Brand new security badge in hand (the photo only slightly terrible — at least my eyes are open), I board the elevator with a scattering of Scour employees. All of them have headphones in place, their eyes plastered to the devices clutched in their palms (all the newest generation of Scour’s smart phone, of course). I feel like maybe I should pull mine out too, just to fit in...

I find myself jostled to the rear of the elevator, my back pressed up against the steel wall.

“Ninth floor, please,” I say in the direction of the panel of buttons. There are at least two rows of bodies that separate me from my final destination, but since every inhabitant of the elevator has headphones on, no one hears. I have to lean forward, snaking my arm between messenger bags and hands clutching cups of coffee until I’m able to reach the button myself. I earn an evil eye from a guy wearing a knit beanie (definitely a coder) when his espresso sloshes onto his hand when I inadvertently bump his arm.

“Oops!” I mouth the words, because of course, he can’t hear a word I say. When he turns back around, I mouth a few more choice words. I love tech, but I do not love tech bros. It’s just a tradeoff I’m willing to make, especially if it means working at Scour.

As we ride up the elevator, I notice that even though everyone is dressed casually, with messenger bags thrown over shoulders, none of them appear disheveled. I don’t know if jeans and a knit cap can be described as sleek, but these people somehow manage to get there. I think their collective wardrobes probably cost more than my rent. But I guess that’s what happens when you work for Scour, where all the employees are paid at least 30% above market, receive incredible stock portfolios, and that’s to say nothing of benefits, vacations, and in-house perks. All of them got the phones they can’t stop staring at for free, for example. And the laptops and tablets in their bags, all the newest generations, were also gifts.

And, almost desperately, I want everything they have. And more.

It’s not like I grew up with very much money. My parents are both Boston public school teachers. I grew up in a cramped apartment in South Boston, and not the part of South Boston that is now considered trendy. Still, the only reason my parents can still afford to live there is because they inherited the place from my grandmother after she moved to Florida. If my parents want to move, they’ll probably have to leave the city. And my dad, a die-hard Bruins fan in winter and Red Sox fan in summer, would sooner cut off his own arm than leave Boston, the city where he was born and raised.

To say that my potential salary at Scour would be a windfall would be putting it mildly. I survived my four years at New England College on a series of scholarships, loans, work study jobs, and summers waitressing at a tourist trap near Faneuil Hall.

I want this job, but I also need it.

The elevator stops at every floor on the way to mine, and each time the doors slide open, I see an identical white wall, the Scour name and binoculars logo in cut steel on the wall over a sleek steel and white reception desk. It’s like Groundhog Day every time the elevator stops, only a hell of a lot less colorful.

I’ve always pictured tech offices like grown-up daycare centers, with pool tables and bright colors, people riding scooters through the halls while taking breaks in giant, futuristic nap pods. But that’s not Scour. What I’ve seen so far of the headquarters is as austere as an East German prison — but classier. Well, maybe that’s why Scour is so successful. No need to waste money on pool.

Everything about Scour says we work hard. And they’ve got the bank accounts to prove it.

When I finally step out onto the ninth floor (white wall, steel logo, glass reception desk, just like all the rest), I glance at my phone and see that I’m a full fifteen minutes early. Early is great (as my high school soccer coach used to say, “Early is on time, on time is late, and late is dead), but fifteen minutes early seems a little brown-nosey, even for me. So when I spot the bathroom sign, I figure it’s a good opportunity to make sure that the damp morning air didn’t totally destroy my careful home blowout.

I shut myself in a stall to relieve myself of the cups of coffee I consumed while quietly freaking out this morning. Then I hear the bathroom door open, two sets of high heels clicking and clacking on the polished concrete floor.

“Do you think we’re going to get to meet him today?” The voice is squeaky and tinged with a New York accent, all long vowels and nasally.

“God I hope so. It’s never too early to start making an impression, if you know what I mean,” comes the reply, this one confident and almost sultry, which is wildly out of place in a public restroom.

“What, scoring the job isn’t enough, you’ve gotta screw the boss, too?”

“From what I hear, he’s hardly opposed. Besides, I’d have to be shriveled up and half-dead not to want to screw Nixon Blake. And if you say you don’t, you’re clearly lying. He’s basically Zuckerberg, but hotter than pre-divorce Brad Pitt.”

“And single.”

“Exactly. Someone’s gotta win the prize. Why not me?”

“Fine, you can have the dick. I’ll take the job.”

“Excuse me, Jenna, but I think I’ll be winning both.”

The girls dissolve into giggles, but I stay perched in the stall until I hear their giggles disappear behind the closing door.

Okay, if those two are my competition for this job, then I’m golden. Because I’ve dealt with more than my fair share of entitled princesses as a scholarship student at New England College, and not a single one had ever been anything more than stepping stone for me. I sprinted past them all, and even their connections and their famous last names couldn’t get them to bump me off my internship placement with Scour.

As nervous as I am, I’m also feeling a little more confident now.

After a quick touchup on my hair and a dab of lip gloss, I find my way into the hall and to my new workspace. The steel plate outside the door reads “Business Lab Program.” Inside I find a blindingly white conference room with a white lacquered conference table taking up most of the space. Sleek, ergonomic white rolling chairs surround the table. The far wall is floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on Boston Harbor. The opposite wall is floor-to-ceiling glass, making it feel a little bit like being on display at the zoo. The other two walls are floor-to-ceiling white boards, and in a metal box on the table, a collection of dry erase markers. It feels spare and clinical, the only color in the room coming from the people inside it.

Two of whom, I quickly realize, are the owners of the big mouths I heard in the bathroom.

“Hi, I’m Jenna,” squeaks the presumed New Yorker. She’s short, but everything about her is big — hair, lips, and boobs. Her friend, who is tall and thin, but also the owner of a rather impressive rack, gives me a terse smile from her seat at the table right up front, then goes right back to her phone. “That’s Amber,” Jenna says, pointing to her friend.

“Hi, I’m Delaney,” I say. I get a big, toothy smile from Jenna, but nothing from Amber, who continues to pretend either I don’t exist, or if I do, I’m not worthy of her attention.

A voice clears from the back of the room, and that’s when I see the fourth in our group. He’s in khaki pants, a plaid button up, and what I’m guessing must be his formal hoodie.

“Hi, I’m Colin,” he says, having to clear his throat about three more times just to get the words out. He runs his hand through his wild curly mop before offering a handshake. Jenna grimaces and nods at him by way of greeting. Amber continues to pretend her phone is the only sentient being in the room. So I guess that leaves me. I reach out and take his hand, only slightly greasy from his hair.

“Nice to meet you, Colin,” I say with a smile. I may be plotting how I’m going to defeat all three of them, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be nice while I’m doing it. I’m not a monster, after all. And besides, Colin has a friendly smile that makes me like him immediately.

“Now that we’re all friends, it’s time to get down to work, don’t you think?”

We all spin around to the front of the room, and standing there, looking every inch of his six foot three frame, is Nixon Blake. And let me just say that staring at his photo on a screen for more than a few hours of research does nothing to prepare me for the actual sight of him.

Jenna drops into her chair, Amber’s phone is forgotten, and Colin sits down so quickly he nearly misses the rolling office chair and hits the ground. I’m the only one still standing, and that’s because the sight of him momentarily paralyzes me. I’m standing on the polished concrete of the sleek office floor, but it feels like I’ve stepped into quicksand, and I’m sinking further under his gaze.

Holy shit does this man command a room.

He’s in dark denim jeans that look like they were tailored to every muscle of his body, and a white oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up, which give a stunning view of his tan, muscular forearms. But it’s his eyes — ice blue and piercing, that are the real stunner. They act like laser beams, demanding and captivating attention from beneath a head of dark, tousled hair. Everything about the man says, I’m smarter than you, richer than you, better looking than you, and we all know it. So pay attention.

And we do.

“Welcome to Scour,” he says, his voice full of steel and bravado. “The four of you were selected from a pool of candidates so large it could have crashed our servers, if we were dumb enough to have servers as shitty as the ones over at Twitter. Every applicant had stellar grades, incredible recommendations, and outstanding test scores. You four are the best of the best.”

Amber sits up even straighter, if at all possible, and leans forward onto the conference table. It gives Nixon Blake a front-row seat to Victoria’s proverbial Secret, that Amber seems ready to spill to the world. But if he notices, though, he opts to ignore. Which makes me like him even more, if possible.

And then he seems to drop the sliver of welcome wagon he was presenting. The hammer drops. “If you think that means anything now that you’re here, you’re sadly mistaken. You’ll be spending the rest of the summer — every moment — proving to me that you deserve to be here, both for the duration of the internship, and, for one of you, as a new employee at Scour.”

I can feel pricks of sweat starting at the back of my neck. Please god do not let me get sweat stains right now. First of all, I’m wearing silk. Second, I have a strong suspicion that Scour employees do not sweat. Help me Jesus.

As if to confirm my suspicions, Nixon arches an eyebrow. “Now, I want to start off seeing how you perform under pressure. I want you to introduce yourselves to me. Not your resume; I’ve got that. I want you to tell me something about yourself that would surprise me.” The word sounds loaded on his lips (oh my god, those lips), and it causes my heart to immediately start beating at roughly the rhythm of cha cha dancers on Dancing with the Stars.

Nixon glances around the table, leveling his gaze first on Jenna. “You. Go.”

I swear, all the blood drains from her face, but she quickly recovers. She squares her shoulders and opens her mouth, the squeaky voice and New York drawl suddenly gone.

“My name is Jenna Andrews, senior at Columbia, and not only do I have my pilot’s license, but I flew a Cessna over an active volcano.” Then she flashes a smile, her eyebrows raised. I admit it, I’m impressed. I certainly wasn’t expecting that from the tiny brunette sexpot. But when I glance at Nixon, he only nods. He’s unmoved, his eyes already moving on.

Next they land on Colin, who withers under his stare, and unfortunately doesn’t recover quite as quickly as Jenna. “I’m Colin Lewiston, MIT.” He stops to clear his throat twice, but when he starts speaking again, there’s a bit more confidence there. I’m silently rooting for his voice not to crack (even if he is my competition). “When I was a kid, I traveled with the Ringling Brothers as a clown. I can juggle sabers and fire — and once, flaming sabers.”

Whoa. Ok, did not see that coming from our crew’s resident nerd. But Nixon still seems remote. It’s like Colin just told us he likes the color blue and his favorite food is spaghetti. What is it going to take to impress this guy?

Amber is next, and everything about her says I got this. I steady myself. I can already tell she’s going to be more competition than her bathroom conversation would lead me to believe. Something tells me that she fights dirty.

“I’m Amber Rizetti, Columbia University. And I have an Olympic Gold Medal in archery. I hit a bullseye in Rio.” She says all this while staring Nixon Blake straight in the eye. And still, he doesn’t blink. Not even a flinch.

Okay, so flying over a volcano, juggling swords, and winning a fucking gold medal while cosplaying Katniss from The Hunger Games won’t do it. If I want to shock Nixon Blake, I’m really gonna have to go for it. Like, really go for it. After all, he told us we were supposed to surprise him. That’s the task. And I want this job.

I don’t have anything nearly impressive on my resume as some of the others, so if I’m going to make myself stand out, I have to try something different.

At least, that’s the only explanation I can give for what I’m about to say. I swear, if I had half a second more to think about it, I would have gone with my season spent playing roller derby sophomore year of college. That was always good for a game of two truths and a lie back in the dorms. I know full well that with my blonde hair, porcelain complexion, and curvy body, I look like the girl next door. I look like someone who avoided sports in favor of the debate team and student council (state champion and class president, thank you very much). No one ever expects me to play a full contact sport on roller skates. I might have even gotten a reaction out of that one.

Instead, I open my mouth and say this.

“My name is Delaney Masterson. I’m a senior at New England College, right here in Boston. And I’ve never had an orgasm.”

Maybe I thought it would make people laugh. Or even raise a few eyebrows. Break some ice. Something. Instead the room goes deadly silent. Jenna’s mouth drops open, but no sound comes out. Colin turns red as an apple and immediately stares down at his feet. Amber looks like she just won a second gold medal and had ten orgasms just this morning.

I force myself to look at Nixon, who is looking straight back at me. There’s a tiny shred of hope that maybe, though I humiliated myself in front of my fellow interns, I will have at least accomplished the task. Maybe, just maybe, I’ve surprised him. But those blue eyes turn the blood in my veins to ice.

God, I think. Should I laugh and try to play it off as a joke? I can’t decide, and the moment passes.

I don’t let myself look away. This is the worst thing I’ve ever done, but the only thing that could make it worse in this moment would be to look away. So I hold his gaze. I won’t let this break me. Not in front of him, at least.

I wait for him to chastise me. Or fire me. But what comes next is worse.

He pretends like I never said a word.

He drives his hands deep into his pockets and nods at the room. “Welcome to Scour, everyone. It’s going to be an intense summer. My VP of Operations, Randi Powers, will be in in a minute to talk to you more about your project.”

And then he’s gone.

As soon as the glass door swings shut, Jenna and Amber dissolve into laugher, a few gasping oh my gods escaping amidst the glee. Colin still can’t look at me.

I don’t blame him.

I feel like I want to throw up. Or die. Or throw up, and then die. Mortified doesn’t even begin to cover it. If I don’t get fired, at the very least I’m going to go down in history as the girl who said the dumbest, most embarrassing thing ever on her first day at Scour. They’ll probably tell my story at every orientation, most likely coupled with a presentation from HR on how not to behave when working for a multinational tech company and, oh yeah, also competing to try and get a permanent position.

What. The Fuck. Was. I. Thinking???

That lone thought plays on a loop in my brain, like a dance beat at the world’s worst club. I’m in absolute hell. I’m in a dance club in hell.

The silence in the room is only amplifying my doomsday thoughts, but mercifully, Randi Powers strolls in. If she knows what just happened, she’s a fantastic actor, because she gives no indication that someone in here just committed career suicide in front of Forbes’ Richest Man Alive and People’s Sexiest.

Randi Powers looks like the coolest girl in tech. She’s clad in skinny jeans, a crisp blue Oxford, and a pair of black heels that probably cost twice as much as my rent. Her long brown hair is pulled up in a relaxed top knot, and she’s perfected the no-makeup makeup look. Under normal circumstances, I’d already be plotting how I could set up a coffee date with her so I could learn everything she has to teach me about how to be a powerful, badass bitch in a male-dominated world. But that was before orgasm-gate (as I’m already starting to call it in my head).

Now all I can think is that I hope she doesn’t notice me. Which does not bode well for my future career here at Scour, or anywhere else. Ugh, I’m going to have to change my name and join the Peace Corps after this, assuming they’d even take me (I don’t do very well in the great outdoors).

“Welcome to Scour, everyone! I’m Randi Powers, VP of Operations,” she says, scooting a chair aside and perching on the edge of the conference table. She’s everything I want to be. “Congratulations on earning your spot here. Having seen your resumes and read your statements, I’m sure you won’t let us down.”

This elicits more muffled laughter from Amber and Jenna, and now I’m sweating like I’ve just run a marathon. Seriously, fully kill me.

Randi begins to fill us in on our tasks for the summer.

It turns out, our goal is to research new, up-and-coming tech companies, learning everything we can about their operations, finances, and long-term potential so that at the end of the summer, we can make a recommendation as to which company Scour should acquire.

The pitches will be made directly to Nixon and the rest of the executive board. Each of us will come up with a business strategy and cost structure to justify buying out the particular company we’ve chosen. After we make our pitches, Nixon will choose a company to buy and will then hire that intern on to finish out the acquisition and become the team leader of that project.

It’s the highest stakes internship on the planet. You’re literally lobbying to spend millions of dollars of company money, and at the same time interviewing for a high-level job. Not to mention the fact that our teammates…Yeah, they’re also our competitors. And one look at Amber, who can still barely contain her glee over my most embarrassing moment, and I can tell that (if I don’t get fired) this is really going to be a rip-roaring summer.

I can’t believe I started the morning with so much confidence and murdered every last shred of it by 9:15.

“Ok, why don’t we take a break?” Randi says, clapping her hands together like a very chic soccer coach. “Feel free to visit the commissary and grab a snack, and I’ll see everyone back here in an hour.” And then she disappears out the glass door.

Colin rises from his chair, then stands awkwardly, his hands shoved in his pockets. “So, uh, should we all go together?”

“Thanks, but I don’t need chaperones,” Amber says, lifting her expensive leather tote bag onto her shoulder. “I’ll see you guys in an hour.”

She starts for the door, then pauses, her gaze falling on me. “Maybe not you, though. If they don’t fire you, you should probably just quit. And maybe move. I don’t think I could show my face on the Eastern Seaboard again after that. Maybe you could go to Minneapolis? Atlanta?” She says it like it’s Siberia. Her laughter follows her out the door. Jenna trots quickly after her.

That leaves me alone in the room with Colin, who looks like he has no idea how to escape. “Uh, it’s probably … I mean, it wasn’t that … bad?” His face is growing red at just the memory of what I said. Colin is definitely not a good actor.

“It was, but thanks,” I say, scooting my chair in so he can hustle by. “Let’s just not talk about it, ok?”

“Ok,” he says, letting out a whoosh of breath. At least I won’t have to worry about him hassling me the way Amber’s clearly going to. He looks like he’d just as soon forget the whole thing ever happened.

You and me both, buddy.

Instead of going to the commissary, where I’ll wonder if everyone already knows and is whispering about me (I’m sure Amber’s just dying to start telling people), or hiding in the bathroom being even more pathetic than I already am, I decide to take the middle ground and go for a walk. It’s still cool and gray, the wind fierce off the Atlantic, but at least the drizzle has stopped. Though at this point, what do I care if I come back with raccoon eyes and frizzy hair? I’ll forever be the girl who admitted to never having had an orgasm in front of her coworkers on the first day of one of the most prestigious internships in America.

This will probably be viral on YouTube before day’s end.

I ride the elevator back down to the first floor, much more deflated than I rode it up. I can’t believe I arrived this morning so full of hope and plans. I rolled into Scour ready to rule the entire place. But with one slip of the tongue, now I’m going to be clawing my way up from the bottom of the barrel — if they let me keep working in the barrel, that is. Once I’ve escaped the building, I stroll along the streets of Fort Point, my hands tucked down deep in my pockets. But the cold wind barely registers. My brain is racing so fast it could generate enough heat to warm my apartment on the coldest winter day. I’m probably still sweating, with my luck. This silk shirt might be beyond saving.

I just can’t figure out why I said it. I’m definitely not that girl, the one who says words like “orgasm” at work. I say the word “orgasm” about as often as I’ve had one, which, as I’ve made plainly clear, is never.

It’s not that I’m a virgin. Or even celibate. I’ve dated in college, a few guys here and there. I had a serious boyfriend freshman year. His name was Damon, and in hindsight, he was kind of a dick. But I showed up on the campus of New England College as a fresh-faced, doe-eyed girl-next-door ready to reinvent herself. I had worked my ass off in high school, hard enough to get accepted to the most prestigious private liberal arts college in the country, and I’d earned the full-tuition scholarship to go along with it (and thank god, because my parents, both high school teachers, definitely could not have afforded the tuition). I was ready for all that hard work to pay off, and so when I met Damon at a Welcome Week party, both of us clutching red solo cups, I let myself think he was the hottest, smartest, most interesting guy in the world. In the moment, half a flat keg beer in, his musings on free market capitalism and personal responsibility seemed so cosmopolitan. I felt grown up. And so when he asked me to dinner, I went. And when he kissed me, I kissed him back. And when he asked me to be his girlfriend, I said yes.

He started trying to get in my pants by the second week, but I straight up wasn’t ready, and I told him so. I’m no hot house flower, as my mom always says. I have no problem telling anyone no, much less a college freshman with libertarian tendencies. And when he respected that, it made me like him more. But looking back, it wasn’t super respectful to keep trying to shove his hand down my pants every chance he got, forcing me to say no and watch him retreat every single time. He always stopped when I asked him to, but what I was really asking was for him to stop trying.

After a few months, he wore me down. I mean, I also wanted to have sex. From all the movies I’d seen and romance novels I’d read, it seemed like fun. But I think part of me knew all along that Damon wasn’t the one. Or even one of the ones. He was just a distraction, but it finally seemed easier to just get it over with.

I wish I could say my first time was magical. Or even decent. But really it was just over with. It was painful, like I’d heard it would be. But that was it. That was the predominant feeling of my very first time having sex. Awkward, sweaty, and with the medicinal smell of spermicidal lubricant. Ooo la la. It lasted all of five minutes, and that’s a generous estimate. A girl would have to have the clitoris of a live wire to have an orgasm from that, and even then, it’s not like he ever spent any time in the general vicinity of the clitoris. Hell, I doubt he could have identified my clitoris with a diagram, a flashlight, and a ten thousand dollar grand prize at the end.

So yeah, I wasn’t surprised that there was no orgasm involved in my first time. I expected that. But when I didn’t come the second time, or the third, I started to wonder if it was me. Damon lasted a little longer each time, and he even started to hang out in the neighborhood of my clit. But still, my pleasure never grew. If anything, I got annoyed with the additional time. It felt like something endure. So can you blame me for not being super excited to have a whole lot of sex with him? Damon sure could. He blamed me a lot, and when I dug in my heels, he hit the road. It was humiliating to get dumped for being a “frigid bitch,” even if he was a totally hapless lover. The whole experience left me feeling like sex wasn’t even worth it.

After that, I decided that maybe the old Delaney from high school was the right Delaney, and so I threw myself back into school and studying and achieving, and decided to forget about guys and sex. It turned out to be pretty easy, since in my experience, guys and sex were so forgettable. And all I got out of that choice was the top internship at a huge company and a shot at an amazing job.

Assuming I didn’t just totally blow it back there.

I’m the last person to arrive back at the office. Colin is sitting back in his seat, a pile of snacks in front of him. Jenna is picking at a giant chocolate chip cookie, looking like she wished she could eat it, but refusing to take the calories. And Amber, with a cup of tea in her perfectly manicured hand, is standing at one of the white boards, scrawling in elegant cursive, a list of priorities for our project.

“Colin, why don’t you take the technical stuff. Play with the apps, tell us how they look from a development standpoint. I want to know what people on message boards are going to be complaining about when they finally hit the App Store. Jenna, you can put that accounting knowledge to use to look at their balance sheets,” she says, then turns to see me walking in. She arches an eyebrow. “Oh, so you came back. Well, then why don’t you take organizational structure. Make sure these Silicon Valley idiots actually know how to run a day-to-day.”

All I can do is nod, then take my seat and pull out my laptop. I hate myself for kowtowing to this girl. That’s not who I am. I may be an orgasmless wonder, but that doesn’t mean I’m meek.

Hell, my outburst during introductions probably stemmed from the fact that I’m usually the one leading the room. I’m used to everyone looking to me for direction. I’m used to being in charge, the center of activity. And I probably would be if I’d said, “Hi, I’m Delaney, and I spent a season knocking girls down playing roller derby.” My stupid competitive spirit (and, if I’m being honest, Nixon Blake’s gorgeous, laser-like stare), made me try something outside the box.

And my punishment is listening to Amber act like the boss while everyone else pretends I’m radioactive.

What a fucking great first day.