Hard Byte

by Misha Bell

  Alex launches to his feet and steps between Tigger and me. “She’s here with me.”

  I leap to my feet as well. “I’m still here. Why are you talking as though I’m not?”

  “I know she’s with you,” Tigger says. “I just—”

  Dragomir barks something angrily at his brother, but I don’t catch the words.

  Still ignored, I debate stomping my foot in frustration but decide against it.

  Tigger raises his hands. “Chill, people.” He looks at Alex. “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean any disrespect. Plenty of dance partners at other tables.” He hiccups and winks at me. “Alas, milady, a dance is not in the cards. If you had an equally attractive sister, maybe I’d dance with her.”

  I push Alex out of my way. “As a matter of fact, I do. How about I give you her number, so you can—”

  “Hey.” Bella gently pulls on my elbow. “Mind going to the bathroom with me?”

  I let her lead me away, and when we’re out of everyone’s earshot, I say, “I was just going to give Tigger my twin’s number, so that—”

  “I suggest you sober up first,” Bella says. “Then, if you still think that’s a good idea, you can ask your twin if she wants to be set up.”

  That’s a good point. The men aren’t the only ones who’ve let vodka mess up their thinking. It might be impacting me a little bit too. Gia would be pissed if I pimped her out without her permission, the way Natasha seems to do with her kids.

  I shudder. When Gia gets pissed, her pranks get mean—like the time she rubbed half the objects in our middle school with hot pepper powder.

  “Now,” Bella says with a grin. “Tell me about the suit.”

  Ah. Of course. It’s been seconds since I’ve been made to feel off-kilter. Speaking of, is my walking off-kilter? I seem to be bumping into people a lot.

  Bella is still looking at me expectantly, so I say, “Not much new to tell. The batteries died before I could experience the last phase. I read some QA manuals, so I can document it better if—”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” She pulls out a stack of papers from her purse. “Fill this out when you’re ready.”

  I glance at the first page.

  There are questions like, “Was orgasm achieved?” and “How many times?” But nothing about, “Do you have the lady equivalent of blue balls?”—which is where I am.

  What would you call that condition? Blue ovaries? Blue clit?

  “Fanny’s helped me with that document,” Bella says as she opens the door to the loo. “And I’d really appreciate your help as well.”

  I read more of the questions as I use the facilities and then wait for Bella by the door.

  “Can you give us a moment?” Bella says to the bathroom attendant.

  With a huff, the bathroom mistress leaves.

  “So,” Bella says with a mischievous grin. “I have a gift for you.” She digs into her purse and pulls out a giant dildo.

  I nearly drop the testing document.

  Does vodka cause hallucinations?

  Nope. My new boss is really standing there with a dildo.

  A gift. For me.

  As if to add to the surrealness, Bella clicks a button on the side of the silicon shlong, and it hums to life and begins to vibrate with all the enthusiasm of a jackhammer.

  “Enjoy.” Turning the vibration off, Bella thrusts the dildo into my hands.

  I gape at it. Besides being enormous, it’s blue with chrome swirls and a red mushroom top—which combine to remind me of Optimus Prime from Transfomers.

  Bella frowns. “You don’t like it?”

  “I’m just a little stunned,” I say, my tongue feeling strangely heavy in my mouth.

  “I made it myself,” Bella says. “Not sure if Alex mentioned it, but I own a sex toy company called Belka.”

  Huh. That would’ve been a fun conversation between Alex and me:

  “Did you know my sister makes fake cocks?”

  “Why, no, I didn’t. Tell me more. Spare no detail.”

  Hey, at least this explains Bella’s interest in the VR suit—it’s the logical next step for a sex toy company owner.

  “Thank you.” I stash Optimus deep in my purse. “It’s very thoughtful.”

  It must’ve been the right thing to say because Bella beams with pride as she prances back to the table, which has been cleared of everything but tea and coffee.

  Spotting me, Alex leaps to his feet and pulls out my chair.

  I know I’m supposed to be upset with him, but it’s difficult when he’s being so gentlemanly.

  Vlad stands up. “We’re going to head out.”

  Smiling at me, Fanny follows his example. “It was great to meet you.”

  I fight the urge to ask her if she also got a dildo from Bella, or if I’m special. “Nice to meet you both.”

  Bella glances at her still-snoring father. “I think Dragomir and I should head out as well.”

  Dragomir nods and rises to his feet. “Great to see you again, Holly. Sorry about my brother.” He glares at the dance floor, where Tigger is sandwiched between Natasha and some random middle-aged woman from another table.

  “It’s okay. All he did is ask me to dance.” I look at Alex pointedly. “I took it as a compliment.”

  Is that a growl from Alex?

  “I’ll see you at work.” Bella kisses me on the cheek. “Bye.”

  “Do svidaniya,” I say without a second of hesitation.

  “See?” Alex says with a devilish smirk. “You’re already saying goodbye in Russian. How long before you acquire our accent?”

  I can’t help but grin.

  His expression turns serious. “Are you ready to leave, or do you want to finish your tea?”

  My heartbeat speeds up. I hadn’t given much thought to how this night might end, but now all sorts of X-rated scenarios are performing the Kama Sutra in my brain.

  “I’m ready,” I say breathlessly.

  “Great.” He extends his hand to me. “Let’s go.”

  Pulse quickening further, I clasp his palm.

  It’s big, warm, and callused, and I never want to give it back.

  “Bye, Dad,” Alex says to the sleeping Boris. “Bye, Mom!” he yells toward the dance floor.

  Natasha waves, and we head out, hand in hand.

  The walk to the limo happens as if in a dream.

  He holds the door for me again, and I slide inside. He joins me and, unlike before, sits next to me.

  Blimey.

  Is this about to turn into a real—and really hot—date?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Now that he’s inches away, I drink him in with my eyes.

  The man is the visual equivalent of crystal meth for the ovaries.

  “Have I told you how amazing you look tonight?” he murmurs, his eyes greedily scanning me back.

  Heat rushes over my skin as I slide closer, emboldened both by the alcohol and by the obvious hunger in that cerulean gaze. “The subject might’ve come up.”

  His voice turns husky. “You also smell delicious.”

  “Not as delicious as you.” I lean in and shamelessly breathe in the yummy tea aroma that’s been driving me insane all night.

  He cups my chin and stares into my eyes.

  Losing the fight with my self-control, I reach out to tame his unruly hair—which turns out to be deliciously smooth and silky, cool at the tips and warm closer to his scalp.

  His breath hitches at my touch, his eyes darkening, and he retaliates by tucking an errant tuft of my hair behind my left ear.

  The heat inside me intensifies, and the limo begins spinning.

  Like two magnets, we’re pulled to each other by a force greater than ourselves.

  Our lips fuse.

  Time seems to stop.

  The kiss is good. Scary good. I’m drunk on all the sensations it wrenches out of me. He tastes like that delicious tea, his lips soft and warm, gentle yet merciless in demanding a response—a response t
hat makes me feel completely out of control.

  The limo is spinning like a NASA training module now, and an inferno is raging in my core. A touch of a feather applied at the right place would probably make me come.

  This has to be some kind of vodka side effect. No mere kiss can feel like this.

  Panting, I slide my hands down his back.

  His muscular, broad, impossibly strong back.

  He pulls away.

  What the hell?

  My ovaries are so far on the blue spectrum they just might turn violet and then green.

  The limo stops.

  Ah. We’ve arrived.

  I glance out the window.

  Indeed. My place.

  Heart pounding, I turn back to face him. “Come up with me.”

  He tucks another strand of hair behind my ear, his touch sending another bolt of heat down to my core. “I can’t.” His voice is hoarse, his tone deeply regretful.

  “You can’t?” I look uncomprehendingly at the bulge in his pants.

  He sighs. “I want you to issue this invitation when you don’t have pure vodka in your veins.”

  “I’m not drunk.” Bugger. The words have come out slurred.

  His gaze turns sympathetic. “How about I help you get inside?”

  Aha. Loophole. All isn’t lost.

  He exits the car without any sign of inebriation.

  I climb out after him, my treacherous body feeling weirdly heavy and clumsy.

  He steadies me by the elbow as I step out.

  Hmm. My knees feel wobbly. Must be all the bloody hormones stirred up by the bloody kiss.

  He gently tugs on my elbow. “Let’s go.”

  I enjoy the feel of his strong hand supporting me as he leads me to my door. Unlocking it, I smile as seductively as I can. “Let me make you some tea?”

  There. Who can refuse the lure of a good cup of tea?

  The look on his face is that of a parched man who’s crossed the desert. “I’m not thirsty.”

  I grind my teeth. “Fine. Don’t need you anyway.”

  He quirks an eyebrow.

  “I have the suit, remember? There’s always virtual Alex.”

  His lips flatten. “Virtual Alex?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. That bloke is a lot more accommodating than the real thing.”

  His eyes narrow. “You should just go to bed.”

  I lift my chin. “What? Jealous of a little competition?”

  “That suit is my company’s property,” he says flatly. “I’d like it back. Now. Right away.”

  With a growl, I stumble inside and almost trip over my pentagram-shaped coffee table before he catches me.

  So now he comes in? Wanker.

  I pull out of his grasp and dash to the bedroom. Hands shaking from anger, I pack the suit into the penis-decorated backpack and throw it at him.

  He adroitly catches the projectile and gives me an annoying smirk. “Thank you.” He puts the backpack on his back. “Rest now.”

  Grr. Why is that commanding tone turning me on?

  Time to get serious. I plop onto the bed in a hopefully seductive pose. Of course, I may also look like a drunk lump. “Last chance to join me,” I slur—again, hopefully seductively.

  His nostrils flare. “I need to borrow your door key.”

  “My key?” Sexy pose forgotten, I jerk upright. “Why?”

  “So I can lock the door on my way out,” he says, enunciating each word as though I’ve suddenly lost forty-seven IQ points.

  “I can lock my own door, thank you very much.”

  He shakes his head. “You might trip on that witchy table again.”

  “Not witchy. I just like five-pointed furniture.”

  “I’ll leave the key in your mailbox,” he says. “Does it lock?”

  I nod jerkily.

  He extends his hand. “Be a good girl now.”

  Ugh. I scramble off the bed, dig through my purse, and slap the key onto his palm.

  “Good. Now sleep tight.” With one last heated once-over, he turns on his heel and leaves without shutting the bedroom door.

  Fine. I don’t need him and his real sodding cock. Or the suit.

  I have his sister’s dildo.

  Actually, I should think of it as my dildo now. Or as Optimus Prime.

  I almost yell the bit about the dildo after him but contain myself at the last moment.

  What if he goes all caveman jelly and steals the dildo?

  Can’t have that. Blue ovaries must be appeased.

  I’m going to lie here and wait until I hear him lock the front door before pouncing on the dildo.

  I wait.

  Is he gone?

  Better wait a few extra minutes. I can’t have him catch me with my pants down again.

  I yawn.

  Maybe it won’t hurt to close my eyes for just a second?

  The moment my upper and lower lashes meet, sleep hits me like a bomb and I pass out.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Is that Big bloody Ben?

  The sound has to be at least 127 decibels—loud enough to cause permanent damage to my ears.

  Oh. It’s my alarm clock.

  I slap the snooze button before my eardrums explode.

  What the hell? I’m nauseated, and my headache is sporting a migraine.

  Bugger. I know what this is.

  Hangover.

  But that implies inebriation.

  Oh, no. It’s all coming back to me—especially the part where I came on to Alex at the end of the night.

  What was I thinking? Talk about making a mess.

  With great effort, I sit up, realizing dimly that I’m fully dressed.

  The room spins around me. A fly passes by, sounding like a buzzsaw.

  How drunk was I that I feel this awful? Are those things directly proportional?

  By the time I get to my feet, the headache worsens.

  Hey, at least I seem to be walking straight.

  I go through the motions of my morning routine until I find myself in the kitchen.

  Hmm. There’s a Gatorade in my fridge.

  I didn’t buy that.

  Did Alex get it for me?

  Unsure if I should be upset that he let himself in or pleased that he was concerned about my electrolytes, I chug the drink until my stomach is about to burst.

  There. Now if I take a barrel of Tylenol, I might be able to go to work.

  I take a cab because public transportation would probably make my brain explode today.

  A few blocks from home, my phone begins to vibrate.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, sis,” Gia shrieks. “How was the date?”

  “Ugh.” I move the phone a few inches away from my ringing ear. “Lower your voice.”

  “What are you talking about?” she shouts even louder. “I’m practically whispering.”

  I tell her about what happened, and with each word that leaves my mouth, greater mortification and horror set in.

  I kissed Alex… then threw myself at him, like a hussy.

  I pretty much sexually harassed my boss.

  “So,” Gia says when I’m done with the whole awful story. “What are you going to do now?”

  “No clue. Somehow salvage my career?”

  “I meant about him. Are the two of you dating now?”

  “Not bloody likely. We still work together.”

  And that’s just the tip of the messy iceberg. In any case, who says he’d want to date me? After all, he refused my advances after that kiss. If it had been as hot for him as it was for me, he wouldn’t have.

  “Fine. I won’t push this,” Gia says with a dramatic sigh.

  Has hell relocated to Antarctica?

  “Great, thanks.”

  “I just hope you’re not too hungover for the lunch you owe me.”

  I bring the phone back to my ear, certain I misheard her. “What lunch?”

  “With our parental units,” she says, and I can almost
hear the eye roll. “Crystal and Harry Hyman. Chicken sexer and penetration tester. Remember them? The reasons we’re so messed up?”

  If we are messed up, it would be thanks to our siblings as much as our parents, but I don’t say that, opting for a horrified, “Is that today?”

  “You know it is,” Gia says. “And no, you don’t get out of it by playing the hangover card.”

  “Fine,” I grumble. “I wish the headache was a pain in my ass instead—it would help me pretend to be you.”

  “That makes no sense. Unless you’re talking about anal. No, not even in that case.”

  “Good. Making no sense should also help me pass for you.”

  “If you want them to believe you’re me, don’t attempt to make jokes, especially like that,” she says. “And avoid the Britishisms. Also, a friend of mine is going to bring you a bag with supplies.”

  “Supplies?” I feel an absurd pang of jealousy at the mention of a friend. Despite our identical genes and upbringings, and even with all her studious germ avoidance, Gia has a much better social life than I do… in that, she has one.

  She snorts, happily oblivious to my thoughts. “Were you going to show up in the same outfit you wear to work?”

  I glance down. Yep. I have my usual on—as it should be. “I didn’t even think about that. I guess I’m more like you today than I realized.”

  “Har har. The bag will have some clothes, a wig, and makeup.”

  I feel my headache intensifying. “Great. I’m looking forward to looking like Morticia Addams… if she’d joined a motorcycle club.”

  “I’d watch that,” Gia says. “Also, show them magic. Do that thirty-seven thing I showed you the other day.”

  “Sounds good.” I know she wants me to ask how she can be sure our parents will think of thirty-seven when I do the trick, so I resist the temptation. “What about Tigger?”

  “That’s Bella’s boyfriend’s brother?” she asks.

  “Right. Do you want to be set up with him?”

  “Of course not,” she says. “He sounds like a manwhore, and that’s the last thing I need.”

  The urge to argue is strong, but I decide to be a nice sister and resist it. After all, she’s mainly skipping lunch with our parents so she won’t be pressured into dating.

  “Fair enough,” I say. “Let me know if you change your mind.”