by Misha Bell
“I won’t,” she says firmly. “Anyway, I’d better go.”
“Do svidaniya.”
“Well, that’s new,” she says, and with a bye, she hangs up.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I step out of the elevator on my office floor and cringe at the racket my coworkers are creating. Holding my ears, I sprint for my desk before anyone asks me something stupid, like, “How are you?”
As I run, I notice something weird. There are extra chairs next to the desks of the developers.
What’s that about?
Launching my email, I grimace at the sight of my inbox. You skip one day, and the stupid thing overflows.
I start by checking if I have anything from Alex. If I’m fired, I will at least be spared the rest of the inbox, not to mention the abominable cacophony of my coworkers.
The first email is about the games for the hospital. Alex suggests we meet with Dr. Piper and his people, so he can make sure everyone is on the same page. I’d be happy about this if it weren’t for the fact that this email arrived yesterday—hours before my improper behavior.
As if to add to my job-related anxiety, the next item from Alex is a lot more sinister.
A meeting request.
Location: his office.
Agenda: blank.
Time: an hour from now.
Bugger.
Should I even bother with the rest of the inbox?
I think I will. I need something to do if I don’t want to go crazy for the next hour.
First things first, though. If I keep my job, I want the meeting with Dr. Piper to happen ASAP, so I email him about it—the window before he associates my work with porn is closing fast. Then I check if I have anything from Bella; after all, she’s also my boss, and according to Alex, this is more her company than his.
There’s just one email from her, also from yesterday. Apparently, Bella and Alex have decided to implement something called pair programming—a technique that’s proven highly effective at 1000 Devils. She says if I have good arguments against it, I should talk to her right away, and that if some developers prefer to work alone, exceptions can be made.
This must be what the extra chairs are for.
Though I have some idea of what pair programming is, I read up on it some more.
Also known as pairing, it is as the name suggests: two programmers sit side by side and work together. The driver types the code, while the other person, the navigator, reviews the code as they go. Naturally, the roles are frequently switched.
Why have I never tried this? According to research, code quality goes up when you do this, and it leads to everyone on the team sharing knowledge better.
Jolly good. If I’m not fired, I’ll be curious to see how this pairing thing works out.
Someone clears his throat. Twice. “Hi, Holly.”
Rubbing my throbbing temples, I look up.
I should’ve guessed by the throat clearing.
It’s Buckley.
“Hi,” I say. “What’s up?”
He clears his throat twice more. “I just wanted to say goodbye.”
“Oh?”
A single clearing of the throat. Thank God. “I got the move I wanted already. The new management are fast.”
“Ah.” I do my best not to look too pleased. “Congratulations.”
He clears his throat twice more. “Today is my last day.”
He’s at seven throat clearings now. How do I get him to leave things at that?
“Great,” I say. “I wish you the best.”
I wave goodbye.
Nope. He clears his throat twice, as though he’s intentionally trying to drive me mad. “We should stay in touch.”
“Sure,” I say. “Will do.”
Not bloody likely.
Giving me an unprofessionally lingering look that I definitely won’t miss, he clears his throat yet again and leaves.
I pretend that it doesn’t bother me that his throat clearing total is ten.
Not bothered at all.
Nope.
I’m as Zen as eleven Hindu cows. As cool as seven cucumbers.
Okay, fine. I need something more absorbing and stimulating than checking email, and I know just the thing—the code Robert emailed me the other day. If I keep my job, I’ll be working on suit integration, so I might as well have a look.
I didn’t think my headache could worsen, but here we are. The code itself is good, elegant even, but it’s not tidy.
I frantically make sure all the lines are indented by four spaces, and then I fix spelling errors in the comments until I get a reminder about the upcoming meeting with Alex.
Bugger. Almost forgot. Forget fun, time really flies when you’re cleaning up.
Before I get up from my desk, I type out the command to submit the cleaned-up code into the shared repository; otherwise, if my computer dies, my work will get lost. I do this carefully because I once gave the whole team a heart attack when I messed up this step and made it look like a year of hard work had disappeared. Fortunately, I had all the code they thought we’d lost stored locally on my computer, so I redid the code submission and everyone stopped freaking out.
Is it my imminent meeting with Alex, or is the term “code submission” vaguely BDSMy? Also, is BDSMy a word?
Grr. Why am I pondering linguistics? Alex and my fate await.
As I rise to my feet, the pain in my head sharpens to a throbbing.
Well, there’s no helping it.
I speed-walk to the office I broke into and knock.
“Come in,” Alex says, his sexy accent in full force.
I take a deep breath and step inside.
Chapter Twenty-Five
At a glance, I see that he indeed got himself a new monitor, a keyboard, and even an extra chair. What really commands my attention, though, is the man himself.
Though I doubt he shaved this morning, he’s not as scruffy as usual thanks to the grooming from the prior day, and even his hair is less of a mess—all enhancing the scrumptiousness I should ignore.
Would getting fired by someone this hot hurt a little extra?
Hard to say.
Speaking of hard, he totally was last night. Throbbing hard, like my headache.
Ugh. Shoot me now.
“Hello,” I say when I realize I’ve been standing there mutely for far too long.
His expression is unreadable, which makes him look like his brother, Vlad. My palms grow sweaty, my stomach tightening into a knot.
“Privet,” he says.
An informal hello? Maybe that’s a good sign?
“I—I think I know why I’m here,” I stammer.
He lifts his right eyebrow the smallest fraction of a millimeter. “You do?”
I bob my head. “I’m sorry about last night.”
A crease shows up on his forehead. “You are?”
“I behaved unprofessionally.” I cast a yearning glance at his guest chair. I’m not sure if it’s the hangover or this encounter so far, but my legs feel like jellified rubber.
“Sit.” He makes it sounds like an order.
I gladly obey. “As I started saying, I’m sorry about my unbecoming behavior. It won’t happen again.”
His expression grows even harder to decipher. “It won’t?”
“I promise. Please let me keep my job. I—”
“You think I asked you here to fire you?”
Now his face is easy to read. The angry expression states that if he didn’t think I should be fired before, he’s considering it now.
I swallow hard. “You didn’t fill in the agenda on the meeting request.”
His cerulean gaze darkens. “So you assumed you’re getting fired? Is your opinion of me that low, or are you trying to be as pessimistic as a stereotypical Russian?”
Whew. I guess he’s not firing me. My sigh of relief is audible. “What did you want to talk about then?”
“Suit integration.” He turns his screen my way, a
nd I see the code I just tidied.
“Oh.”
A hint of that wicked smirk appears on his face. “Specifically, I wanted to talk about how we’re going to work on the code.”
“We?”
He’s not about to say what I think he is, is he? That would be unthinkable. Like letting a bear into a honey storage facility. Like—
The smirk is clearly there now. “I want the two of us to pair.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
He means pairing as in the programming technique, but images of us copulating invade my brain and refuse to leave. Or more accurately, they never really left, but now they’re at the forefront.
He turns the screen back toward himself. “Pull your chair closer.”
Wait. Now?
We’re pairing now?
He looks at me expectantly.
I guess that’s that. We’re pairing.
Binary gods help me.
I drag my chair over until I’m close enough to detect his yummy scent.
“You just submitted some code,” he says, turning his focus to the screen. “Let me sync so we’re looking at the latest.”
Is it normal to notice how sexy his fingers are as they type out those commands? I picture them dancing around my body instead of on the lucky keyboard keys, and my breathing quickens. The way he just pressed that C key—
“You’ve made some files look nicer,” he mutters, his attention still fixed on the screen. “It’s easier to understand what’s going on. Thank you.”
Damn it. Why does that praise flash me back to last night’s kiss?
“No problem,” I manage.
“Do you want to drive or navigate?”
“I want to drive,” I say quickly. Thankfully, I don’t add “you crazy in bed.”
Bugger, my thoughts are an inch away from becoming an article in Cosmo.
He scoots his chair away, and I slide in behind the keyboard.
“How about we work on that issue you mentioned to my sister?” he says.
“Sure. Can you help me navigate to the relevant file?”
He tells me where to go, and we review things together. Unfortunately, his proximity and the hangover make it extremely difficult to concentrate.
If this pairing is to go on, I’ll need to aggressively hydrate… and masturbate.
Once we open the file, I scan for any low-hanging fruit when it comes to smoothing out the issues I saw. I find something and he agrees the change would help, so we work on it as I battle the urge to kiss him again.
Who knew coding could be so sexually frustrating?
“We’ll need to test this,” he says when I declare that I’m done with the change.
I nearly fall off my chair.
Test. As in use that suit?
I spotted the initial problem while canoodling with the replica of him in VR, so that’s how I imagine the testing he’s talking about. Except this time, I’d have to strip in front of him and—
My phone rings.
Ignoring it, I close the file.
The stupid thing rings again.
“You should take that,” he says. “I have another meeting soon anyway. We’ll pick this up in the afternoon.”
So the X-rated testing is going to happen in the afternoon.
Jolly good. I’m so calm now.
The phone rings again. Stammering something incomprehensible, I finally accept the damn call.
It’s security from downstairs. Someone’s left a package, and I need to pick it up.
“See you later,” Alex says when I explain that I have to go.
“Do svidaniya,” I say on my way out.
“Do skorovo svidaniya,” he says with a grin.
In the elevator, I pull out my phone and learn that skorovo means imminent.
Yep.
More pairing and testing is imminent—assuming I survive this lunch with my parents.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Package in tow, I return to my floor.
I have to kill some time before lunch, so I decide to fill out as much of Bella’s questionnaire as I can.
Damn.
Some of those questions are X-rated, to say the least. I hope no one stops by my desk—or questions why I’m blushing so profusely.
Questionnaire complete, I decide it’s time to prep for lunch, so I sneak into the loo to try on whatever is in Gia’s package.
No, not loo. Bathroom.
Must watch my Britishisms at that lunch.
In the box is my vampire makeover: a black wig, a bottle of foundation a shade too pale, a pair of biker boots, a dark lipstick, and an outfit consisting of black jeans, a black long-sleeved top, and a leather vest with metal studs on it. There are also fancy black gloves that will serve double duty, making it seem like I’m worried about germs while also covering the lack of black nail polish on my hands.
By the time I’m done putting it all on, I look enough like my twin that my own mother would not be able to tell us apart—which is the goal.
Hiding my own stuff in the now-empty box, I prepare to head out, only Bella walks in and does a double take.
“Wow. I’ve heard of Casual Fridays, but never of Goth Thursdays.”
I grimace. “It’s a long story.”
She grins. “Let me guess. Your hangover is as bad as mine, so you’ve decided to look the way you feel.”
“That’s not a bad guess,” I say, smiling back.
Her grin turns wicked. “So did you and Alex pair?”
Blushing through the foundation, I nod. Then, since I’m flustered anyway, I pull out her naughty form and thrust it into her hands. “That’s as much as I’ll ever be able to fill out. Alex took away the suit.”
She chuckles. “Not surprised. Even as a kid, Alex never liked sharing his toys.”
Am I the toy here, or is it the suit? Or maybe she’s talking about virtual Alex?
“I’ve got a thing.” I glance at the door.
“Me too.” She heads for one of the stalls. “Bye.”
I sneak a look at my phone and sprint back to my desk, ignoring my coworkers’ startled glances. Dropping the box with my normal stuff by my chair, I hurry to the elevator.
Wait a sec.
Did I just see Alex in the corner of my vision? Hopefully not—I don’t want to explain my look to him most of all.
To my relief, the elevator arrives quickly, and from there, the trip to Miso Hungry is uneventful.
My parents are waiting at a corner table when I step inside.
They don’t see me yet, which is good.
I walk over to the hostess.
She doesn’t seem to recognize me.
Sweet.
“Hi,” I say. “I know I look different today, but I’m the customer who asks for forty-seven cubes of tofu in her miso soup.”
“Ah,” she says a bit too loudly. “That is a nice look for you.”
“Thanks. I’ll be sitting there.” I point at my folks. “When I order miso soup and rolls later, can you make them the way I usually get them?”
She nods.
Great. Maybe I’ll pull this off.
I approach the table. “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.”
When he was young, Dad looked like Bob Dylan—or so Mom says. Nowadays, he looks more like a hobo, with a wild beard and a creepy silver ponytail that sticks out of a beanie that hides his bald spot. A well-fed hobo—his belly looks like Mom’s right before the sextuplets aliened their way out of her. In contrast to Dad, and despite growing eight human beings inside her, Mom’s stomach is flat, her hair is shiny, and her skin is smooth. She looks like she could be my older sister, which makes me optimistic about aging gracefully.
Note to self: must not give Dad grief about his eating habits, as that is something Gia wouldn’t do.
Or would she?
Mom leaps to her feet and folds her hands together, yoga style. “Namaste, sunshine.”
Sunshine? Is that sarcasm? I look like a creature of the night that suns
hine kills.
“Thing 2.” Dad’s smile is goofy as he pats my shoulder.
Score. He called me Thing 2. The deception is working thus far. I’m actually Thing 1 on account of being the oldest, though that simply means I beat Gia by a few seconds in our race out of Mom’s vagina. The sextuplets are Things 3 through 8, so I’m very lucky. I’m not Thing 4, or Thing 6, or—shudder—a very nonprime Thing 8.
“I’m sensing tension,” Dad says. “Are you uncentered? Care for a shoulder rub?”
“We eat first,” Mom says in the motherly tone she perfected while dealing with eight growing monsters—I mean, girls.
With a slight pout and a sigh, Dad plops back into his chair. He’s a huge people pleaser, so denying him the chance to give a shoulder rub is like taking s’mores away from a starving hippie with the worst case of the munchies in cannabis history.
Mom sits, so I take the remaining chair, which happens to face the door.
“How are things going?” I ask, eager to keep the conversation as far away from my person as possible. “Did you do anything interesting while in town?”
“Things couldn’t be better.” Mom opens her menu. “Last night, we saw a burlesque performance. Afterward, your father turned into a beast.”
And so it begins. I bet if I were to take a drink each time Mom says something that makes me want to poke my ears out, my current hangover would seem like a tickle.
“How are things in Thing 2’s land?” Dad asks. “Still following your dream?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Magic is great.”
If they buy this, the rest of the lunch will be a breeze. Though I always try to be supportive of Gia, I can’t help but see her magic more as a hobby than something a grownup does to pay bills on time.
Dad nods approvingly. “I so much admire what you’re doing.”
I carefully lift an eyebrow—the heavy layer of foundation on my forehead feels like it might peel off at any second.
“Manifesting your dreams,” he clarifies. “I still haven’t quit my day job.”
“Your day job lets us travel like this,” Mom says reassuringly. “Plus, as a penetration—”
“Mom.” I glance worriedly at the hostess. “Please don’t make penetration-related jokes, I implore you.”
