by Jade Bitters
Miranda turned to look at Juliet. “Well, you need to start thinking about your future,” said Miranda with a frown. “Here in San Francisco, there are students that are younger than you already running companies, students with investors and incubators, who have already made millions. I had a permanent position at a good company at your age, but you’re still an intern. That’s why what I’ve got to tell you about is an offer I want you to refuse, but I can’t ask you to: Paris wants you as permanent employee, as a C-level employee for a new company he’s founding.”
“Hoboi. Paris? Whoa, he’s so hot, he looks like he’s made of wax, but to be fair, if he was, his blazing, studly hotness would melt him all together,” said Amy with a giggle.
“There’s nobody in San Francisco as rich as him,” said Miranda. “Wealth means investment money. Money invested in your future company, Juliet, a company that Paris can help you set up. He knows people, people that would be helpful and mentor you in subjects he couldn’t, people that would be good, loyal, and most importantly, hard-working and highly-skilled employees.”
“And he’s got that private island, it’s like something out of a romance novel,” said Amy, patting her black and red leather covered e-reader, which was filled to capacity with bodice rippers that she made no effort to hide from her coworkers. Paris was like a character straight out of one of her romance novels: tall, handsome, older, with tons of money, a private island, and of course, he could be a total asshole sometimes, and that just made him more appealing. If she wasn’t a married woman, who knows what she would’ve done that time she ran into Paris alone in the elevator? Amy still had it: getting your groove back was for people that had lost it in the first place.
“What do you think? Could you work for him? He’ll be at tonight’s office party. Greet him. Meet him. Figure out if he can offer you something better than we can, and if you want to know more about him, check out his investment portfolio. He’s rich, but he’s always looking for new toys. I know you’re comfortable here, but someone as gifted and talented as you could use a wealthy investor. Many people think he’s just wealthy, but as your investor and mentor, you could do some really extraordinary things, Juliet. You would have access to so many resources, any equipment you’ve ever needed, ever wanted, and you wouldn’t lose anything,” said Miranda.
“Lose anything? Oh honey, you’ve got things to gain! The island is an incubator for startups, I read all about it on Valleywag,” said Amy. Miranda and Juliet shot her confused looks. “Yeah, that’s right. I read Valleywag. I work here, don’t I?”
“Will you go to Prospero Island?” asked Miranda.
Juliet sighed. “I’ll check his stuff out, try to get along with him, and see if we’re compatible. But, I won’t let myself fall in love with the idea of living in some tropical paradise as a dev, not yet.”
There was a knock at the cubicle and the three women turned. It was Amy’s personal assistant, Peter. “Mrs. Hathaway, the pre-party is starting in the Castro, there’s guests arriving, the food’s out, people are looking for you, asking about Juliet, and in the kitchens, people are blaming Amy for not hiring enough help for the event. It’s out of my hands and out of control, but I’ve got to go help out with the caterers, they’re understaffed. Please, hurry.”
“We’ll be right there. Juliet, you better go. Don’t keep Paris waiting,” said Miranda, sitting with Amy.
Amy gave her favorite intern a smile. “Go on, honey. It’s the perfect night to get swept away.”
Chapter Four: Act One, Scene Four
“So what’s our cover story? Or are we just going to play it cool?” asked Romeo, tightening the belt that Ben had bought him. Even after two summers working in San Francisco, he wasn’t used to wearing suits, but the Thisbia summer party was always a formal. This year, it was a masquerade, because Stratford had “found himself” last summer in Venice, but better that than last year’s neon rave. However, the only person in their group that had an invite was Mark, and if he rolled in with Romeo and Ben as his plus ones, it’d be weird.
“Talking too much is beta. You don’t have to be flashy or peacock to impress anyone, and we’re not going to give any speeches. If they turn us away, whatever. It’s their loss,” said Ben, tightening his tie.
“I’ll just carry your guys’ phones,” said Romeo, looking himself over in the mirror. Was his hair too messy? He should’ve taken another shower, made sure it dried just right, asked Ben to add less product. It made him look like too much of a bad boy. “I don’t feel like dancing tonight, so let me just be the guy who watches our stuff.”
“No, you have to dance,” said Mark, coming out into the living room. Even though the three men were wearing all black, he’d still managed to stick out, in a brocade vest, black selvedge jeans, and a black silk tie. His outfit was flashier than Ben’s, tighter fighting than Romeo’s, and it was a look that few could pull off, but he had confidence on his side.
“No, not tonight. This is more your scene, Mark, but I just want to stay in,” said Romeo with a sigh. He had to resist the urge to check Roxanne’s Instagram again, resist looking at her pictures and looking at the one girl he loved, the one girl he could never have.
“You’re a great guy. There’s going to be a girl for you at this party,” said Mark. “Key word: for you. I want to blend into the background tonight. Nobody there is going to know who I am, as long as I keep wearing this mask.”
“Being a nice guy hasn’t gotten me anywhere. I can’t expect to find someone else as long as I’m in love with Roxanne,” said Romeo. “Maybe I should just stay home tonight.”
“If you stay home, you’ll never meet anyone else,” said Mark. “And that would be a tragedy for all the beautiful ladies.”
“Is it really a tragedy? I’d be better off without love, love hurts,” said Romeo.
“If love hurts, hurt love back. If you beat it down when it tries to beat you, you’ll conquer it. It’s not like love will be able to find you anyway...because we’re going to be wearing these,” said Mark, reaching into his room and grabbing a plastic bin. He carried it to the coffee table. “Here. Take a mask, any mask,” he joked, as all the masks looked the same: black velvet opera-style masks with a brocade print and silver accents that would make Romeo’s emerald green eyes shine. “Nobody will be able to tell us apart tonight, unless they remember what our suits look like. Who cares if some random judges us? Let the mask do the talking.”
Ben looked at his phone. “The cab is outside. Let’s go. The sooner we get there, the better our chances are of dancing with the prettiest girls.”
As they walked down the staircase, Romeo said, “I’ll just hold your phones tonight. Really. I don’t want to be a bother to anyone. There’s that one saying: you have to bring something to the party. I’m not bringing anything. I’m sure it’s going to be fun, but I’m going to have to pass.”
“You’re too hard on yourself,” said Mark as they piled into the SUV taxi. “We’ll get you out of this bad mood – and out of love with that girl, if you don’t mind me saying – because you’re not the same guy. Come on, let’s go, let’s get this party started.” The cabbie started driving.
“It’s only ten,” said Romeo. “It doesn’t start until ten-thirty.”
“I mean, let’s get you in a better mood,” said Mark, rolling his eyes and leaning back in the seat. “Use your noggin, Romeo. Figure out what I’m trying to say, rather than taking everything I say literally. It’s like you’re a robot or something.”
Romeo sighed. “I know that it’s just a party, but we could get in trouble.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mark, looking out the window. If they wanted to get in trouble, they’d be headed to Chinatown, or the East Bay. More trouble had happened at his cousin Alex’s party than would happen tonight. What’s the worst that could happen in the Castro?
“I had the weirdest dream,” said Romeo, thinking back to the memories from last night, and grasping at them but unable
to recall the specifics, just...words, and numbers, so many of them. What did they all mean?
“Me too,” said Mark.
Romeo raised a brow: Mark wasn’t exactly one to play mentor. “Really? What was it about?”
“In my dream, I was told that dreamers lie,” said Mark teasingly. He loved to give Romeo a hard time.
“Yeah, of course they do: they lie in bed,” said Romeo.
“You sound like you’ve been on that site, App” said Mark with a laugh.
“A site named...App?” asked Ben, confused. It was his job to know as much about the marketplaces as possible, and he had never heard of that particular site before.
“From the way you’ve been talking, you definitely use the App. It’s a very tightly knit investment website, and it’s accessible only on mobile devices running Linux distros. It’s distributed on the dark net, and it’s downloaded via a botnet. The frontend is programmed in HTML7, the backend is programmed in Sapphire on Spokes. The entire thing is put in a Java wrapper inside of a Python shell. The app uses three-dimensional eight-bit art, and it’s developed by a single person, a teenage girl living in Iceland, living in a log cabin that was 3D-printed in Oslo, out of Nutella,” said Mark. “This is the app every is using and talking about: by investors, dreaming of profits, by startups, dreaming of investments, and by students, dreaming of startups, students which are constantly banned, because really, what do they have to offer? Sometimes, it’s used by board members hoping to arrange a coup, and sometimes, by corporate spies, using fake profiles, looking to unveil trade secrets or steal unreleased code. Sometimes, it’s used by hackers, trying to get into the system, always failing, always banned. This is the app that script kiddies wish they’d made and fail to knockoff. That’s what this is.”
“Ugh, really, Mark? Shut up,” said Romeo with a groan. “You’re pulling my leg again.” He had to admit, he’d fallen for it until the bit about HTML7, and Mark’s cheesy jokes always put him in a better mood.
“Of course I am,” said Mark. “We were talking about dreams, which have no place in the Silicon Valley. The only time your head should be in the clouds is when you’re working on cloud-based software as a service. Dreams don’t get you investments. Dreams don’t have an initial public offering.”
“Yeah, well, that public you’re talking about is going to be annoyed when we get there late,” said Ben. “This fucking traffic. We’re going to have missed dinner.”
‘I was worried we’d get there too early,” said Romeo. The cab stopped and the three boys got out, the cab app automatically paying the driver and emailing Ben a receipt. “I don’t have a good feeling about this, but, I’m your man tonight. Your world, your rules. Let’s go!”
The three men were ushered in by the bouncer, who looked at Ben’s shoes and knew the crew was from the tech crowd. They entered the repurposed nightclub, its décor all black and silver and glass, like a smartphone. The bars were light with a soft purple light, and by the way it made the bartenders, all clad in white, practically glow, it was obvious it was black lighting. A DJ, working only on a MacBook Pro, the only wire the one leading to his charger, had on a pair of wireless headphones, playing slow space music in front of a crowd of people, some dressed formally, some casually, some in costume, and some that looked like they’d just come from work, but all wearing white, but unlike the staff, wearing masks, available from the women in tight white bandage dresses and Lucite heels manning the coat checking. Meanwhile, above, on the mezzanine, groups of technocrats sat and were finishing off their small plated desserts.
Ben smirked. This wasn’t his first rodeo and it sure as a friends and family investment round wouldn’t be his last. “Let’s murder it.”
Chapter Five: Act One, Scene Five
Peter sighed: he’d known that an internship at Thisbia wouldn’t be easy, but he felt less like an intern and more like a paper pusher: he was constantly sorting papers, shredding papers, delivering papers, and now, carrying papers, albeit paper napkins, for the Thisbia masquerade ball. “Where’s Reuben? Why isn’t here helping clear out the dinner stuff? I need him here ten minutes ago.”
“When you’re understaffed, that’s what happens,” said one of the Tempest’s regular staff members. “Nobody wants to work when they can go to the party as a Thisbia employee.”
Peter resisted the urge to rub his temples. “Well, I need the tables and chairs moved away, all the dishes brought in so they can be packed up by the rental company. You, save me a piece of the cake, and if you want a tip, let in Susan and Nell.” Peter received a message over his wireless headset. “Anthony! Reuben!” Reuben turned the corner, carrying a large pile of dirty dishes, careful not to ruin his whites. The only thing that differentiated him, and the rest of the staff, from the guests was that he wasn’t wearing a mask.
“Yes?” Anthony asked, putting down a stack of glasses.
“You’re needed on the mezzanine,” said Peter. “There’s still more of the dinner to cleanup, and once you’re done with that, stay there. The bartender’s late...and after tonight, fired.”
“We can’t be everywhere at once,” said Reuben. “See you, guys. You’re going to have to hustle, but at least we get to take home the leftovers.”
Peter put down the napkins. There were seconds to go before the main events started. He had to hurry to the club floor to make sure the preparations were completed, but when he looked at his watch, he found he was five minutes behind schedule.
He rounded the corner, into the club, where William was already starting his speech. “Welcome, colleagues. If you don’t want to have fun tonight, you’re in the wrong place” said the CEO. A few chuckles went out through the gathered crowd. The main areas of the club were still marked off with red velvet rope. “And if I know this crowd, you’ll take it as I meant it: as a challenge. I remember the parties I attended in the underground tunnels beneath Paris, in the Catacombs, but you can’t get away with that sort of thing nowadays. Tonight, I’ve brought a little bit of Europe to you, and with that, I have one final thing to see: either dance, or get off the dance floor!”
The crowd applauded as the lights dimmed, the DJ started playing deep house music, and William went off stage, pressing his headset closer to his mouth. “Start the light show. Make more room on the floor. Make sure the only thing getting turned down is the heat, damn this warehouse’s insulation.” William walked to the VIP area, still roped off, with black leather ropes, and was let in seamlessly by the intern making sure that only true VIPs were allowed in William’s dedicated area.
“I feel like it’s been forever since we’ve seen a crowd like this,” William said to the man following behind him. “Or maybe the kids just seem to be getting younger by the year. My sources tell me Pyrymyn hired some sixteen-year-old whiz kid, an MIT sophomore, to work on their algorithms. Sit down, James, you and I are getting too old for these parties.” William and James sat down as a bottle service girl came up with a bottle of gin and two glasses. As she poured, William asked James, “How long has it been since our last masquerade?”
“I swear, it must’ve been...thirty years,” said James.
“What? No way. Lucian had a masquerade reception for his second wedding. That...must’ve only been twenty-five years ago,” said William, thinking back. What had he bought as a wedding present, a cupcake maker? A set of crystal tumblers?
“It must’ve been longer. Lucian’s son is thirty now,” said James, taking a swig of the gin without wincing. This wasn’t his first rodeo...not that any of these city slickers would know what a rodeo was.
“No way,” said William, looking over the crowd. “Didn’t he just graduate from high school?” That’s when three men stood out. Who had the audacity to wear black to a white party?
Romeo watched Ben and Mark approach girls and ask them for dances, and although each of them was shot down a few times, they were inevitably able to find someone willing to take a risk and ride the dark horses. He felt so out of p
lace: he had no idea that the event was a white party, and although he looked cool and slick in all-black with his best friends, he looked weird hanging out alone. He remembered what Ben had told him: he just needed to find someone new to get over Roxanne, but how could he, when all he wanted to do was look for her.
Was she here as staff, or as a guest? He looked at the bottle service girls, all wearing white and unmasked, their faces all made up to look the same with heavy black eye shadow and contouring powder creating sharp angles, while the regular cocktail waitresses looked more plain, and the people hired as literal furniture, striking poses and dancing with one another, or swinging back and forth in powder-coated white metal circle swings, or climbing glowing white fabric ropes, were wearing white body suits, like statues, but with lines and shades like pieces of marble, marble that glowed an unearthly neon hue in the black light.
This was not at all like a Pyrymyn event, where black tie was never optional and white tie would be considered gaudy, where people sat instead of danced, and talked in hushed whispers instead of shouting over loud music.
This was fun.
He looked at all the girls carrying Lucite trays covered in a variety of neon drinks, some glowing under the black light, but he couldn’t find Roxanne. Maybe she wasn’t working...or maybe, she had another shift. There were so many girls at the party, and there was no way that he’d be able to find her without recognizing one of her dresses, or her shoes, or the way she danced to a certain song.
Was she upstairs, where the special guests had been eating? After all, he was here because he’d seen her on the guest list, after all. He looked up, towards the balconies, and that’s when he saw her:
The most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. She wasn’t wearing a mask, none of the people on the mezzanine were, as they’d been eating, and their masks would have been soiled. She was talking to a blonde woman in a white chiffon jumpsuit, her own dress featuring a sweetheart neckline base covered by a white mesh overlay that barely brushed over her shoulders and knees. Her eyes seemed to have a light all their own, and her hair was kept together by a white grosgrain ribbon headband. The way she moved on her gladiator-style heels, with a Lucite base and bright white straps running up her calves, was inhumane, unearthly, like she was some angel sent down from a cloud, and it seemed like everyone was focused on her, but none as intently as he was. How could they be? They weren’t in love with her, not like he was.
