by Julie Olivia
“Cute joke,” I say to Taylor.
“Eh, hers was better.” She smiles and shrugs.
“You said it—not me.”
“Don’t work too late, boss.”
I shrug in return because we both know that’s an empty statement. I’m never not working. “Say hi to Kate for me.”
“I will. We need to have another game night soon.”
We won’t, but the sentiment is still nice. I spend more time in this expensive rented space than my other, overpriced one with an actual king-sized bed and real food that doesn’t consist of take-out protein shakes from the smoothie place below our building. The office building even has a gym. Why would I ever leave?
“See you Monday!” they both call out, filing out the door and closing it behind them, leaving only a small echo and me.
I envy their lives from time to time. Taylor and her wife Kate are the closest thing I’ve ever seen to soulmates, and Emma is still living the young single life—something that feels like only a distant memory from before I started this business.
However, despite being here on a Friday and knowing full well I’ll likely stay in this chair for another six or seven hours, this is my passion. There’s nothing quite like diving deep into a project. The act of taking on a problem and solving for variables, hunting for inconsistencies, and checking off yet another client on our constantly growing list is a feat all on its own.
But also…there’s the lack of something. The knowledge that when I do make it back to the apartment, with its bare marble counters and dining table chair cushions that lack proper lived-in butt dents, nobody is waiting for me. I have no pets, because how in the world would I care for them? I have no friendly neighbors, because when would I have met them? And I don’t have a girlfriend, because how would I find the time to be the partner she deserves? It doesn’t help that nobody has attracted my interest since my ex. There have been online dating apps, a nice dinner and a movie with some fooling around, enough to satiate the two of us until we move on with our lives and never speak again. But, it’s shallow. No depth. Enjoyable, but just a warm body to fill the weekend.
Then there’s Fran.
I run my hand down my face.
What is it with this mysterious woman? I don’t know anything about her. I can’t even search for her as we didn’t exchange last names. Also, I think she hated me.
Though there was little information shared, I saw the way she talked with such clipped tones and confidence, the way she knew how to throw banter back as easily as she took it, and that’s all my brain needed to see to for interest to be sparked.
The overalls were silly yet endearing. Her repeated blushes were cute and made my heart…flutter? That sounds so ridiculous, but I couldn’t break away from her for even a second. I wanted to take all of her in, find more ways to make her blush, and catch her flowery scent just one more time.
My computer’s email alert pops up, and I’m broken from my reverie to see a new one in my inbox.
It’s from my former college roommate and old co-owner, Ryan.
I can’t help but sigh in exhaustion. He only reaches out once every few months, and only when he wants something. His wants always come first. It was a fault that ultimately caused him to separate from our company, putting us on bad terms for a few more months than we like to remember. Ryan had other dreams, ones more pressing than the visions we committed to together, and more questionable dreams in our particular line of work—a role that turns what we call an ‘ethical hacker’ into…well…an unethical one.
I open the email.
To: @eowen
From: @ryanreed
Subject: Opportunity
The subject line alone should raise red flags, but I’m too curious for my own good.
Hey Owen,
How’s it going? Hope you’re doing alright. I’ve seen the company pop up on my feed a lot lately. You guys are really making waves. Couldn’t be more proud. I know you’re probably swamped right now, but I’ve recently gotten a contract that I think you might be interested in. It’s out of your wheelhouse, but you’re the best guy I know for the job. Look it over first before saying no. Just trust me on this one.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’s offered me a contract, and it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve taken one. I come in privately for a very generous consulting fee and guide him in the more practical ways of finding insecurities in businesses. I’ve never done the morally grey dirty work—at least, not since college. That’s Ryan’s role.
The amount of good in the work is ambiguous, and I know that. I never said I was a saint, but I can sleep at night knowing we’re hacking into the lives of the bad guys of the world, the evil men who run evil companies…companies blatantly abusing power or executing events that lack any form of decent moral alignment.
That being said, I’m not one for ‘too good to be true’ schemes—especially those involving Ryan. But, as per usual, my own curiosity isn’t satiated until I dig deeper. Because that’s what I do. I always need the facts, the data, and the control to draw my own conclusions. And curiosity kills the Owen, as they say.
Wait, was that it? Was I too curious about Fran? Did I come on too strong?
No. Back to work, Owen.
I look through some of the details Ryan attached to his email. This issue is that he’s vague, which isn’t good enough for me. I need more information given the line of work he’s in—and how horribly it can go wrong for everyone involved.
So, I don’t answer. Instead, I get back to work. I need to make myself busy. I need to focus on anything at all, any small distraction to get those cute overalls and the feisty blonde who wore them out of my head.
3 Francesca
I’ve always been an early riser, and I’ve always been a creature of habit.
I wake up at six o’clock every morning. I refill Leia’s food then go for a thirty-minute brisk walk, usually accompanied by men in briefcases and backpacked tourists. I get back to my flat. I start the tea kettle. I check a couple emails. I stretch. I give Leia a treat even though the fat cat already ate breakfast. And then, I start work.
Same routine, but it’s the routine that helps me tackle the newness of the job.
I’ve been at my new company, and in New York City, for only a couple weeks. I’m still receiving automated onboarding drip emails, sent in spaced-out increments each day. There are so many company websites to sign up for, reminders for local events, and the like; their community involvement is almost overwhelming, especially given their very discreet, almost anonymous presence. They’re a very small team, maybe only ten employees or so, but more organized than any corporate tech company I worked for back in London. I was approached through my professional social media profile and, while their own social profile is scarce, the pay and benefits package is so far above and beyond industry standard—which is already generous, to say the least—that I signed without even a question. The cherry on top was when they said employees could be entirely remote.
I bought a single one-way ticket to a different city, please and thank you, even if the moving fees did drain my wallet. They didn’t provide a moving stipend, but I didn’t care at the time. I’m regretting that now because I dropped a lot of money on shipping that silly recliner. Even one month of a plentiful tech salary is still a slow build back to normalcy.
However, New York is lovely thus far. People say the locals are harsh and unforgiving. Quite frankly, I find them similar to curmudgeonly Londoners—though more vocal—but the adjustment has been wonderful all the same. That is, except for Owen—Mr. Prick McGee.
Oh, let me carry your chair.
Yes, I can buy you tea because I’m a gentleman.
His niceties wouldn’t leave my mind all weekend.
Please. I’ve had enough so-called ‘gentlemen’ in my life, and I know a snake when I see one. Serpents are always donning a cool smile. They always have great hair, strong muscles, and smell like sandalwood or cinnamon o
r some other spice. And they always linger in your mind for days like ninjas, throwing star after star, each containing yet another perfect trait that’s hard to ignore.
So instead, I focus on work.
I’ve had various conference calls to learn about the company. We mostly deal in software sales—nothing too original—so the actual business side of my onboarding was short. Since then, I’ve been assisting with other departments, soaking in their tasks and the general structure of the website, but today I finally get to start my actual work.
As a penetration tester—or ethical hacker, according to Prick McGee—I look for insecurities in our system. I locate blind spots in our security, attempt to hack into them as an outsider, and then advise on how to fix them. Admittedly, their security is already top-notch; my access is limited like they have layers of firewalls against even me, the pentester. No matter—while working with the sales department, I already noticed a tiny crack in their code armor, and I decide to make that my first project.
After a couple hours of work and hearing my back crack from being hunched over my laptop for hours on end, I decide to break for lunch. I’ve been trying to frequent a different café a couple times a week, and I have yet to find any place that isn’t enjoyable. I locate a new place for today then head out.
I’m pulling the keys out of my deadbolt lock when I hear someone clearing their voice. I turn on my heel, startled as I come face to face with a familiar woman. With greying hair pulled back in tight braids and a smile, I recognize it as the old woman from the mailroom.
“Aren’t we having words?” she asks. I look down the hall. Lord, it’s like she came from nowhere. “I live next door, dearest. I was coming to see if you wanted to get lunch. Word is you have no friends.”
I laugh, remembering our previous conversation.
“Well I—”
She waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t be weird about it. Now, come on, I’m sure you only have one hour.”
“Who are you?”
“Honey, I’m retired,” she says. “Life is one long lunch break.”
I laugh again and we walk down the stairs, me going first because, quite frankly, I’m scared she may fall with that shuffled walk of hers. Though, I quickly realize she’s more limber than she seems. She trots down the stairs with a skip in her step, almost pushing into me as if I’m the one going too slow for her. It only makes me like her more.
As I follow her to wherever she’s going, I find out her name is Lara. She’s a retired widow, she’s bored, and she likes making friends—her words, not mine.
She leads me to a café, one entirely different from the searches I made earlier in an effort to discover someplace new. I instantly recognize it as the same coffee shop where Owen and I had our pseudo-not-a-date date just two days ago. It sends my stomach rolling. Out of anger, I’m sure, not nervousness. Not at all.
I grab myself a tea and a sandwich and choose the same table near the windows. It’s surprising it isn’t taken as it’s clearly the best seat in the house.
“Now, are you a documentary kind of woman?” Lara asks when I sit.
“I’m sorry?” I ask with a small laugh. It’s odd, like everything she says is so off the wall I’m having trouble following her, and the only reaction I can muster is laughter.
“Documentaries, my dear. I found one and I need someone to discuss it with.”
Most of my nights consist of Leia’s whining fits—something she’s prone to in new places—and spending the rest of the time binging reruns of Sherlock. I believe it’s Leia’s favorite. I think she fancies Benedict Cummerbund. Cumberbatch? Yes, that sounds correct.
“Seals, Fran,” Lara says, leaning forward with both elbows on the table, hands splayed out as if trying to trap the thought between her palms. I had zoned out, and I’m learning this is a mistake with old Lara. “I’m telling you—they’re endangered, and those tanks are too small.”
“Right,” I say, nodding. She continues by asking if I knew killer whales are just misunderstood stalkers. I shake my head no.
“Do you think seals even know they’re in a tank?” I ask.
“Would you know if you were in an apartment or a mansion?” she counters.
“Sure, but aren’t some born in captivity?”
“Woman, are you playing devil’s advocate or just trying to piss me off?” She says this with a lopsided smile and a laugh.
It’s refreshing to be around a person who can understand my humor. She even laughed at just the right part when I told her my job title was a penetration tester. That’s how you know she’s a keeper.
The only friend I currently have is my long-distance cousin who is too busy trying to get me to sleep with New York men. Plus, face-to-face interaction just scratches the itch for companionship differently. I rest my chin in my palms as she gets up out of her chair.
“I’m grabbing a dessert,” she says. “Croissant?”
“Mmm, blueberry scone?” I ask. I dig in my purse and hold out cash, which she takes.
“Well there goes my croissant. Two blueberry scones it is.”
I laugh again, focusing out the window once more. It’s hard to ignore the continued nervousness that comes with sitting at the same table as I did with my other almost-friend. It’s odd how such a simple interaction doesn’t leave your mind. Owen was too memorable with his sly smirks and clever glasses. I’m a melting pool of lust for a man in glasses.
But I can’t think of him. I don’t have time to focus on the first man I meet. I have loads of future adventures to be had in this city with its new restaurants, parks, and eligible men to casually explore once I’m settled and not burning leftover tokens from my old relationships.
“Fran!” Lara’s voice carries back to the table and I wonder what new thing she has to spout out, but instead I see her accompanied by another woman—though, more like a girl. She looks rather young, possibly early twenties if I had to wager, or at least within the range. She has short brown hair, curled slightly at the ends, with an eclectic outfit of bright yellow slacks and a red shirt, complete with a white scarf. She looks like a walking hot dog. “Emma, this is Fran. She’s a fancy Brit who’s new to town. Fran, this is Emma. We met in college. She works in tech as well, and I told her you’re looking for new friends.”
I don’t answer instantly, as I’m still trying to process how in the world they met in college given their clear age divide.
“Lucky you, I’m a fantastic friend,” Emma says, extending her hand for me to shake. I take it with a smile. “I hear you’re a pentester?” Cue Lara’s raspy old woman chuckle. “I work for a company nearby where we do contract pentesting. How long have you been in New York? Oh, sorry, that’s a weird question. I promise I’m not weird.”
Though I’m unsure how it’s a weird question, I do note that she is quite fond of talking and her speech is rather fast. There’s an awkward silence as I take her words in, but Lara is quick to fill the gap.
“If you’re looking for a tour guide, she’s your girl.”
“Absolutely,” Emma agrees almost instantly, overlapping the end of Lara’s sentence. “There’s actually a meet-up group this Thursday for techies, if you’re interested. It’s every week, but you don’t have to go every time. It’s a great place to meet people, network, pick brains—you know, tons of industry people.”
“Wow,” I say, getting in a word while she takes a breath. “That sounds wonderful.”
Instead of continuing as I expected, Emma goes quiet with widened eyes. She glances over my face, pausing at my bangs. I instinctually ruffle them back in place. It may be transitioning to autumn, but the midday heat does have a tendency to return them to their wavier state, and I can’t help but be slightly self-conscious.
After a moment, Emma blurts out, “Say more.”
“Pardon?” I ask, unable to contain a laugh. Of course peculiar Lara has peculiar friends.
She looks to the ceiling as if in thought, biting her lip to find the
next thing to say. I look to Lara, who is shaking her head. I assume this must be normal behavior for the young girl. Charming, but odd.
“Tell me about your time here or something,” Emma says.
My brain is flooding with curiosities. If her question wasn’t weird before, she’s definitely made her odd nature clear at this point. However, I oblige, because though it’s abnormal, she still seems sweet.
“I…started my job a month ago. Pentester.” I laugh, my discomfort unfortunately showing through. “I’m sorry, did you want to know something specific?”
Lara laughs, though hers is noticeably more relaxed. Good to know Emma isn’t a crazy person. Or maybe crazy is likened to crazy. Is this just a New York thing?
“No, but you should definitely go to this meet-up group,” Emma says, more emphatically than feels appropriate.
“I, uh…” I start.
Lara chimes in, “I can vouch for her.”
“I barely know you, though,” I insist, and she gives me a small shrug.
But, honestly, what the hell else do I have on my calendar? Comfort my cat? Check. Watch what I think she likes on the telly? Check. Bemoan my future as a cat lady? No thank you.
“Uh, sure, why not,” I say.
“Perfect!” Emma beams, almost breathless, pulling out her phone and tapping through before showing me a website. “You can access the invite here. It’s open to anyone.”
I nod, navigating to the same page on my phone and adding it to my bookmarks. The next second, I find myself offering my number to Emma as well. Her enthusiasm is too captivating. Lord, who am I right now?
Lara crosses her arms, a sense of satisfaction beaming across her features as her broad smile stretches from cheek to cheek. “I knew you ladies would get along.”
“Love the bangs, by the way,” Emma says, feverishly nodding, as if she couldn’t wait to compliment me.
I slowly nod back, feeling my eyebrows cinch together in uncertainty. “Thank you?”
“Sure. Well, hey, I should get going. So nice to meet you,” Emma says, her hand resting on my shoulder. “Remember: meet-up this week. I’m really good at texting reminders, so be there or be—” She makes a motion with her two index fingers in the shape of a square.
