Larkin walked to her desk, carrying a steaming cup of double espresso complete with the fern leaf cream design. No steaming hearts for her. She couldn’t operate many kitchen tools. The one that mattered, though, was the one she made sing like a barista at Le Peloton Café. Judging by the wall of black windows that reflected the pre-dawn New York hour and her puffy-eyed appearance, she might need to go up to her apartment and craft another cup before Reagan made it in to the office.

She drank deeply and sat in front of her computer. As the liquid life-bringer cascaded down her throat and worked its magic, she woke her computer. The background picture temporarily blinded her. She blinked at the image of her and Marlis grabbing the Wall Street Bull by the balls. Gen and Libby had insisted on grabbing its horns and acting like they were punching it in the nose. It suited them. That damn bull represented the men who held the keys to the free world’s finances since damn near the birth of its creation. And by God, they were leveling the playing field in one way or another.

When her eyes adjusted to the light, she entered her passcode and opened the report from the head of her tech department. She had exactly five hours before her nine o’clock meeting to read through the nearly seventy-page report and try to understand it. No trouble at all. It’d only taken her six years to learn French. She could master another foreign language in about as many hours.

Right?

Larkin sucked down another gulp and leaned toward the screen to find out.

Hours passed. Her espresso drained dry. Still, she read and re-read sentences, willing them to decode. Her best friend Google helped. Her shoulders hunched. Her brows pinched. Her lids squinted.

A knock reverberated through the room.

Larkin’s hands shot out, palms extended, to ward off an attacker. Her entire body jerked.

On edge much?

She braced her hands on either side of her chair and regulated her breathing. Daylight poured into the once pitch-black windows, and the cityscape of concrete, metal, and glass filled her view. Her building’s image reflected in the Crenshaw Tower instead of her own. The tick of her heart kicked up again with the realization that the world had continued spinning, and quite quickly, while she’d immersed herself in tech jargon.

Another knock sounded at the door. Her gaze found the time. There was still enough time left to tackle the last few pages, though not as in-depth, and get to the sixtieth-floor tech department.

“Yes?”

The door opened. Reagan stepped inside and closed the door behind her so forcibly it announced its closing to the entire floor. The young woman yelped. Her hands covered her heart, which held nothing else. Not the coffee she brought every morning without fail, nor the iPad she used to discuss the day’s schedule and make notes. Reagan shoved a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Is everything okay?” Larkin had never seen the woman so out of sorts.

“I’m sorry about the door. I’m sorry to bother you at all.” Her gaze shifted toward the door.

“It’s fine, Reagan. What can I do for you?”

“Not me.” Her head shook vehemently. “I know you have a meeting with Mr. Torres in seventeen minutes. I saw your light on when I got in at seven thirty, and judging by the amount of muffled cursing I’ve heard, you’ve been in here for a while working quite diligently.”

Great.

Her assistant judged her depth of work by her cursing. It was an accurate measure she hadn’t realized she possessed. The office needed soundproofing.

“It’s Mrs. Blakely.” Reagan huffed. “I tried to get her to make an appointment, but she insisted she must see you now. Not later today. Not when you had an opening. Not when—”

“Thank you, Reagan. I know you tried. Send her in.” It would take less time to find out what the treasurer of her board needed than to calm Reagan.

“Yes, ma’am.” An eye roll indicated Reagan’s irritation that Tarin had gotten her way.

“I appreciate your effort,” Larkin soothed.

“Thank you.” Reagan opened the door and left, presumably to fetch the woman from the reception area. That, or tell her to take a flying leap.

While she waited, her gaze drifted out the window to the building’s reflection yet again. She should be thinking about the meeting ahead or the innuendo Bronson left her with the day before. Stubbornly, her mind returned to the rooftop as it had for the long hours of night until sleep stole her away for a short time. Worse still, she hadn’t told the girls about the incident. They’d worry—for good reason.

The man had been big enough to shove her to her death with one hand. She’d been alone with him in her sanctuary. A place no one would have thought to look for her body.

Larkin stood, straightened the skirt that covered her thighs all the way to her knees, and shook her head. There was nothing to worry about, but as her hand traveled to her ribs, the tender skin contested. Despite the bruise across her middle and the scrape down her thigh, the man hadn’t meant to hurt her. His intent, if she believed it—and, stupidly, she did—had been to save her life. He didn’t steal her mother’s diamond engagement ring. The thing was worth more than Larkin’s shoe collection. He hadn’t stolen anything except her ability to focus … on anything other than him.

Reagan knocked lightly on the office door.

“Yes.”

The door opened an inch at a time. Her assistant smiled sweetly and lifted a hand, gesturing inside. Tarin Blakely rounded the corner and walked into Larkin’s office—a place she’d never been before—as though she visited regularly.

“Darling, thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” Tarin’s arms opened wide. Both shoulders of her boxy, black power-suit lifted to her ears. The woman Larkin had only met four times continued past the guest chairs, around her desk, and toward her.

Larkin didn’t hug anyone. Her best friends exchanged single cheek kisses. Her father stole hugs. Only Bronson had received one as of late. It had been nice, but that one was stolen as well.

Sure enough, Tarin stopped just in front of Larkin, wrapped her arms around her middle, and squeezed. The bruises over her ribs wept. She held her breath and clamped her lips. Too many seconds passed before the woman released her, but she didn’t retreat as much as common courtesy demanded. The treasurer had two small children, so maybe she’d forgotten social graces in the touchy-feely world of toddlerdom.

“Thank you, Reagan.” Larkin waved her assistant off and turned her gaze to the woman sharing her oxygen. “Tarin, how are you?”

“I’m great.” Her grin was so wide that Larkin realized she’d never seen the woman smile in a meeting. Sure, she’d given cursory niceties but not the fully bloomed joy that radiated from her now.

The lady standing in front of her was a completely different person than the one she’d met before. Larkin got it, of course. In a business setting, you projected the person people expected or needed you to be. Tarin obviously felt comfortable enough around Larkin to lower her armor.

“That’s good to hear.” Larkin smiled. “I have a meeting at nine, so if I can help you in the next few minutes, I’d be happy to. Otherwise, we’ll have to set up an appointment to talk further.”

Tarin’s smile dropped. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Of course. I know you’re busy.”

“What can I do for you, Tarin?” Like Reagan, if she didn’t get to the point, her time would be gone before the pleasantries were out of the way.

“Oh, I didn’t need anything.” Tarin’s hand covered her heart. “I came to check on you.” Again, the smile came, bold and bright.

“Me?”

“Yes.” Tarin nodded. Her short blond hair swished around her face.

She didn’t elaborate, and Larkin had no idea—that Tarin would know about—why she needed checking on. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to put on a brave face in front of me.” Tarin chucked her arm. The slight woman hid some power under that square suit. “Men have no idea how hard we work. They’ll never understand the pressures we face. Marriage. Motherhood. Careers.”

Two of the three didn’t apply to Larkin, but she didn’t interrupt. Tarin’s cheeks blushed bright, and her words refused to slow.

“Not to mention menstruation.” The woman’s hands shot high and wide.

Menstruation? Larkin talked about it with her friends, but she didn’t know this woman beyond business pleasantries and the bit when she mentioned her children and husband for one reason or another.

“If men had to deal with cramps and bloating, the world would grind to a screeching halt. If they—”

A small ding ended Tarin’s tirade and not Larkin, though she’d wanted to. Her gaze slid to the cell phone on Larkin’s desk next to the computer. It held there for a moment. Finally, she returned her attention to Larkin.

“Do you need to get that?” Her smile was gone. A look of concern or irritation—she couldn’t be sure—occupied its space.

“No.” She needed to get Tarin out of her office so she could make her meeting.

“Oh.” The vibrant smile returned. Her hand swatted the air between them. “Well, you get my point. Cornish Gleeson is beyond a bastard for what he said to you the other night, and I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Thank you, Tarin. Really, I’m fine.”

Larkin’s phone shot three rapid-fire beeps, drawing the woman’s attention again.

“I can wait if you want to tend to that,” she offered again.

She walked around the desk, flipped it to silent, and set it on the stack of papers, praying the damn thing wouldn’t make any more noise to railroad her bid to get Tarin out of her office. Knowing her friends, though, it wouldn’t happen. When they got going, look out phone bills.

Larkin hurried around the desk, sidled close to the distinguished accountant for several massive corporations, and hoped she’d follow Larkin toward the door. “I appreciate you thinking of me enough to come by and check in.”

Again, the phone went into fits, and Tarin’s gaze narrowed on it.

“I really have to get to a meeting.” Larkin made a show of looking at her watch. Crap! She only had enough time to gather her things and get to the meeting.

“I understand.” Tarin smiled meekly. Stopping a few feet from the door, she turned to her. “How about lunch?”

What about “in a hurry” did this woman not understand?

“I’d love to on another day. I have plans today and am pretty booked until I make a decision about going public.” Larkin pushed ahead, knowing Reagan would be right there to escort Tarin out as soon as she opened the door.

“Surely, you have to eat.” The woman huffed. “Unless you’re on one of those diets where you only take vitamins, powdered meal replacements, and drink water with the proper pH.”

Just wow.

Larkin didn’t have time for this shit.

“Yes, I eat. I usually do it at my desk. Not dropping food on my keyboard is a trick, but I get a good bit of work accomplished.” Larkin cleared the last few steps to the door and opened it. “Thank you again, Tarin. I appreciate your concern.”

The woman stayed put and studied her up one side and down the other. Tarin’s study homed in on her arms. “You’re more athletic than I thought.”

She usually wore sleeves in a business setting, but somewhere through the hours spent hunched over her computer, she’d shucked her jacket. Her brain searched for the proper response. It came back empty-lobed.

“Clearly, you eat. You must work out too.” Tarin’s odd smile returned.

Words refused to form in Larkin’s mouth. The conversation had taken such an unlikely turn. Tarin was a numbers savant but socialization, not so much.

“Miss Ashford, you need to leave for your meeting immediately.” Reagan stopped in the open doorway and offered Larkin her morning coffee. “Mrs. Blakely, I’ll show you out.”

Tarin looked back and forth between them as though she wanted Larkin to intervene on her behalf.

“Thank you for the visit, Tarin. I hope you have a lovely day.” Larkin snagged the coffee and sent her assistant a knowing look. “Thank you, Reagan.” The young woman’s hiked brow said she understood all too well. Larkin nodded her final goodbye to Tarin and rushed to her desk without a backward glance.

The room emptied, and the door closed quietly behind them. She didn’t have time for a cleansing breath before gathering her laptop and other meeting accoutrements into her bag, abandoning her coffee after only one gulp, slinging on her jacket, grabbing her phone, and heading to the service elevators. The last thing she needed was to run into Tarin again.

Every impact of her purposeful strides echoed off the glass and marble surfaces until she shoved through the rear door and those surfaces devolved into cinderblock and laminate. Her phone shook twice in rapid succession. Larkin pressed the call button for the elevator car and grabbed the possessed device from her bag.

Several messages littered her screen. Each one was from her BAB text loop. BAB, stood for Bad Ass Bitches, of course. Yes. Yes. They were all highly educated women who knew badass was one word, but the inspiration had come to them on a night of particularly overt hedonism. Then they’d reasoned that they were badass and that their asses were pretty bad. Hence, BAB.

Libby: I can’t make our lunch date. Hate to miss it!

Genevieve: What the fuck?

Marlis: No! Why?!?

Libby: I shouldn’t say.

Genevieve: But you will.

Marlis: Because you love us and know we’ll worry more if we don’t know what’s going on.

Genevieve: And never leave you alone until you tell us. Tell us!

Minutes passed in strings of texts as she’d been dealing with Tarin.

Genevieve: Give it up, Libby, or I’m coming to your office.

Marlis: You know what happened the last time she came to your office.

Genevieve: I wasn’t the only one coming. Winky-smiley face.

Libby: He still asks about you. Eye-roll face. I’m in a meeting. Shut up! Larkin is too, based on her no-comment.

Marlis: You started this …

Genevieve: You know what it takes to shut us up.

Libby: I got a lead on the gun trafficker’s case I’ve been working on. Going to TN.

Marlis: That’s wonderful!

Genevieve: I want a pic when you get them in handcuffs.

Libby: Shut up already.

Larkin: Congrats, Libby. Be safe and tell us everything when you get back.

She closed her phone and stuffed it inside her bag, but not before seeing that she was now one minute late for her meeting. The elevator car still hadn’t arrived. She looked left and then right. A florescent light flickered horror movie style. Unbidden, a chill zipped up her spine.

“Seriously?” Larkin rolled her eyes at herself, as she should. She’d been living alone in NYC since she was fifteen. Boogeymen didn’t exist. Criminals did, which was why she employed a security team.

Her gaze found the readout above the elevator door. The panel was blank. No bright lights told the car’s location. Even the call button remained dim. Surely, she’d pressed it. It was an automatic action when stepping up to an elevator. If six people were standing, waiting for the car, the Pavlovian response to step around them and press the button took hold. She stepped forward and depressed the button again for good measure.

Nothing happened.

Not nothing. That damn light flickered again.

Her phone beeped. She yanked it out of the bag.

Libby: Thanks! Now really, shut up!

“Three minutes late.” Larkin tossed her phone into her bag, glared at the elevator, and then looked down at her sharp-toed, sharp-heeled pumps. “This is going to hurt.” Her shoes marked her decision to take the stairs with boisterous clacks. She shoved past the door into the stairwell. Cool, dank air slapped her cheeks and tried to frizz the hair she’d pulled into a high, tight ponytail.

Before she hit the first landing, the door slammed onto its frame, shocking her eardrums again and again as the explosive noise echoed down the hollow concrete column. The metal banister cooled her palm. She gripped it tightly and plowed ahead. With her office and home occupying the top two floors of the eighty-story building, getting to the sixtieth on foot would take forever dressed as she was.

There was no turning back now. It would take her just as long to reach the main office elevators and wait for one to reach her. Another sharp bang filled the stairwell somewhere below. Instinct forced Larkin to quiet her steps and strain her hearing. She didn’t hear the familiar strike of stilettos nor the heavy tread of dress shoes. In fact, not a whisper came from the depths.

Larkin leaned over the railing. Row after row after row of ugly black banisters, concrete steps, and space carried on infinitely. It seemed. She didn’t see a hand gripping for balance. She didn’t see anything. Maybe someone had thought better of it and opted for the elevator as she should have. One gentle step at a time, she descended. Her breaths ceased. Her heart pounded against searing lungs.

Maybe she needed to see her shrink. The attack—non-attack—had affected her more than she realized.

A laugh, feminine and full, lifted from the depths, freezing her in place. Her grip on the railing tripled. The jolly sound shouldn’t sound so sinister in her ears. Her throat collapsed in on itself.

Just when her hysteria hit critical mass, the comfortable strikes of high heels ticked their way down one flight of stairs and the smack of another door echoed from below.

She sagged against the railing in relief while simultaneously berating herself for foolish fears. This was a building filled with businesses. Some hers. Most not. These people rented blocks of floors on which they conducted business. This was not the back alley of a run-down building. This was her building. She was fine. Late for a meeting, but fine.

Larkin jogged ahead with purpose.

At the seventy-fourth floor, she toed off her shoes and held them. At the seventieth floor, she questioned her sanity. Tarin hadn’t been all that bad. She could have ridden down nineteen stories with the woman. At the sixty-seventh floor, she thanked the inventor of the elevator. At the sixty-first floor, she stopped and took a moment to dab her forehead, pull in three deep breaths, and slide her shoes back on her feet.

She completed the last flight of stairs—maybe ever in her life—smoothed the front of her dress, and pushed into a long hallway. The short carpet welcomed her tired feet, and she hurried toward the reception area.

Tom Harron, the youngest man in the tech department, stood to the side of the elevator with an iPad in his hand. His eyes jumped from its screen to his iWatch and back, to the elevator readout—which worked—and back to his iPad. He’d been her liaison for this latest launch. Larkin snagged a look at the clock above the receptionist desk. Ten minutes late. Her stomach knotted.

“Mr. Harron?”

The man whirled to face her. His mouth bloomed into a sweet smile, and he shoved the glasses up his nose. If she ever mixed business and pleasure, she would have tried it with Tom on their first meeting. The guy was intelligent, personable, and hot in that geeky, finally-grown-into-his-body-but-wasn’t-sure-what-to-do-with-it way. Alas, he had a girlfriend. He’d mentioned Jenny in every one of their face-to-face meetings.

“Miss Ashford?”

“Hi.” She extended her hand. “How’s Jenny?”

“She’s fine.” His gaze slid down the hallway and then back to her. “You rode the service elevator?” He shifted his device into his other hand and shook hers with a steady but non-crushing grip.

“I wish.” She laughed.

“The stairs?” His voice raised an octave.

Larkin nodded. “I’m sorry I’m late.” Their hands separated, and she motioned toward the rows of offices. “Please, lead the way.”

“Of course.” He strode ahead down a long row of glass front cubicles and into a conference room where three other senior members of the tech staff, as well as the head of the department, Daniel Torres, sat, and a freaking PowerPoint gleamed on the far wall.

Humiliation nudged her cheeks, but she refused to let it. “Ladies. Gentlemen. I apologize for my tardiness.”

“It’s your money, Miss Ashford. However you see fit to spend it is of no consequence to us.” Mr. Torres dismissed her with a turn of his head. His slick, long black hair held perfectly still thanks to a salon’s worth of product in his hair. He picked up a remote control, straightened his gray sweater and the points of his Oxford undershirt, and clicked the first slide to life.

The other eyes in the room widened.

Larkin had expected no less from the man who was crotchety before his time.

Mr. Harron mouthed an, “I’m sorry,” and pulled out the chair at the head of the table. When she took it, he sat next to her—a nice buffer between her and Torres. She felt bad for the kid. Sitting between her parents at a dinner table had been shitty. Now, she’d give anything for the uncomfortable theatre of it all.

Torres read bullet points from the presentation and expanded only enough that everything he said had been included in the seventy-page report he’d emailed to her and the rest of the people in the room. Talk about wasting money.

She left him to his yammering and looked around the room. Every set of eyes roamed. Some took immense interest in the ceiling while others gazed at the walls opposite them and some even their crotches. Even Harron’s eyes flicked between his hands, which fidgeted atop the table, and the farcical excuse for an educational presentation.

“Mr. Torres,” Larkin interrupted.

“I’ll answer questions at the end, Miss Ashford.” The man didn’t bother to look at her. “We have a great deal of material to get through and fifteen minutes less to get through it.” He clicked for the next slide.

“I, and everyone else in this room to whom you sent the report, read it.” Around the room, people nodded.

Torres turned to face the room. “Well now, that’s a surprise.” He shrugged. “In that case, I’ll take follow-up reports from everyone in my department before you leave for the day.” The collective groaned. “If there’s nothing further, meeting adjourned.” The collective reached for their laptops.

“I have some points of clarification.” All eyes turned to Larkin.

“Such as?” Torres’s right brow pierced the sky.

“The report states that once complete, the app will take up to a month to clear for sale on the vendor platforms.”

Torres nodded with both brows up and one eye rolling into the back of his head. “Yes.” His yes sounded more like no shit, dummy.

Fine. If he wanted to be a dick, he’d better prepare to get his balls kicked. “Is that a standard turnaround?”

Again, he gave the no shit, “Yes.”

“Great. I want that time cut in half.” Larkin smiled.

“It’s standard and out of our control,” Torres snapped. “They review our security measures and firewalls placed in the app to keep the consumers’ phones safe from hackers. They must monitor for malicious software.”

“It may be standard, but we’re not average. Are you average, Mr. Torres?”

“No,” he scoffed.

“Perfect. If the standard for any thirteen-year-old with a calloused right hand and a laptop is a month, our department should be able to contact the app departments at these vendors and plead our case. If that doesn’t work, I’ll contact the people I know on the boards of those vendors and get things moving faster.” She mentally ticked that off the list and moved down. “Now, why is the iOS app taking three times as long to develop as the Android?”

“If you’d let us go live with Andr—”

“I want them rolled out at the same time. You know this.”

Harron shifted his chair toward Larkin. “Android follows the same programming code with which—”

“Why are you even bothering?” Torres growled. “She won’t understand what you’ll tell her.”

Larkin stood.

The rest of the room squirmed.

She kept her features schooled and her voice calm. “I appreciate that you all understand technology on a level that I never will.” Her gaze narrowed on Torres. “It’s why I pay you so well.” Larkin let that declaration hang in the air, reminding this asshole who paid for his stuffy sweaters and super computers. “I’d like to understand, at least in laymen terms, what’s going on in the technical aspect of my business.”

Torres stood and pointed at the people who ran the different branches of the department, then motioned to the door. “Out. And I want those reports by day’s end.” People scrambled except for Harron.

Larkin seethed.

“If time is of such importance, they don’t need to hang around here waiting while you get an elementary lesson on coding and software.” Torres powered down the projector and grabbed his laptop. “For that matter, neither do I.”

The pompous man power-walked his way to the door.

A list of things trampolined on the tip of her tongue, but she let him go. No good would come of a rash, “You’re fired.” No matter how good it would feel at the moment.

“I’m so sorry,” Harron whispered. “He’s gotten worse each day closer to the deadline.”

“Don’t apologize for him. He’s a grown man who will deal with the consequences of his actions soon enough.” Larkin drew a deep breath and turned to Harron. “Please finish your explanation that was rudely interrupted.”

“Android follows the same programming code with which we’re all familiar. iOS requires Swift coding.”

She was pretty sure it didn’t have to do with the only kind of swift she was familiar with.

“So Torres is having to learn Swift before he can code for the iOS.”

“He could have just told me that or put it in the report.” Larkin shook her head.

“He’s a proud man.” Harron rolled a pencil between his fingers. The relic seemed completely out of place in an environment with Bluetooth, scanners, and lighter than air computers.

“Are you a proud man, Mr. Harron?”

He rolled his pencil and let his eyes wander for a moment. “Not too proud to explain something to a person with a desire to learn.”

“Last question.”

“Okay.”

“Are you ready to take Mr. Tor—”

Harron coughed so loudly it made her jump in her shoes. His eye widened with an indiscernible message. “Yes, I’m ready to take you to the elevators.” He stood and motioned her to follow.

Larkin hoisted her bag and rushed ahead to catch him. It wasn’t until they reached the bank of elevators that they were shoulder to shoulder.

“Torres records the meetings,” he whispered without looking at her. “He records more than that, if you ask me.”

“You know what I was about to ask you?” She breathed.

“I … don’t know for sure.”

“You do.” Larkin nodded. “Are you ready?”

The elevator doors opened, and three people poured out.

“Connie,” Harron called over his shoulder, “I need coffee. Do you want anything?”

A short woman behind a tall desk peeked her eyes over the top. “No. Thank you, though.” The balls of her cheeks turned red.

“If you change your mind or need me, text.” He motioned Larkin into the elevator and followed. The doors closed. “I can’t believe you like Florence and the Machine. You’ll love Vagabon. Laetitia Tamko. She’s local and well, just listen.”

What the hell?

Larkin didn’t dislike Florence, nor her Machine, but she hadn’t a damn clue what they had to do with their current conversation.

He pressed several buttons on his iPad. A hauntingly sweet melody enveloped the empty space around them. Laetitia sang about being small and surrendering. Harron turned to her, placing his back to the camera. “You can’t fire Torres.”

“Why not? Sure, you’re young, but you’re a leader. You’re knowledgeable. Most importantly, you’re willing to listen and give feedback without ego.”

“Beside the major fact that I’m not ready?”

“Which is why I want you there.”

“Aside from that, if you fire Torres right now, he could cripple your app before he leaves. It’ll put you a year behind. Starting over.”

Laetitia sang about how she was a small fish and Larkin was a shark.

“He signed non-tampering and non-disclosure agreements.”

“Men and women swear until death do them part every day …” The look on his face said he no longer believed in happily ever afters.

“Jenny?”

“She wants some time.”

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes rolled. “She said I was the shark.” He huffed. “Clearly, I’m the fish.”

The elevator dinged. When the doors opened, they revealed Reagan and her iPad ready to destroy today’s to-do list. Her eyes brightened, and she rushed forward. “Vagabon. I love her!”

“New York women are haunted,” Harron groaned.

The song ended sweetly.

“By the ghosts of our pasts, for sure.” Larkin grabbed the doors to keep from getting stuck on a long elevator ride. “We like the same music. We need to talk more about it.”

“My girlfriend liked that music. I think it’s a terrible tune.”

Larkin stepped off the elevator. Harron waved and pressed a button. The doors closed too soon, taking any further explanation with it. Was it her or the moon? It seemed everyone she interacted with today left her with more questions than when the conversation started.

Shit, she longed to escape. She longed for the roof.