My heart pumps as I work. It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to stretch my computer-science muscles. Top of the class, and now the leader of a motorbike gang. What would Professor Hutchinson say if he could see me now? My thoughts are on quick fire today, and so I ignore them. Sometimes, they can’t be tamed.
I focus on two things: the code, and the kiss I’ll win if I can fix it.
It takes three hours for me to scan the code and isolate the problems. The code is complex, but it’s not as complex as other projects I’ve worked on. It’s all about persistence, not looking away, contracting entirely on the details. I fix the code and run the game. It no longer crashes, and everything is in working order: no glitches. I wipe a hand across my forehead, which is damp with sweat, and then rock back in the chair. All that work for a kiss from a stranger. But I don’t begrudge it. Eden isn’t just any stranger. She’s a redheaded, petite, bouncy bombshell.
I’m about to copy the fixed code to the flash drive when a thought occurs to me. Grinning to myself, I switch on the webcam, look into it, and wink. Then I take the video file and blur out the background, set it to black text, and write, You’re Welcome, along the bottom of the animation. When that’s done, I access the source code and insert it into the game’s code.
Let her see how she likes that, I think, copying the new, improved code over to the flash drive. As I place the drive on the disk, I stop and look at my hands: large, gnarled, callused hands clutching a flash drive. It’s like my college self and my biker self are united in that one snapshot moment.
Just think about the kiss. The kiss from that beautiful woman. Goddamn, I can’t wait.
Chapter Nineteen
Half an hour later, Irish and Markus are in the office with me. Markus leans against the wall, his hands clasped before him, his bald head wrinkling as he follows the conversation. Big, lovable simpleton. Irish sits in the chair opposite me, the same one Eden sat in a few hours ago. He strokes his scar absentmindedly, running his finger along the faded white zigzag.
Irish mutters, “Sorry, Boss, about talkin’ shit about how many women you bring back. Just banter.”
“It’s fine,” I grunt. I can’t let them see how much this woman has affected me. Especially when I don’t even know how she’s had this effect on me. Turning the leader of The Miseryed into an introspective teenager. Goddamn.
“I just thought she was another—”
“I said it’s fine,” I interrupt.
“She’s home safe,” Markus says quietly, and I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s trying to cheer me up. Do I need cheering up?
“Good,” I say.
“Is she different?” Markus asks, in his oddly childlike way, simple and straight to the point. “To the others, I mean.”
“Why do you ask?”
He shrugs. “It just seems like you… I don’t know, it just seems like you liked her more. Or you knew her. Did you know her? Before today, I mean.”
“No,” I say, wondering at that myself. “I just met her earlier.”
“Wow,” Markus says, jaw dropping.
“Wow,” I agree.
“It won’t happen again, Boss,” Irish says. “I didn’t know she was your girl, you know? I just thought—”
“Goddammit, can we focus?” I snap, and Irish falls silent at once. I reach into one of the desk drawers and take out a blueprint. “This is the layout of the mansion,” I say, lowering my voice. Irish nods, swallowing his pride and leans across the table. Markus kicks away from the wall and lumbers over. “It’ll be a dinner party.”
“Next weekend,” Markus nods.
“Next weekend,” I confirm. “A dinner party with lots of Silicon Valley types.”
“Rich assholes?” Irish asks.
I chuckle. “Yeah, rich assholes.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“The host is Mason Abraham. Made his billions designing chips for computers. He’s one of the richest rich assholes in the Valley, now, if not the richest. And he’s a fussy prick. He doesn’t want the guests to have any idea that security exists. So some of us are going to attend the party—”
“Black tie?” Markus asks, raising his eyebrows.
“Black tie, yeah.” I nod. “We’ll have pieces inside our jackets, obviously. There’ll be around five or six of us actually in the party—the ones who can behave themselves.” I point to the main hall room on the blueprint. “The rest will be hidden in the basement, behind the wine rack.” I move my finger to the basement level, the small room secreted behind the rack. “I’ve been told he has a secret room there, a panic room. They’ll play cards, shoot the shit, whatever. And then if there’s trouble…”
“The men in suits get to fighting, and the men in the basement charge up to help.”
“Exactly,” I say. “But there shouldn’t be any trouble. You know what these sort of men are like. They get enough money, and they’re scared of their own shadows. All we have to do is show up and make sure that nothing goes wrong.”
“Easy money,” Irish grins.
“Easy money,” Markus laughs.
I nod. It will be easy money, ’cause there are always weak, scared men willing to pay men like us to take care of them. Weak crying children frightened of their own shadows, desperate for actual men to take control.
I tap the table. “Easy money,” I say. “But not so easy that we can get lazy. Irish, I want you down in the basement, overseeing the men. No drink. None at all. Play cards, talk, but keep it quiet. Your job is to make sure the men don’t do anything stupid or make too much noise. There’s a bonus in it for you if you can do a good job. Markus, I want you up top with me.”
“Really?” Markus grunts.
“Look at you,” I say. I point to his chest, which is as thick and round as a barrel, and then to his arms, which are monstrous-big. “You’re up top for the other guests. It’s not just stick-up artists we have to worry about. If some other guest starts getting big, most likely you’ll just have to wince at him, and he’ll shut up.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Markus’ lips twist. “It’s just… I can do the work, Boss. Fightin’, ridin’, all that. Even the boring stuff, like today. But when it comes to talking and parties and all that—”
Irish slaps Markus on the back. “You’ll do fine, big man, just nod along to what the rich pricks say.”
“You will be fine,” I tell Markus. “Alright, unless you have any questions, that’s it. I’ll tell you, Irish, who the basement crew is soon, so you can prep them. I’ll sort out the party crew.”
Irish stands up. “Sounds good to me.” He goes to the door and opens it. The sounds of the club filter into the room: laughing, cheering, the clinking of glasses. And then he closes the door, shutting the sound out.
Markus stands near the desk.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I just wanted to say, Boss…” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “If you want to take if further with this lady, I won’t judge you. I won’t think you’re soft.”
I smile up at the big lump. “Good to know, Markus. Good to know.”
He shuffles out of the office, and then I’m alone.
Eden. I wish you were here now.
Chapter Twenty
Eden
The first thing I do after Markus drops me at my apartment is throw myself on the couch. My breathing is coming fast, and my palms are sweating profusely. I place my hand on my chest, close my eyes, and take long, deep breaths, trying to bring my breathing into a steady rhythm. I’m not usually the type of woman to react like this to a man. I can’t remember any other time when I’ve been so struck by a member of the opposite sex.
What the hell was that? I ask myself.
My apartment is a mess, but it’s always a mess. It comprises of a living area, an adjoined, parasitical cubicle-kitchen, a snug bathroom, and a cozy bedroom. Books are strewn across the living room floor, piled high on the coffee table, and stac
ked up in miniature towers on the floor. My bedroom door is open, and I can see it’s just as messy as the living room, with clothes strewn over the bed and books piled up high. I know that if I turned around, dishes would be stacked beside the sink. It’s not that I’m a slob (or maybe there’s a bit of that), only that I’ve been focusing so hard on my video game.
Why do you care so much? I ask myself again, but no answer is forthcoming.
I place my laptop bag on the coffee table, still with one hand against my chest, still breathing steadily. Then I just sit there for a few minutes, calming myself. With my free hand, I scratch at the cushions of my couch, my nails making small tsk-tsk noises. Slowly, my heart beats less frantically. I don’t realize how heavy my head is until the heaviness disappears.
When I’ve calmed down, I get up and go to the corner of the room. To a casual observer, it would look like there’s nothing more than a pile of clothes here, discarded lazily. But when I reach the mound of t-shirts and pants, I pull them free to reveal an exercise bike imprisoned beneath it all. I climb on, and pedal.
Soon I am making the chh-chh breathing noises, and the scrape of the pedal is drowning out my heartbeat. Sweat it out, I tell myself. Just sweat it all out.
I keep thinking about the moments when I thought he was going to kiss me, going to make a move on me. As I cycle, my pussy burns. Burns. I wouldn’t be surprised if it singed a hole in my underwear and set my shorts on fire. The denim rubs against me as I go faster and faster. I close my eyes and lean forward, seeing his face. Maddox. Even his name is interesting. Maddox. And his square jaw, his strong nose, and his tight, muscular body. And the way those men followed his orders without question.
“Stop it,” I say aloud as if that will make it easier. “You are a feminist and a feminist doesn’t gush. You are a feminist, and a feminist doesn’t gush. You are a feminist and a feminist doesn’t gush!”
I snap the words at myself, whip-cracks meant to force me back to the real world. The real world where I’m not obsessed with a man I only met today, where his face doesn’t invade my thoughts moment by moment. The real world where my thoughts are clear and untouched by the leader of a motorbike gang.
But even when I leap off the bike and go into the bathroom, strip off my clothes, and get into the shower, I think of him. The water trickles down me, beading at my nipples and dripping down between my feet. Sliding down my chest, my belly, to my pussy. Sliding down my back between my ass cheeks. The water is his hand, I think, gasping, having to fight the urge to reach down between my legs and touch, touch, touch. The water is his hand, and he’s doing it, now. Yes, he’s doing it like no other man can—like no other man will dare.
I get out of the shower and wrap a towel around me. Then I go to the mirror and rub the steam off it with my forearm, revealing my reflection. I’m red-faced, and my lips are parted. My eyes are wide. I haven’t seen myself like this—ever. I can’t remember a time. I look like one of those women you sometimes see at nightclubs, leaning drunkenly against a brick wall, looking in wonder up at some man who’s seduced them. I always imagine women like that must be weak, to fall for a man so quickly, so abruptly. But now I have to change that judgment because I am that woman.
Dammit. I slump down on the couch in the towel and stretch my legs out, resting my feet on the coffee table. What has that man done to me?
I should be working. But I want to wait until Maddox’s programmer has taken a look at the game. If there is a programmer. Still, tomorrow morning, less than twenty-four hours, and I’ll see him again. Maybe, I tell myself, it was the excitement that got to me more than Maddox himself. Maybe I’m not as far gone as I think. Maybe meeting an outlaw leader, riding on the back of his bike, going to the clubhouse… maybe all this combined to make me hot, flushed, steamy, and sweaty.
Keep telling yourself that!
I shake my head, hurling beads of water over the couch, and then jump to my feet. Just get on with something. Pick up one of these books and take some notes. Take another look at the code. Do something other than pine after this man!
I nod with determination, but even as I get changed into a neutral blue summer dress, I imagine that Maddox is standing behind me, watching me.
Chapter Twenty One
I’m glad when Nat comes over for one of her unannounced visits, as she often does.
Sometimes, they’re a pain, but not today. Not even close. Today, seeing Nat is just what I need, someone to take my mind off everything. Too bad the first thing Nat says when she drops onto the couch is—
“So, tell me about this biker!”
Nat is short and thin, though not quite as thin as me. She has wide, dark blue eyes, a cute, button nose, a bright, blonde twenties-style bob of hair that hugs her face, and a classic fake tan. Oh, and she’s always smiling; always bright and happy. Today she wears a flowing polka-dotted dress and strappy sandals, with a gemstone necklace resting against her chest.
She stares up at me. Without realizing it, I’ve begun to pace.
“Oh, Nat,” I sigh. “Really?”
Nat throws her hands up wildly. “You text me that you’ve met a biker, and you’re going for a ride with him… Don’t you see how mad that is! Imagine if I text you one day: Hey, Eden, just letting you know I’ve met a hitman and I’m going to brunch with him. Oh, and if I return, please don’t ask me about it!” She tilts her head like a teacher who’s just finished a lecture. “Come on, Eden, let’s be real. Who is he? Did you really only meet him today? Why did you go for a ride with him?”
“I feel like I’m under attack,” I mutter, but it’s with a smile. Nat’s famous amongst her friends for her rapid-fire, machine-gun questions. “Where do you want me to start?” I ask because I know she won’t give up until she has her answers.
She claps her hands together, seal-like. “Yippee!”
Hollywood, look what you’ve created!
“Okay, so…” She chews her cheek, and then opens her mouth wide, eager, like a kindergarten kid. “First of all, did you really only meet him today? I mean, you met him today and then you went for a ‘ride’ with him? Is that right?”
I stop pacing and sit on the edge of the coffee table. I notice that my knees are bobbing up and down, up and down. They bob the same way when I’m sitting in an exam or getting grilled in a seminar at college.
“Yes,” I say. “I—” What exactly did I do? I decide to shorten it. “I met him, we got to talking, and he offered to take me for a ride.”
“O-kay…” Nat is looking at me in amazement, as though she’s seeing me for the first time. “But why? I mean, come on, Eden. You’re not usually the spur-of-the-moment kind of gal. How long have I known you now? Four years? Five, soon. In all that time I’ve never seen or heard of you just riding off with some guy you met. It’s usually very proper dates, isn’t it? A very proper date and then a very proper second date and a very proper third date and if the guy’s lucky he’ll get a peck on the cheek. You don’t just ride.”
“I know, I know.” I smooth my hand up and down my leg. “It’s weird.”
“So, why?”
“That’s a good question.”
“I asked a good question!” Nat cries playfully. “Are you going to answer it?”
“Um, sure. Let’s see…”
“You’re normally the master at knowing yourself, Eden. Didn’t you tell me someone at college calls you Miss Introspection because you’re always able to look inward or something like that? You know, those fancy college ideas don’t sit well with a simple programmer like me.” She flashes her teeth. “Come on.”
“I guess it was because he’s sexy,” I admit quietly.
Nat’s forehead crinkles and her eyebrows fly up. Her left hand opens and closes. “Eden!” she exclaims. “That’s not—”
“Like me, I know. But seriously, Nat, he is really sexy. He swaggered in, wearing his leather jacket and these big boots, and started flirting with the waitresses, loud enough so everyone could hear.
I should’ve thought he was a jerk. Hell, I did think he was a jerk. But then he bought me a coffee, and we got talking, and… Damn, Nat, I just couldn’t stop staring at him. I kept looking at his face and thinking: Have I ever seen a sexier man in real life? Maybe on a movie poster, but in real life? And then he asked me to go for a ride. I kept looking and looking. He’s really strong; he has really big muscles. I kept wondering if his muscles were going to burst out of his jacket. And his eyes are bright blue, bright, sort of like someone from Iceland or Sweden or somewhere like that. Somewhere Viking. And when he looked at me, my mind filled with…”
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