He reaches under the desk and switches on the computer. It hums quietly, but in the soundproofed silence of the room, it’s oddly loud. A constant hmmmmmmm that acts as a backdrop to our conversation.
“They don’t know what they’re talking about,” he says, waving a hand at the wall, through the wall to the men.
“I’m sure they do,” I say. “But that doesn’t matter.”
You’ve held my hand, that’s all. Held my hand, leaned in—and backed away. Do you toy with all the women you bring here? But bitterness slides away as another perspective rises in my mind. He’s coveted by a lot of women. A lot of women want him. Why? Because he’s handsome, of course. Because he’s strong. Because he leads a group of tough men and they all do what he says without question. A friend told me once that she much preferred men who all the girls wanted. I never understood it—until now. There’s a strange appeal to it. It’s not an appeal to the mind. It’s more like a tugging in my chest. A reflexive appeal.
“Eden?” Maddox says.
“Yeah?” I reply, coming back to reality.
“Your face sort of went blank.”
“I was miles away,” I say. “So, where’s this great programmer?”
“I’ll just install the game on the PC, and then get him to take a look.”
“He isn’t here?”
He shakes his head. “Do you have it?”
I bend down and reach into my laptop bag. As I do this, I see his eyes go to my breasts, to my bra, and I know he can probably see down there, catch a glimpse of me. Fresh tingles move over me as he watches, tingles which go down my spine and to my ass, and all of a sudden, I want so many things: spank, bite, kiss, ride, writhe, thrust. I push the urges away, reach into one of the compartments of the bag, and take out a flash drive.
I sit up straight and fiddle with it, turning it over in my hand. “The deadline is in two weeks,” I murmur.
“All the more reason to get it fixed, yeah?”
I nod, but I’m unsure. I’ve been working on this for a year. I’ve had help, of course. But that was from Nat, someone who shares my ideals, shares my goals for the game. Everything else – the art, the voice acting – is contracted work, directed by me. If I hand the code over, I’m giving it to a stranger. It’s like handing over a child. I have backup copies – on my laptop, on my PC at home, and on two additional flash drives, as well as in cloud storage – but it’s still my code. It’s still something I’ve worked on for the past year.
I take a deep breath. “Your programmer, you’ll tell him to just try and fix the problem – on a purely mechanical level – yeah? He won’t change anything? He’ll just scan it for an error and fix the error?”
Maddox brings his hand to his chest. “Scout’s honor.”
“Seriously,” I say, surprised at the intensity in my voice. “I don’t want any changes, just for it to be fixed.”
“Look, Red, I’m a man who gets shit done. That’s my job description: Leader of The Miseryed. Roles and responsibilities: getting shit done. You can either keep the game and never have it fixed, or give it to me and let me sort it out for you. Easy, done, no problem.” He smiles at me smugly. “You see?”
Smug prick.
I place the drive on the desk and slide it over. “It’ll be worth it just to see your face when your programmer fails,” I say. “You don’t understand, Mr. Fuckin’ Smug, because you’re not a coder. But I am, and I’ve been over it with laser vision fifty times or more. I’m telling you, the code is too advanced and your guy won’t be able to do a thing.”
I want to shake his smugness, his confidence, if only a little. If only to show that I’ve had some kind of effect on him. But he just shrugs casually, reaches across the table, and takes the flash drive. He leans down and slots it into the computer, and then clicks the screen. I can’t see, but I know that the automatic install protocol is running.
“Your programmer won’t be able to do anything,” I say, wanting to shake him. But he just smiles at me, bright blue eyes glimmering playfully.
“You’re sure?” he says.
“I’m sure.”
“Okay. How about this, then? If my guy can sort this for you, you owe me a kiss.”
I laugh. I want it to be dismissive, but it comes out as a giggle. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? More like Dr. Feminist and MissFlirty.
He looks at me seriously. I roll my eyes (been doing that a lot lately) and nod. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll owe you a kiss. Whatever you say.”
“Good.” He grins his wolfish grin. “Come by tomorrow morning. It will be completely fixed then.” He takes his cell from his pocket and types into it. “Markus is going to give you a ride home. Don’t worry—in one of the cars. So then, tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning? You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
I get to my feet, pick up my laptop bag, and leave the office. He’s too cocky for his own good. There’s no way.