SEXT

by Penny Wylder

  "Can we speak privately, Clove?"

  My heart sinks down through my throat, a slow progression toward my stomach. My boss never asks to speak in private. Not unless it's something extreme, like our annual reviews or the conversation we had a couple of months ago about my annual bonus this year, assuming I do all my work well and exceed expectations in the workplace.

  Somehow, I have a feeling I won't be getting that bonus. Not after this.

  I rise on unsteady feet and follow her into her office, my hands quivering at my sides. This isn't my fault, I remind myself. Lots of people take semi-nude selfies. It's not my fault it fell into the wrong hands, wound up somewhere it shouldn't.

  Someone must have hacked my phone, or maybe my iCloud account, where I store all of my pictures automatically. They must have seen this and sent it around the office because....

  Well, I can't quite figure out why yet. But that doesn't matter. Not right now. What matters is surviving this meeting with my job in tact.

  My boss closes the door behind her gently, and I stand in front of it, chest heaving. She takes a seat at her desk. Normally, when we meet in private, this is when she'd gesture at the chair across from her and ask me to have a seat too, so we can speak on the same level, eye-to-eye as colleagues.

  She doesn't invite me to sit down now. Instead, she steeples her fingers under her chin and rests them against her lips, eyes piercing through mine. For a long, tense moment, silence reigns.

  Then, she sighs.

  "Clove, this is a family business. It's been run by the same family for the last 150 years, and much of the content we produce is kid-friendly, books meant to enhance families' knowledge and lives. We pride ourselves on our core values. Our dedication to safe learning environments and to getting the job done. Normally, you do just that. But this...." She drops her gaze to her desk. Her eyes flicker to her computer screen, and I wonder if she still has the website open. If she's staring at the photo of my half-naked body right now. My cheeks light up bright red with shame and fear. "Clove, what were you thinking, posing for this photo?"

  My cheeks continue to burn, but in my defense, I raise my chin a little higher. "With all due respect, Stacy, this was a private photograph. It was never meant for public consumption, so I didn't think—"

  "No, you most certainly did not think." She heaves a sigh. It sounds regretful. Almost as if she hates to do this. Yet here she is, doing it anyway. "Clove, this picture has been circulating across our company's social media pages. Someone with the password to our accounts has been posting it with all sorts of awful captions..."

  "It's not what it looks like."

  "Nevertheless, all the public can see is the external view. And right now, to our customers, it looks like one of our employees has begun using our site as her own personal advertising service to try to recruit... well… to try and start a side venture of her own, shall we say."

  My mouth falls open at that last line. I'm still thinking about the caption on the photo, all the nasty comments people left beneath it. "I did not... I would never..."

  "I know that, Clove." Stacy finally reaches across the desk to offer a hand. I give her mine, and she squeezes my fingers gently. Then she releases me with a regretful sigh and leans back in her chair. "But there's only so much we can do right now, as a company."

  "Can't we find out who's doing this? Fight them?"

  "I have IT tracking possible perpetrators at the moment, but there's only so much they can do. Whoever did this used a VPN and external routers, bounced their signal all over the place to scramble the trail. It's unlikely we'll be able to definitively pin it on anyone. In the meantime, we need to be able to tell our shareholders that we're doing something to deflect this."

  My brow furrows in response to her continued frown. I don't like the way this sounds. "What does that mean exactly...?" I ask slowly, afraid of the answer. Afraid of the way she's already looking at me with pity in her eyes.

  "I'm going to have to ask you to stay out of the office for the time being."

  I can feel myself surging to my feet. My face was already flushed from embarrassment, shock, horror. Now it goes redder with anger. "I'm being suspended?"

  "Not suspended. We're just asking you to use a few of your vacation days right now."

  "That's insane. Ridiculous. I'm being victimized and I get punished for it?"

  "You know what the internet is like, Clove. You know how often things like this get leaked. Why would you put pictures like this out there in the world, knowing how easily they could be leaked? Why would you sign yourself up for this risk?"

  "I didn't—"

  "You have to take responsibility for your actions." My boss's expression closes off. Shifts from pity to pursed-lip disdain. "I'm sorry that it has to come to this, I truly am. But we cannot allow such actions to go unchecked. As soon as we've completed our investigation, and we're satisfied that we've either stopped the ongoing threat or determined who is at fault for these photos, then we can reinstate you as a full-time employee. Assuming, of course, that you will keep our company values in mind in the future, as you continue forward as an employee of our company."

  "But—"

  "I'm sorry, Clove, but for now, our decision is final. Please collect your things and head home for the day."

  "This is crazy. It's the 21st century."

  "Exactly. With 21st century benefits come 21st century dangers. I hope you keep them in mind next time you trust someone with incriminating photos like these, photos that go against everything our company stands for. And also against our employee code of conduct form, I might add."

  I clench my fists at my sides, but force myself to nod as though I agree. As though I understand. As though this isn't complete bullshit. My stomach churns even worse than ever, roiling with anger and confusion and underneath it all, fear. Sorrow. Who did this to me? Why?

  They're clearly out to get me in particular. This wasn't some random cyber troll attack. They deliberately went out of their way to get my picture, post it to my company's social media sites, and email my coworkers and boss to ensure they saw the photo. Why? What did I do to them?

  I think about that all the way home. About who I may have offended, who I may have pissed off somehow. Who would want to hurt me like this? To undermine my career and my social standing?

  I can't think of anyone. It's not like I go around making enemies. I'm a normal person with normal friends and a few ex-friends I've drifted away from. Nobody out to get me. Nobody who hates my guts.

  My head hurts. This isn’t happening, I think. I want to think. I want to believe. But no matter how often I think it, reality still stands.

  My life is about to be ruined.

  7

  When I walk into my building, I automatically check the counter, praying that I’ll see a familiar, sympathetic face there. Instead, Paul just waves at me, a bored smile on his face as he buzzes the door open. I grimace and walk past him, trying not to think too much about why I’m already so anxious to see Zayne.

  Plus, part of me is thinking about this photo already. About what it means. About who had access to it… Because I only ever sent it to one person. But I don’t want to think that. I don’t want to believe it.

  It couldn’t be him. Could it? Maybe someone stole his phone. Hacked his account. Or maybe my phone got hacked—I sent the pic to him over bar wifi. That’s not the most secure connection.

  Just as I step across the threshold into my apartment, my phone rings. I glance down at the caller ID, breath held. Celeste. Thank god. I answer it right away, say hello in a strained voice.

  "Oh god, Clove honey, I just saw."

  "I don't know what happened." My eyes sting. "How could somebody do this? Why? And who would want to?"

  "Slow down, slow down. First question first. How? Who took this picture?"

  I swallow hard, to calm my racing heart. "I did."

  "Okay. On your phone?"

  "Of course, Celeste. I didn't hire a p
rofessional photographer or anything. Obviously." I choke out a hollow laugh.

  She sighs. "But your phone is still on you. Nobody stole it, you didn't leave it unlocked anywhere."

  "No of course not."

  "So, who did you share this picture with?"

  I blink. Stare at the wall across from me in blank shock. "I... only one person."

  He's the one I took it for after all. The one I trusted with a half-naked selfie, when I'd barely ever trusted anyone with something like that before.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  "Zayne," I whisper, my throat aching with the single word.

  "Who?" I can practically hear the disdain from here. The fury.

  "A guy that I..." I close my eyes. I can't tell her the whole story. It's too idiotic. I knew this was a bad idea, knew I shouldn't get involved with someone from my building, someone so close to home. All men are the same, and now I have an asshole right on my doorstep who I'll have to walk past for the rest of my life. An asshole who might have just ruined my life.

  If it was him. If.

  Part of me still doesn't want to believe it. Refuses to. Not after this weekend. Not after how we felt together.

  But what other explanation is there? Unless maybe someone stole it from him, stole it from his phone... my brow furrows.

  "Hello? Earth to planet Clove. Come in Clove."

  I blink and shake my head. "What did you say?"

  "You're the one who trailed off mid-sentence. A guy that you what, met on that app? Did you meet him in person at all or did you skip straight to handing him damning blackmail evidence?"

  I wince. "We met. We... we went out a few times." Well. We were technically outside of his apartment once, anyway. "It went really well actually. I can't imagine he'd do this."

  "If he did, I swear I'll skin him alive," she mutters through gritted teeth. "You need to talk to him. Ask him what the fuck happened. He might know something even if it wasn’t him. And if it was, you just give me his address and let me at him, you hear?"

  I can feel myself nodding even though I know she can't see that. And of course I wouldn’t let her actually kill the guy. "I will. Thanks, Celeste. Look, I have to run now, but—"

  "Yeah, don't worry, I'll be around anytime you need me. And if you do need me to murder him, just ring beforehand okay, so I can pull all my supplies together?"

  Something in her voice tells me she really isn't joking. I'm reassured by that, at least a little bit, even as I hang up the phone. It rings again almost immediately. It’s a number I don't recognize. But maybe it's Celeste calling back.

  Or Zayne. It could be Zayne. What if someone stole his phone, found my photo on it? I’d much rather believe that than that he’d stab me in the back like this. Maybe someone took his cell and this is his new phone.

  I hit answer. "Hello?"

  "Hey, is this the hot chick we're supposed to call for a titty-fuck?" The voice on the other end sounds about 15-years-old and every bit as mature.

  "Only if you want me to rip your dick off." I scowl and hang up.

  It buzzes again. Same number. I hit ignore.

  Now a text message appears. New number this time.

  Lookin' to party wit u bee-yoo-tee-full.

  I delete it.

  Another one follows hard on its heels.

  Gawd girl them tits are fine as hell.

  And more. And more. And more. Pretty soon it's all I can do to type anything between hitting ignore on calls and deleting text messages. Finally, I manage to make my own outgoing call, to Zayne.

  I press the phone to my ear, ignore the buzz that lets me know I'm missing other incoming calls in the meantime.

  On his end, it just rings and rings. I grit my teeth, dig my nails into my palms and pray with every ounce of energy I have.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  "What's up? This is Zayne, leave me one—"

  I hang up before his sexy baritone voice even finishes the voicemail message. Screw him.

  You did, my helpful subconscious reminds me. Over and over and over again. Hell, if I clench my pussy tight enough, I can still feel the sweet, deep ache where his clock was just this morning when we had one last quickie before I headed into work. When he kissed me on the lips and I felt like I could conquer the whole world with him beside me.

  He didn't do this. He wouldn't. I know him. Maybe not well, maybe not for a long time, but enough to know this isn't his style. If he just wanted to humiliate me, he got this photo way back on Friday night. He had all weekend to ruin my life. He didn't need to spend the whole weekend fucking me senseless in the meantime.

  I manage to try him again in between the ongoing deluge of creeper calls. It goes to voicemail, again. After many rings, too. So he’s either seeing my call and dodging it, not hitting the ignore button either, so I won’t know he’s there, or he’s honestly away from the phone. I’m guessing the latter, since if he did something like this on purpose, he wouldn’t care about my feelings being hurt if he sent my phone call straight to voicemail.

  Crap.

  He was supposed to be at work, but when I passed the reception desk earlier, Paul was on. Maybe he took off for some reason, or had to run an errand? Maybe he’s back at the desk by now?

  I can’t recall exactly when the shifts change here, and screw it, this is important. I pocket my phone, grab my wallet and my keys, and charge for the elevator. I head up to his apartment first, figuring if he hasn’t started work yet, he might still be up there getting ready.

  My pussy tightens as the elevator slows to a halt on his floor. One weekend and my body has already gotten accustomed to anticipating sex when I reach this spot. Already, my mind fills with memories—him pinning me against the front door after I returned from an errand downstairs to my apartment. He couldn’t even wait to drag me inside—he stripped me right there, and fucked me against the door, my legs around his waist, our hips digging into one another.

  Then, of course, there was later that night, in the kitchen just off his hallway, as we tried to cook together but kept getting distracted by the brush of our arms as we reached around one another for supplies, and the way the heat from the stove made him smell even more delicious, practically edible… I’d bent over to pull some extra veggies from the fridge when he grabbed me from behind and flipped up my skirt. The sensation had been unique to say the least—the cool air from the fridge spilling over my shoulders as he gripped my hips and slid into me from behind, fucking me right there in the middle of dinner prep.

  I’m breathing hard by the time I reach his front door, even though it’s only a few steps from the elevator. Get ahold of yourself, I order, trying to slow my breathing, calm my frayed nerves. This visit isn’t about sex. This is about something so much more important. It’s about my career, my future, my work… My whole life hinges on figuring out who is trying to ruin me and why.

  I hit the buzzer.

  Then I wait. And wait. And wait.

  I check my phone to be sure I’m not imagining it, because it feels like time is crawling. I hit the buzzer one more time, just to be sure. Maybe he was in the shower and didn’t hear it, or maybe he’s listening to music. But the bell goes off, loud as ever, loud enough that I can hear it all the way from out here in the hallway. And from within Zayne’s apartment, I only hear silence in response.

  I shake my head. Okay, not home. So maybe he is downstairs at work.

  I climb back into the elevator and clench my thighs tight around my pussy. It feels disappointed, almost angry at me, for bringing it all the way up to this floor and not giving it the release it demands. It scares me how hungry I am for Zayne already, after barely any time of knowing him.

  I reach the ground floor and step out of the elevator, make a beeline for the front desk. Paul is still standing there, in the same spot where I walked past him an hour ago, smiling cheerily at one of the second floor tenants as she breezes past.

  I sidestep to let her into the elevator, then appro
ach the front desk, chest tight.

  “Hey Paul.”

  He blinks, though if he’s surprised to see me speaking to him first, he conceals it well behind that practiced smile of his. “Ms. Walker. How can I help you?”

  “Um.” This is going to sound weird. I know it is. But there’s nothing I can really do about that just now. “I’m looking for Zayne, actually. Have you seen him?”

  Paul’s eyebrows do a little dance above his face, as though deciding whether or not to rise in surprise. Eventually, he settles for just smiling a smidge wider, still polite as ever. “He’s out for lunch at the moment. His shift starts at 4 today, if you’d like to stop back then. Although, if it’s anything I can help you with in the meantime, I’d be delighted to offer my assistance.”

  Unless you happen to be an expert in tracking down cyber stalkers or revenge porn enthusiasts, I don’t think you can, I resist saying. I just smile instead. “Thanks, Paul. I’ll stop back later.”

  But my mind is already racing. I think about the coffee shop where we ate our first meal together, what feels like a lifetime ago already, even though it’s only been a few days. I know it’s a long shot, but he did say it’s one of his favorite spots in the area. Maybe that’s where he’d go now.

  I speed-walk the few blocks there, heart in my throat. All the while, I can feel my phone buzzing in my pocket, every few minutes another text or phone call. Some of the callers have started leaving voicemails, which I don’t even want to listen to. I delete them all unread, and wonder how hard it will be to program my phone to send all these new incoming calls straight to voicemail in the future. Will I have to change my number? Can I block this many phone numbers?

  Zayne couldn’t have done this to me. He wouldn’t. But maybe he’ll have some idea how to help fix it. Or at least some advice on what could’ve gone wrong. Did his phone get stolen? Did someone break into it?

  I reach the café and steal a peek through the windows. Sure enough, there he is at the back table, the same one we shared last Friday when he was trying to cheer me up after my especially shitty day at work. He doesn’t see me yet—he’s still eating, his eyes fixed on the seat across from him, half-glazed, as though deep in thought. I wonder what about. I wonder if he knows how horribly my life has blown up since I left him this morning.