Hard Byte

by Misha Bell

  “Sorry,” Robert says and bends to pick up the pens.

  “It’s okay.” Buckley clears his throat a few times. “I got this, boss.”

  As Robert shakes my hand, I make sure Buckley actually picks up the mess—not that it would help this place become magically ordered.

  Alex must sense some of my discombobulation. He insists we talk to Robert in a meeting room and chooses one that’s blissfully tidy—no doubt a place where they hold meetings with clients and the like.

  As we settle around the table, Alex gives Robert an overview of the conversation at the hospital and a list of games in the scope of the project.

  “What about War of Sword?” Robert asks. “It would be a good fit for the target hardware.”

  Alex sighs. “Too violent for the target demographic. Maybe in a later phase.”

  “Wait,” I say. “War of Sword—the game you like so much—is one of yours?”

  Robert nods so vigorously his warped glasses nearly fall off his nose. “It’s Alex’s baby.”

  “More of a passion project,” Alex says. “The idea was to make a game for myself and see what happens.”

  “Yeah,” Robert says with a measure of pride in his voice. “Financial success is what happened.”

  “Tidy,” I say. “Now I really want to see it.”

  Robert and Alex exchange excited looks.

  “We have a room for that,” Alex says. “Want to see it?”

  “Of course,” I say, though now I’m not so sure.

  The room better not be as much of a mess as the rest of the floor.

  Leaving Robert, Alex and I head over there, and when we enter the room, I blow out a relieved breath. It’s empty, the only furniture being a dresser-like thing in the corner.

  Alex walks up to the dresser and pulls out a pair of VR headsets. “Are you okay using gear made by your competition?”

  I nod. “I have that brand of headset at home. It’s one of the few besides ours that fit my head.”

  He hands me the equipment, and I put it on.

  “Are all these games made by you guys?” I ask as I take in the cluttered dashboard.

  “Yep,” Alex says. “The icon with the sword is what you want.”

  I start the game and let Alex walk me through character creation.

  Minutes later, I’m an elf female with facial features not so different from my own, just cartoony. As my weapons, I choose a bow with arrows, plus a thin, one-handed sword.

  When I start the game, I show up in a medieval village, and Alex tells me to go into the inn and grab a chair.

  “This is a multiplayer game,” he says as I comply. “I’m about to join you.”

  Excited, I look at the inn entrance. A minute later, he walks in.

  His avatar is a minotaur, horns, hoofed feet, and all. More importantly, it’s a shirtless, muscular minotaur—with a face that looks eerily like Alex’s.

  Bugger. Now I’m turned on by a half-human, half-cow. Next thing you know, I’ll have a fetish for lactating men.

  “Hi,” the minotaur says, and his voice comes at me twice—from the headset speakers and from real Alex.

  “You look horny,” I say and wince. He made the same joke about the dik-dik just hours ago.

  He’s kind enough to chuckle before handing me a ball of yarn.

  “With that in your inventory, you’ll be able to find me no matter where I am in this world.”

  As I put the yarn into my travel bag, I realize a horrific fact I hadn’t noticed until now.

  It’s my elfin hands.

  They only have four fingers each.

  Why? Bloody hell, why?

  It’s not like elves are known for their non-prime number of fingers. Quite the opposite—they’re supposed to be long lived, which a four-fingered elf would not be on account of being suicidal.

  “I’m going to join a friend in battle,” Alex says. “Shake that yarn to follow me.”

  “Sure,” I say uncertainly.

  Usually, I’d be anti-battle, but maybe this will work out in my favor—someone just might chop off a finger on each of my hands in the upcoming fight.

  A girl can hope.

  Alex disappears. I take the yarn out and give it a shake.

  Whoosh.

  The inn around me is gone… and is replaced with a scene from hell.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The forest meadow is littered with body parts, the gore made that much worse by the fact that all the hands and feet have four fingers and toes.

  I shudder. It’s not just the elves that are thusly cursed, it turns out.

  With a cacophony of sounds, a menagerie of creatures is tearing each other apart. Despite the cartoony looks, the violence feels vicious and brutal, too much so for me.

  Something leaps out from behind a tree. I yank my sword from its scabbard and behead what turns out to be a fellow elf.

  So, this is an elf-eat-elf world.

  Far in the distance, Alex is ripping into someone with his minotaur horns.

  Bugger. My gag reflex cannot take a second more of this.

  I remove the headset and try to even out my ragged breathing.

  Alex pulls off his headset as well and looks at me worriedly. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I lie. “Just a little bit of VR sickness. It will pass.”

  He hurries over to the dresser and brings back a bottle of water and a pill. “Take this.”

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Dramamine.”

  “No, thank you. I’ll just drink the water.” I take the bottle and chug it greedily until the images of four-fingered limbs are but a distant memory.

  “Feeling better?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Want to take the rest of the day off?”

  I shake my head.

  “How about we head back to work?” he suggests.

  “Great idea,” I say, and that is what we do.

  “Do you want to pair?” he asks when we step out of the elevator back at our offices.

  I glance at my desk. “Let me check my email first, then I’ll pop in.”

  “Deal.” He heads over to his office.

  When I finish with my inbox, I don’t feel ready to face Alex just yet, so I move some of the misaligned desks and remove objects from them to make sure there’s a prime total.

  “Want to organize my office?” Bella asks as she catches me putting Alison’s stapler into a drawer.

  I try to hide my eagerness. “Can I? Right now?”

  “Maybe another time.” She grins. “I’m pretty sure my brother is waiting for you.”

  Gulp. She’s right.

  “See you later,” I say bravely and head over to Alex’s office.

  If he’s annoyed at having waited, he doesn’t show it.

  “Will you drive?” is all he asks, and when I say yes, he lets me. A few hours later, he takes the reins.

  Just like the prior day, pair coding with Alex is a type of sensual torture. I lose track of time, and he again drags me to Miso Hungry at eight p.m.

  In déjà vu meets wet dream, this dinner not-date feels just like a real date would—and I have to constantly remind myself not to do or say anything inappropriate to my boss.

  The temptation is huge.

  Heroically, I resist it, and he gives me a limo lift once more, where it’s a miracle we don’t kiss again.

  At home, I take out all my sexual frustration on Optimus Prime—until its batteries die.

  Then and only then, I fall asleep.

  The next few days follow the same formula: I get to work, check my messages, and pair code with Alex until lunch. He then insists on taking me to Pelmennaya. Afterward, we work together some more and have dinner at Miso Hungry.

  Each day I get a lift home and each day we almost kiss—but don’t. And each day Optimus Prime has to pick up the pieces.

  “The suit integration is progressing so well,” Bella says to me one morning as I’m checking emails
at my desk. “You guys are amazing.” She proceeds to tell me how she’s tested the suit in every blush-inducing detail.

  “Anyway,” she says when her TMI avalanche is over. “Alex is no doubt pining for your company.”

  Before I can respond, she sashays away, so I rejoin Alex and the whole coding-lunch-coding-dinner-limo-wanking cycle happens once again.

  And then again. And again.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  As the weeks pass, I get to know Bella better, and I learn just how brilliant she is. On her end, she’s treating me more and more like a friend, which propels my girl crush on her into ready-to-stalk territory.

  I dread the day she learns of my original intent to harm her dream product.

  In fact, I pray she never will.

  The worst part, however, is that each passing day chips away at my resolve to stay strictly professional with Alex, especially since on each limo ride, he seems on the verge of kissing me but doesn’t.

  It’s getting to the point where I’m not sure if I’m grateful for his restraint or pissed off.

  “I need a favor,” Alex says as I’m about to exit the limo the following Friday evening.

  Wow. Is this it? Are we about to throw the bloody propriety out the window?

  I’m ready. Or am I?

  Bugger. Must answer.

  “What’s up?” I ask, failing to sound casual.

  “You know what, never mind,” he says. “It’s not appropriate.”

  Yes. Yes. Yes. Seems he finally has the decency to make an indecent proposal.

  I lean forward. “Please. What did you want to ask me?”

  He sighs and rubs his forehead. “Okay, so this Sunday morning, my parents’ restaurant will be closed for repainting, and Bella wants to stage an intervention for my father about his drinking.”

  Bloody hell. That’s not what I thought he’d say at all. In a heartbeat, I go from wanting to hump him to feeling terrible for him. “Has it gotten that bad?”

  He frowns. “He never used to pass out the way he did at his birthday, but Mom says it’s happened twice since.”

  I want to reach out and give him a reassuring hug but manage to resist—I’ve gotten pretty good at controlling my urges lately.

  “Do you want me there with you?” As horrible as the idea of this event sounds, if he needs me, I’ll be there.

  “No. Dad’s going to be upset as is. If someone who isn’t family turns up, he’ll just storm out.”

  “I see,” I say and instantly feel guilty for the relief washing over me. “Then what’s my role in it?”

  “My usual pet sitter will be away for the weekend,” he says.

  I blink at him, not sure what that has to do with anything.

  He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s too short of a notice to look for someone else, but I want someone there with Beelzebub.”

  My eyes widen. “You want me to babysit your dog?”

  Images of nip-slips or worse flit through my mind—his puppy deserves that demonic moniker.

  “You know what, never mind,” he says. “Now that I hear it out loud, I realize how weird it is for me to ask you this.”

  Not weird if he sees me as a friend or more—but I don’t say that. Instead, with a will of its own, my mouth replies, “I’ll be glad to help. You just caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

  He looks at me so intently my stomach flutters. “You sure?”

  “Quite sure.” I wish I were as confident as I sound.

  “Great.” He flashes me a grin that makes me feel like my upcoming torture is worth it. “You’ll have to let me do something for you as thanks.”

  The X-rated images from my evenings with Optimus Prime are suddenly at the forefront of my mind. “Like what?”

  He hesitates for a second. “How about I make you dinner?”

  He will cook dinner for me? The proverb states that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but I might not be immune to the reversal of that—which makes this a bad idea. “You don’t need to do that.”

  “I insist. Besides, it might be good if you came the day before, so I could show you where all his stuff is. This way, we can sleep in on Sunday morning—I know I’ll need the extra zzzs.”

  So a dinner Saturday night? A dinner he’ll prepare himself? Why does that feel so much more date-y than all the non-dates we’ve had?

  “What time?” is all I trust myself to ask.

  “When do you usually eat dinner?”

  “7:09,” I blurt.

  He smiles. “Of course. That’s a prime time to eat. 7:09 it is—though maybe come a bit earlier so we can start at that exact moment.”

  “Spiffy,” I say, a little lightheaded. “How about I come over at 6:31?”

  “Perfect. I’ll have the limo waiting for you at 6:13.”

  I hope I don’t feel as I do now tomorrow, or else I won’t be able to eat.

  "I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say and scramble out of the limo before I do something I’ll regret—like asking if he wants to come up or giving him a pentagram-shaped love bite on his neck.

  Or both at the same time.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I barely sleep that night, so I spend most of Saturday re-watching Downton Abbey, rereading Pride and Prejudice, and interacting with Euclid.

  None of it calms me down.

  No matter how many times I remind myself that tonight’s dinner isn’t a date, my blood pressure refuses to normalize. I feel off-kilter, unable to focus on my usual routine. I even skip lunch, which might turn out to be a good thing if Alex’s cooking is subpar—hunger being the best spice and all that.

  Maybe I’ll calm down if I research what’s customary when visiting a Russian home?

  Nope.

  Knowing that you should take your shoes off and not shake hands over a doorway isn’t that helpful.

  Then again, I do see a useful tip about bringing a gift—something I almost forgot about. Apparently, a box of candy is traditional.

  Hmm. I don’t have a box, but I do have a stash of individually wrapped Fry’s Turkish Delight that I ordered from the UK. Hopefully, the key is the candy part, not the box part. I put nineteen of them into my purse.

  When it’s closer to prime time, I groom my lady bits, taking care of all the fine hair that’s reappeared since the wax—not because I’m planning on Alex seeing my bits but because that puppy might rip my knickers off instead of my bra this time. If that happens—and if Alex happens to look—I want to make sure things look tidy down there.

  Another question occurs to me: what does one wear to a dinner her boss is cooking?

  After a long deliberation, I decide I can’t go wrong with the outfit Gia forced me to get for the birthday party. Also makeup wouldn’t hurt. And nice shoes. And for consistency’s sake, I make my hair look nice as well.

  When my phone alarm rings at 5:57, I examine myself in the mirror and nod approvingly.

  I’m as ready for this not-a-date as I can be.

  The burly limo driver opens the door for me when I approach.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “No problem,” he replies with a heavy Russian accent.

  A tea is waiting for me inside the car—a nice touch.

  I catch the guy texting something to someone—probably letting Alex know he’s picked me up. Then he closes the partition between us, and I’m left hoping he doesn’t text more as he drives.

  By the time we stop next to Alex’s building, I feel so jittery it would take a week of Downton Abbey to calm me down.

  The chauffeur opens the limo door for me.

  The skyscraper in front of us is sleek and shiny. The guy leads me into the lobby and waves at the security guard before escorting me into an elevator. Without a single word, he presses the button for the 107th floor before turning to leave.

  “Do svidanyia,” I say.

  Finally, a smile from the taciturn man. “Do svidaniya.”

  The doors close.
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  I hold my breath all the way until the doors open right into an apartment where Alex is already waiting. At that point, the breath escapes in a loud gasp—and not because the place is a posh penthouse that must’ve cost millions.

  Like me, Alex got dressed up and is wearing a suit similar to the one he wore at the restaurant, only even more stylish. Bespoke, perhaps?

  There’s even a tie. A tie!

  I force my mouth to close before any drool leaks out.

  He’s also clean-shaven again, like he was at his father’s birthday. Yet even that isn’t the reason I have to fight the urge to rip off that suit and shag his brains out right here and now.

  The problem is his hairdo.

  The black locks are neatly slicked back—exactly the way I’ve always fantasized about.

  He’s the very epitome of tidy.

  Knickers-dropping, nipples-hardening, mouth-watering kind of tidy.

  Bloody estrogen hell.

  How am I supposed to act all proper now?

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “You look amazing,” we both say in unison.

  He grins. “Ivan told me you dressed up. You really didn’t have to.” I can almost hear the unsaid, “But I’m glad you did.”

  So that’s what that text was about? I guess I have the driver to thank for prompting Alex to clean up as nicely as he has.

  Suddenly, a loud bark echoes in the large hallway, followed by the clickety-clack of puppy claws on hardwood floors and then the sound of something crashing.

  The koala-bear-meets-dog creature rushes at me, his tail wagging so quickly you can barely see it move.

  With a Russian curse, Alex leaps for his pet, but Beelzebub dodges him and jumps on me, rising on his haunches so we come face to maw.

  Instinctively, my right hand covers my crotch and my left covers the top of my dress.

  No more wardrobe malfunctions at his paws, thank you very much.

  Since the puppy can’t make me expose my nipples or clit, he settles for doing to me what I’ve been dying to do to his master—licking my face like I’m covered in peanut butter.