Chapter Twenty

Waverly

When I get home from the party, my feet throb with agony from the high heels, I smell like six different kinds of cologne from the men I’ve danced with, and my head feels like it’s full of helium from all the attention I’ve gotten over the past few hours.

I regularly go multiple nights in a row while working on a project, and it always leaves me feeling giddy and manic and exhausted when I finish – but this is a slightly different sensation, one I’m not used to, like I’ve been exercising muscles I never knew I had and now I’m feeling their satisfying ache.

Is this how Hawk felt years ago when he first started getting recognition as the golden boy of the computer industry? Everyone standing in line and jostling each other just to be seen by him, to exchange a few words with him and bask in his presence? If so, how did he ever get used to it? This feels like the kind of high I could keep on riding forever.

I want to sleep for a week. I want to stay up all night watching old movies. I want to eat the contents of an entire Chinese food menu, even though I’m not hungry. I want to drink about five bottles of champagne, even though I already feel so tipsy I might fall down. I want to dance, I want to collapse on the couch, I want to talk and fuck for hours, I want to savor this delicious feeling alone. I feel like I’m being pulled in a million directions at once until eventually, my body will burst into a cloud of sparkling stardust.

I start laughing for no reason. My sides hurt, and at first, I think it’s from the laughter – then I realize my corset is so tight it’s squeezing my ribs, and I slide out of it until I’m naked and giggling on the floor. I’ve had plenty to drink tonight, but what I’m really drunk on is sheer joy.

I have an urge to call Hawk and gush to him about what I’m feeling, but I figure I’d just start jabbering like an insane person and it wouldn’t make sense to him at all. And besides, he hasn’t answered my texts, so he’s probably still moping and not in the mood to talk. Which is fine. I don’t want him bringing me down, and I know he’ll get over it anyway once he’s had time to process his feelings.

I can wait. After all, let’s face it, we both have plenty of rough edges that’ll be smoothed down the longer we’re together. Normally, I’d be too impatient to give it that long, but what we have feels more special than that. He’d never break a woman’s heart by being reckless with it. My cheeks flush, the memory of Hawk in his tux summoned by my thoughts of him.

Hot. As. Hell.

Just as I reign it in, a bizarre thought flashes across my mind, and I break into a fresh fit of giggles that has me literally rolling on the floor and holding my sides.

Some relationships get stronger when the couple have a baby together, right?

Well, isn’t that basically what we’ve spent the past week doing? Giving birth to a digital child of our own – something that takes the best from both of us and combines it into something new? Something that’s going to go out into the world and make us both proud by dazzling everyone just like one of those kids on Little Big Shots?

No wonder I’m so exhausted. I’ve heard of labor taking a long time, but a whole week? I’m surprised it didn’t tear my pussy in half. I snort and wheeze with mirth, tears rolling down my cheeks.

I try to banish the silly thought, but it takes hold firmly in my brain.

There’s no denying the fact that creating SkyEye has allowed our relationship to make quantum leaps forward. Instead of scheduling a series of awkward dates and using small talk to get to know each other, we plunged into the guts of something important – to ourselves, to our reputations, to the whole world – and we didn’t stop until we finished it together...battered, bloody, weary down to our bones, but by God, triumphant. How many couples can say they shared an experience like that, right from the start?

Suddenly, I feel like more than anything else, I want to see the thing we’ve made together. I want to look down on it like a mother looking down at her newborn in its crib, and smile, and dream of all the lovely and important things it’ll do when it’s ready to greet the world. I want to appreciate the parts that came from me, the parts that came from Hawk, and those mysterious parts that don’t seem like they came from either of us – the ones where we couldn’t tell where his innovation ended and mine began.

After all the work we’ve put in, I know that it’s ridiculous for me to want to stare at a screen full of SkyEye code again. Just the thought of it should make me tired. But it’s all I really want to do, and it’s my night to celebrate victory, right? I can do whatever I want.

So just a quick little peek. Just a glance, to make sure everything’s how I remember it.

Maybe it won’t be. Maybe your bouncing baby boy is already starting to grow and develop on his own. I know that’s impossible for software at this stage, but the thought still makes me smile.

I sit at my desk, switch my computer on, and click the series of icons that allow me to remote-access the system Hawk and I were working on at his house. I installed this back door to his hardware when we started working on SkyEye together, thinking I’d end up doing much of my share of the work from my own home instead of spending every waking hour with him.

So much for that idea! Another giggle bubbles up. My desk chair feels weird against my nude body, but I don’t bother reaching for any clothes. Having a peek at the software should only take a few moments, and then I can shut off the computer again and think of the best way to spend the rest of the night celebrating.

I finally get to the screen that’s supposed to have the lines of code for SkyEye, and my blood stops dead in my veins, like a truck hitting a brick wall.

It’s nothing but a bunch of meaningless garbage.

He encrypted the code. Is he that pissed at me for dancing with other guys?

My brain vapor-locks as I try to digest this seemingly-impossible thought. But no matter how hard I try to make sense of it, it’s too big, too strange, until I feel like a garden snake trying to swallow a grand piano.

Encrypted.

He encrypted it.

We built it together, we teased out all of its secrets together, we spent hours talking excitedly about every tiny aspect, every line, every keystroke...and the moment my back was turned, the moment he had it all to himself, the moment I started getting some of the acclaim and glory he’s been enjoying since he was a teenage hacker...

He encrypted it and stole everything away from me.

It is our baby, and the first chance he got, he stole it away from me like an angry billionaire demanding a divorce from his gold-digging wife and hiding assets, so he could raise it all by himself and take credit for everything it does.

That’s not even the worst part, though. The worst part is, I recognize the fucking encryption he used. It’s been his trademark for almost a decade, a kind of party trick he’s become famous for at software conventions. It’s designed to be far more than a simple encryption – the more someone tries to hack it, the more it will dissolve and reform itself into a virus that will burn through the hacker’s system like acid, until even the simplest programs are turned into melted and unrecognizable hunks of abstract art.

He used to set up a table with the code and dare programmers to successfully decrypt it, like some kind of professional arm wrestler challenging the patrons in a bar. Sure enough, every coder who thought he was hot shit, and it was always dudes, would sit down to try, and every one of them ended up with a laptop that was reduced to nothing but an expensive paperweight.

And now he’s using that Kung Fu shit on me. After everything we’ve been through, he’s scrawled this monstrosity across what we’ve built together like obscene graffiti: “HA, BITCH! IT’S MINE NOW, AND THERE’S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT!”

I push my chair away from the desk, turning my face so I don’t have to see the nonsense on the screen mocking me. I feel fresh tears sting my eyes, and this time, no humor falls from my lips. My stomach churns like a garbage disposal choking on a peach pit.

This is so much worse than what happened at Defcon all those years ago when he first insulted me. That had hurt a lot, sure, and I hated him for so long afterward – but even then, on some level, I knew it hadn’t been personal. I had hated what he represented more than anything...the disappointment of meeting my hero and finding out he’s an asshole, not to mention the entire patronizing attitude of the mostly-male coding community toward women who even try to break in.

But this is different. This time he knows me, he works with me – fuck, he even pretends to care about me – and when the rubber met the road, he still didn’t hesitate to shit all over me and steal my work.

Christ, is this who I ended up giving my virginity to? This lying, thieving, backstabbing monster?

I put my head in my hands. I want to give in to the sobs tugging at my cells, begging to be released as a flood of pain, but this isn’t the time for that. Hawk isn’t crying and feeling sorry for himself, so I can’t either. No, he’s sitting at home, smug, confident that he’s won, and I’m helpless.

I can’t let him get away with this. I have to think.

Can I go to Nixon Caldwell? He’s the one who forced us to work together. He even said he wanted me at the charity ball to answer questions about SkyEye.

But no. Because I know Nixon and Hawk have a history together that I don’t, so how do I know for sure that Nixon isn’t in on this? Jesus, for all I know, it was his idea to have Hawk double-cross me like this. He builds me up with that bullshit award ceremony and some seven-figure donation to Geeks Vegas, makes me feel like they can’t possibly do this without me, even has me dress up and come to a party afterward just so I’ll feel safe in my victory, and then boom – shuts me out of the whole thing when I least expect it. I can’t know for certain, but Nixon’s a narcissistic billionaire who always gets his way. If I call to confront him about this, he’ll probably find a way to ooze his way out of it somehow, gaslighting me in the process. Then they can both have a good laugh at how powerless I am to stop them.

Could I decrypt the program?

Slowly, I wheel the chair back to the desk, peering at the malevolent lines of code. The screen resembles one of those paintings that look like static but have hidden pictures you can eventually see if you keep staring hard enough. Now that I am, I can almost see Hawk’s grinning, arrogant face form in the center of the screen, surrounded by an endlessly-repeating mantra: “You Are Smart But I Am Smarter You Are Smart But I Am Smarter You Are...”

I shake my head, trying to clear the image away. That kind of thinking won’t help me.

My fingers hover over the keyboard for a full five minutes before I give up and withdraw them. If I had a month to gingerly study and dissect every aspect of this encryption, then maybe, maybe I could find a way around it. And it would be worth it, just to have the bragging rights and to see the putrid expression on Hawk’s face when he finds out that his uncrackable code has been foiled.

But I don’t have that kind of time. The software’s being released in a matter of days, and once it’s out there, I can wave the code around and scream about proprietary law until I’m blue in the face...and it won’t make a bit of difference.

Any time something like this comes out, there are always coders who insist it was originally theirs and that it was stolen from them. But these claims always make them sound like a bunch of wackos in tin foil hats, wandering the streets with signs saying, “THE PRESIDENT TOLD ALIENS TO PUT TRACKING DEVICES IN MY TEETH, AND NOW I CAN’T GO TO THE BATHROOM.”

No one ever listens, nothing ever comes of it, and they quickly fade off into obscurity. Even if they’re talented programmers, no one feels like working with them after that. No one wants to be known as someone who hangs around conspiracy freaks, even in a community full of outsiders like ours.

So that leaves...what? Giving up?

I can’t do that. I’ve put too much of myself into this project. I’d sooner die than walk away now.

No, the only other option is to go to Hawk’s place and confront him about it directly. And the truth is, I have no idea what that will actually accomplish, if anything. He’ll just deny it somehow, won’t he? Or worse, he’ll admit it and laugh right in my face about it. Which would probably make me cry, and do I really want to do that in front of him?

Strangely, when I ask myself this question, I find that the answer is yes. Yes, I want to cry in front of him. I want to see the look in his eyes when I do. I need to know whether he meant any of the things he said to me – whether he ever cared about me at all, whether this decision to crush me was even a little difficult for him to make – or if he was just a slimy, greedy, unfeeling bastard with no heart this whole time.

An actor worthy of an Oscar.

If he did care, then maybe I can still get him to take it back somehow.

And if he never cared, well...then I don’t know what I’ll do, except maybe curl up into a fucking ball and die.