your day?”

  “Jolly good,” I lie. “How was the move into the new offices?”

  He runs his hand through his hair, ruining what little orderliness it had. Seriously, would I get arrested if I attacked him with a comb? “All fine,” he says. “I finally got a new keyboard and monitor.”

  Bugger. I almost forgot about the damage I wrought.

  “Do you have any biscuits—I mean, tea cookies?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.

  “I do, but I don’t think you want to ruin your appetite,” he says. “My parents have pulled out all the stops with the menu tonight.”

  “They found a restaurant that lets them change the menu?”

  Because that sounds great to me. The problem with restaurants is that you can’t get the same thing in all of them.

  “Better,” he says. “They own the restaurant.”

  Huh. That didn’t come up when I researched the Chortsky name.

  “Does it serve Russian cuisine?” I ask.

  “Naturally.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “The Hut. Heard of it?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s an abbreviation for The Hut on Hen’s Legs—a reference to a Russian fairy tale in which a child-eating witch by the name of Baba Yaga lives in such a dwelling.”

  A child-eating witch? I’m not Gia, but that doesn’t sound very hygienic… or ethically acceptable.

  “There.” He points out the window. “That’s the place.”

  As if in confirmation, the limo stops.

  Fascinated, I study the restaurant. There’s a wooden staircase that leads to the entrance, and around it stand two decorative hen “legs,” as per the longer title.

  “I hope they serve chicken inside,” I say. “Otherwise, Americans might be confused.”

  He exits and holds the door for me. “Chicken, among many, many other delicious things.”

  The stairs are rickety, but the door he holds for me is solid.

  Inside, the place is downright posh, with lots of marble, fancy tablecloths, and covered chairs—a nice touch since it makes it hard to count the number of legs. Music with a strong beat is blasting loudly enough to vibrate my internal organs, and a pudgy mustachioed man is rapping in Russian on a central stage.

  Right. The Devil mentioned food and a show, so a stage makes sense.

  The folks inside the restaurant seem to enjoy the song, so I launch the translation app on my phone to get some idea of what the lyrics are.

  Boys are the drug poop

  At school gave in box

  Narcotics suck kvass

  Hmm. A lot must’ve been lost in translation there. What’s kvass? Not that it would help me understand the lyrics.

  Turns out kvass is a fermented drink. If anything, that makes the lyrics less comprehensible. All I can tell is that the song is vaguely anti-drugs, so that’s good, I suppose.

  Looking up from my phone, I see the Devil grinning as he notices what I’m doing.

  “That’s a pretty bad translation,” he says, peering at my phone screen. “What it should’ve said is: ‘Drugs are the shit I gave at school in a matchbox. Kvass is better than drugs.’”

  “That doesn’t make sense either. Why would you put feces in a matchbox?”

  “It’s something we did back in Russia. Stool samples.”

  Gia would die if she knew. “Why?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe to test for parasites?”

  Seriously? There goes my appetite.

  He leads me to a table in the back just as the music quiets down.

  I recognize some people at the table right away: Bella and Dragomir, sitting side by side, clearly as a couple. The rest I don’t know, though I can guess. The bespectacled man who looks like the Devil’s brooding twin must be the brother, Vlad. The two older people must be the parents. Also guessable is the man who looks like Dragomir’s more cheerful copy—must be his brother.

  The main enigmas are the two women: a pale, cherubic-faced one who’s looking adoringly at Vlad, and a striking blonde who’s giving me the stink eye for some reason.

  “Hope we’re not late,” the Devil says.

  The maybe-parents get to their feet, and everyone else follows their example.


  “You’re not late, Sashen’ka,” codename-mother says with a Russian accent that’s molasses thick. “And you really brought a date.”

  The blond woman’s stink eye turns stinkier.

  Hold on. The Devil mentioned his mother setting him up. Is this blonde a backup date, in case I didn’t show up?

  I resist the urge to hiss at her—I’ve got first impressions to make, after all.

  “Everyone, this is Holly,” my fake date says. “Holly, this is my brother, Vlad, and that’s Fanny.” He gestures at his poker-faced doppelgänger and his pretty, round-cheeked date.

  The brother nods coolly, but Fanny smiles brightly as she waves.

  Wait. So she’s the expert tester the Devil mentioned earlier? She looks way too sweet and innocent to have experience with porn-related testing.

  “You know Bella and Dragomir,” the Prince of Darkness continues. “And this is his brother, Anatolio.”

  Smiling, Anatolio comes up to me, bows, then grabs my hand and gives it a kiss faster than I can blink.

  A strange sound emanates from beside me.

  I blink.

  Did the Devil just growl?

  “It’s Tigger,” Anatolio says. “That’s what my friends call me.”

  Tigger? Does he like to bounce a lot and have a stuffed bear for a friend?

  The Devil pointedly steps between me and Tigger before continuing the introductions. “This is Snezhana.” He gestures at the blonde. “She works in a store next door, though I’m not sure what she’s doing here.” He glances disapprovingly at codename-mother.

  The blonde also looks at codename-mother—in her case, with a confused expression.

  “I can explain,” codename-mother says, not meeting either of their gazes. “I heard that Anatolio—I mean, Tigger—is single, so I invited Snezhana in case they might… get along.”

  “That’s odd,” Bella says. “We only told you that Tigger was coming today.”

  The look the older woman gives her maybe-daughter could melt lead.

  Tigger frowns at Snezhana, whose expression makes it clear that this is the first time she’s heard of the setup with him.

  My earlier guess must’ve been right. She was originally invited here for the Devil.