The Superfox

by Ava Lovelace

  THE SUPERFOX

  Geekrotica Level 2

  by Ava Lovelace

  Copyright © 2014 by D. Dawson

  All rights reserved.

  Winter is coming? Screw that.

  Melissa wasn't about to miss a deadline just because Jack Frost had decided to vomit forth a blizzard of glitter in a city that didn't know what to do with snow. All morning, her programmers had been sticking their heads in the door with a litany of excuses: kids stuck at school, sick moms who needed medicine, that frantic need to stock up on milk and bread that made no sense unless one was a French toast chef. Melissa had smiled and waved them on, knowing it would come down to her, a souped-up Mac, and an entire pot of coffee swiped from the CEO's private kitchen after he'd given her a good-natured hug and abandoned ship. And that was okay. She liked playing the hero and hitting Send moments before the client's clock ticked down, especially when no one believed it could be done.

  As it turned out, hitting deadlines was a rare superpower to have.

  “Lissa, you want a ride home? It's getting thick out there.” One of the newer programmers fidgeted in her doorway, keys jingling in his hand. He reminded her of a gangly fawn in a plaid shirt, but he could code—and hack— like hell. “I got a big truck with 4WD.”

  She looked outside and performed some overly generous mental calculus. “Thanks, Murphy, but I'll be fine. Got to finish the wireframes by two to stay on schedule. I'll get home in time. You go on.”

  “Um.” Fidget, fidget. He dropped his keys. The programmers liked her, but the new ones were always slightly terrified to defy her. Even though she was Tinkerbell-sized, she resembled Wonder Woman more than a little, from her black hair, blue eyes, and trademark red lips to the muscles she developed in the company gym. “You sure? Because they're saying the roads are already icing up. You just got a little sedan, right?”

  “You know what they say: drive a little sedan, carry a big stick.”

  She held up her keychain, which had a repli Mjölnir ca of Thor's Mjölnir on it. Of course, she actually meant that she had full-wheel drive and a manual transmission, but Murphy must've detected a slight euphemism, as the poor kid turned red, spluttered, and gulped audibly.

  “Uh, okay. Um, good luck getting home. Might not want to wait until two, though. For real. You could get stuck here. Can't you just work remote?”

  Melissa shook her thick, black mane. “I don't work from home. Home is where I relax. My Fortress of Solitude. I'll finish here, and if that means I sleep under my desk, so be it.”

  He paused, one hand on the doorframe, turning from red back to pink. “There's a futon in the art department, if it gets that bad. And I have some chips in my desk.”

  “You're my hero, Murph,” she said, and he looked like she'd just chucked a bag of gold coins at him.

  “Good luck, then.”

  With a wave, he disappeared.

  “I don't need luck. I have skills,” she muttered to herself, turning back to the huge monitors sprawled over her desk. “Right, Jarvis?” The computer didn't talk back, but it did everything she asked without complaining, so she figured she was one up on Tony Stark.

  Murph was the last person to stop by, and Lissa slipped in her earbuds, cranked up her playlist, and lost herself in the work. When she finally hit Send and looked up again with a fierce grin, the window showed only opaque white. She couldn't even see the parking lot down below where her racy vintage Bimmer waited alone in a cloak of snow. Plucking out her earbuds, she was assailed by the weirdest sound ever: utter silence. Outside of the buzz of lights and monitors, Interprog Marketing was as quiet and still as the surface of the moon.

  “Cool,” she said, the words over-loud in the silence as she hopped out of her chair and stretched until her back popped. “Time to go hunting.”

  Prowling the empty office halls was much like navigating the dungeon of a video game or walking through a zombiepocalypse. Empty desks, dark offices, quiet cubes, a flickering light every now and then. No phones ringing, no secretary whining about people stealing her pink pen, no Media Department full of beauty queens talking at high volume about run times, no ka-thunk of the free Coke machine that kept the IT guys awake ands squirrely at their keyboards. She could've gone through the offices, opening drawers and lifting up keyboards and hacking passwords to find out anything she wanted to know. But Lissa was one of the good guys, and she even stopped to lock a couple of screens left on and open by people who'd probably left in a panic to get their kids.

  Her first real stop was the CEO's break room for a packet of coffee and an organic granola bar; Dr. Horne had given her the keycode—and his eternal devotion— when she'd saved his ass by pulling an all-nighter for a major client when the original PM had quit in a huff. Next, she went to the far less posh but much more comfortable IT break room to actually brew the coffee to her exact specifications and load it with French Vanilla creamer. Lounging on the couch, she flipped through the TV stations, sticking out her tongue every time some toupee with horse teeth said Snowpocalypse like it was in any way creative and not already splattered all over Twitter. She preferred Hothlanta, anyway. Giving up, she flicked the remote to Cartoon Network and tuned out until her coffee came up empty.

  As was her tradition when working during non-work hours, she carefully saved her granola bar crumbs in the package and carried them two halls over to the office of one David Dennihy, chief accountant, where she sprinkled bits of oatmeal and brown sugar in his keyboard, on his chair, and in between the cushions of his visitors' chairs.

  “That's what you get for trying to get me fired, dick,” she muttered, dusting the remaining crumbs off her hands and onto the perfectly centered blotter on his fancy, solid oak desk.

  It was the most benign punishment she'd concocted. One of the Media girls who'd had a similar experience had encouraged her to leave peanut crumbs, as Dennihy was deathly allergic, but Lissa couldn't have lived with herself if he'd actually come to any harm. She just wanted him to be deeply annoyed and constantly digging itchy, phantom crumbs out of his rumpled slacks.

  Skipping down the hall to the nicer of the women's restrooms, she finally heard something that piqued her curiosity: music. The hook was catchy but unfamiliar, and she ran fingers down the textured wallpaper, heading toward the sound of strumming guitars like a moth to flame. She didn't spend much time down here, in the art department; most of her work life was divided between the programmers, the highers-up, and the deep chairs of the high-tech meeting room where she communicated with everyone else. The designers and photographers did their own thing, and when their work was ready, it appeared in FTP folders and magically popped up on her programmers' pages. Other than that, she only saw them when there was cake in the break room.

  The programmers were in a cube maze with darkened offices for the veterans and specialists, but the art department was one big room with individual workstations around the perimeter. The room was mostly dark, a few lights shining like spotlights on slanted desks or project boards. Lissa stopped in the door, listening for the music's source so she could find out which of the art kids had good taste in alt rock—and turn it off so they wouldn't get in trouble when everyone returned to the office.

  There, in the corner. It must've belonged to one of the more senior designers, with a double-size workstation and monitors even bigger than Lissa's. One side had a stool, the other a yoga ball. Shelves on the wall held action figures, vinyl Pop figurines, framed comics, a Batman mask, and a vintage Godzilla lording over them all. An iPod was parked in a Bose dock, and a single light shone onto a collection of photos on the higher desk. As it was the sort of old-fashioned twist lamp that could overheat, Lissa headed over to turn it off before it started a fire or burned out the bulb.

 
; “Can I help you?”

  Her fingers froze inches from the warmth of the lamp, and she suddenly felt like a rogue caught cutting a purse. She spun around and struggled not to shove her hands behind her back as if she were guilty.

  The voice had come from the corner—from the futon Murph had mentioned earlier. It was a worn, black thing lurking in a shadow, and the shape on it, upon closer inspection, turned out to be a dude. Or, to be more specific, a lanky Viking in a kilt, black shirt, and boots, sitting up with knees sprawled open and an iPad balanced on one thigh. His red-blond hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and he was smirking at her. Like he'd just caught her trying to lift his purse after a bad roll.

  Had she seen him before? No way. He had to be new. She'd been with Interprog for three years and went to all the company functions. Not because she enjoyed hanging out with unimaginative suits who couldn't quote a single Marvel movie, but because she wanted to support her programmers, who were often the redheaded and underappreciated stepchildren of any interactive corporate institution.

  But she'd have noticed this guy, as he was seriously freaking hot and looked like a cross between Thor and Loki. He had Thor's hair, blue eyes, and chiseled jaw and Loki's lanky physique and knowing smile. The kilt was a welcome and natural addition to the mix. Feeling suddenly self-conscious and overly warm, Lissa dug her toes into the carpet and wished she'd had the good sense to put on her damn shoes before dancing around the empty office like a fucking pixie.

  “Oh, I just heard the music and figured I would turn it off.”

  “You have something against The Mowgli's?”

  His voice was weirdly cultured but carried no accent, and he seemed more amused than insulted. But she, usually the stoic alpha-chick, was a bit bamboozled. She had a reputation around the office as a bitch, and she used it to further her department. This guy must not have got the memo.

  “Never heard of 'em before. Just figured I'd save someone the trouble of getting their ass chewed out when Dr. Horne got back.”

  He stood and snapped his iPad case closed as he walked to the dock and turned off the music. The air was instantly still and charged, the weird negative nothing of the snowstorm crashing against the thick, tinted windows the only sound.

  “Dr. Horne and I have a deal. He doesn't tell me how to run my life, and I don't quit.”

  Lissa chuckled. “Yeah, and do you run this department?”

  “I'm my own department. Photography, population: 1.”

  Lissa's memory pinged, and it all clicked. “Oh. You're Ranger.”

  After a string of wretched camera monkeys who could make a truck look like a stump or a model look like a porn star, Dr. Horne had taken a new direction and hired a maverick photographer making waves with a popular tumblr that went viral and spawned a coffee table book. The guy's name was Mark Ranger, and he'd come on board with more gossip than fanfare, an upstart who was given free reign so long as he kept turning out mind-blowing work that was miles ahead of the competition. Now that she thought about it, she remembered hearing the Media girls squealing over him on his first day, when he'd worn a suit and tie, black on black. Now she understood their response. But she knew immediately that they had no chance with the man standing before her.

  A man with the balls to wear a kilt to work and the physique to pull it off was already in a different universe than the catty salesgirls who couldn't pick Star-Lord out of a line-up.

  “Yeah, but when you say it like that, I feel like Aragorn.”

  “And that's a bad thing?”

  His grin broke wide, showing wolfish white teeth. “You must be Melissa Martin.”

  “How'd you know?”

  “Because you're the only woman in this building who looks like Wonder Woman, knows Lord of the Rings, and doesn't quake in her high heels when I talk to her. You have a reputation, too. Is it true that when the receptionist sent a flagged email to the entire company about a missing pen, you had a gross of cheap ballpoints delivered to the front desk with a singing telegram about how Reply All is a privilege, not a right?”

  Lissa shrugged, crossed her feet. “You can't prove that. Unless you check the IT photo board. She was really pissed. I didn't get my messages for a week.” She looked up and grinned. “But I got a great Christmas bonus from Dr. Horne.”

  For a long, charged moment, they locked eyes, her leaning against the doorframe and him standing loose but confident, iPad in his hands.

  “So what's a nice girl like you doing in an art department like this during a Snowpocalypse?”

  “Oh, I was just hanging around, hoping for cheesy pick-up lines from a dude in a kilt.” Turning to the window, she put a hand to the tinted glass. “Hitting an important deadline, actually.”

  “Don't you have peons for that?”

  She shrugged. “Yeah, but they have things at home more important than a Maine Coon who likes to push wine glasses off the counter. So I let them go. No worries. There's an endless supply of coffee here, and if worse comes to worst, I have a spare pair of clothes and access to the office gym showers. In case of nuclear fallout, I could live here happily for years.”

  He grinned. “Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Considering your reputation, I'd get eaten first.”

  Lissa wanted to ask him why he was still there, but that was the second time he'd brought up her reputation, which made her feel defensive. And annoyed. Hand on her hips, she stepped forward, chin out. “I have a rep for eating coworkers?”

  Instead of backing away or recanting, he stepped forward, too. “You have a rep for being no-nonsense, assertive, protective of your employees, and sometimes bossy, yeah.”

  If Lissa had been a dog, her hackles would've been up and crackling. “I'm not bossy; I'm the fucking boss.”

  He nodded. “I respect that. Bossy always seemed like an asinine word. Dude tells people what to do, he's a great leader. Woman does the same, she's a bossy bitch. My mom was a bossy bitch, and she got shit done. Anyone who's scared of you was obviously on the wrong side of your temper for good reason.”

  Lissa had been all set for a fight, but... he'd basically taken her side completely, an utterly new thing for her. She narrowed her eyes and let a slow smile spread. “Okay. You get a reprieve. I won't eat you until all the granola bars are gone.”

  With the subtlest change of posture and another step toward her, Mark's entire mien changed from a hot guy teasing her to a hotter guy mentally undressing her. “That's a shame.”

  Her breath caught in her throat, and she twisted up inside. No one but Dennihy had ever made a pass at her at work. After him, no one had ever dared. And his pass had been less a shared, charged moment of animal lust and more a clumsy swipe from a trained, spoiled bear. Whatever language Mark spoke with body and pheremones, Lissa found she spoke it, too, and her skin went over hot. It was entirely inappropriate. And completely delicious.

  And since there was no one else in the entire office to witness it or comment on it or report it to HR, Lissa let herself bask in that rare sensation of being wanted. And wanting back.

  She licked her lips and decided to play along.

  “It's only a reprieve. I can still change my mind at any time.”

  Mark closed the distance between them and reached for her hair. Lissa froze like a deer with suicidal tendencies caught in unexpected but welcome headlights.

  “You've got granola bar in your hair, Wonder Woman,” he said, holding up a crumb.

  Gold hair lightly lined his wrist and the back of his hand, just enough to make her think about Thor and Vikings and all sorts of lovely pillaging.

  She gulped and breathed in the scent of him, a hint of woody cologne. “That's how we do it on Themyscira. Left my mirror on the invisible jet.”

  “And you know comics,” he murmured. “Even better.”

  He was so close she had to look up at him, past his gold-stubbled jaw. “Do I pass your geek test, Ranger?”

  He shook his head. “You don't need a test to join
a self-selected group. That's just a bunch of bullshit. Not that I'm not intrigued.”

  Having grown up as a proudly rebellious nerd, hearing a guy like him say something like that was about the sexiest thing she could possibly imagine. God, she wanted to kiss him so bad. But she'd have to go up on her tiptoes to do that, and grab his face to angle him down, and there was a certain power to just standing like they were, lips separated by the space between a hummingbird and a flower, a few quivering vertical inches. The way he stilled, lips slightly parted, hinted that he was enjoying the tension, too.

  “Melissa, do you want...”

  He licked his lips.

  She held her breath, waiting.

  What did she want? His lips on hers, his tongue prying her open, his hands on her waist, a thigh pressed between hers, the cold of the window glass against her back, with the heat of a strange photographer against her front?

  “...to go sledding?”

  Lissa shook her head and stared at him like he was an idiot.

  “Do I want to go sledding? Seriously?”

  Mark looked out the window over her shoulder, which wasn't hard, since he was a full head taller than she was. The swirling snow had slowed down just enough to show the hill behind their office building. It was normally covered in a carpet of green and dandelions, and once a week, a team of guys with huge, annoyingly loud mowers spent all day cutting it into tidy rows. Now it was a perfect hump of sparkling white.

  “Totally serious.”

  “I don't have warm clothes.”

  “We'll hit the Lost and Found. And the coat closet.”

  She looked down at her bare feet. “I don't have warm shoes.”

  “I have a pair of galoshes in my SUV.”

  “Do you have the answer to every problem?”

  “Yes. Quit dawdling and come on.”

  He took off down the hall, and she hurried behind him. “Bossy,” she muttered, entirely unaccustomed to being bossed around.

  He stopped at the coat closet and jiggled the locked door. “You have a key?”