The electronic drumbeats thud through the air so hard that I can actually feel my chest vibrate as I look at my screen, my head bobbing as I let the pattern come to me.

I’ve had a lot of people ask me how I can work the way I do, but this is when the magic happens. I’ve got three computer screens, each of them split into halves with data flowing in each one. I’m finishing up my evaluations, I’ve done the grind, and now I’m bringing it all together.

For that, though, I need tunes, and nothing gets my brain working on the right frequency as well as good techno does.

I can hear the door to my office vibrate in its frame, and I’m glad I’ve got my own little paradise down here in the basement of the Goldstone Building.

Sure, my methods are weird, and I’m sort of isolated considering that I’m in a corner office with two file rooms on either side of me, but that’s because I need this to make the magic happen.

Frankly, I wasn’t too sure if I’d be able to keep this job, considering the number of complaints I got my first six months working here.

Part of it, of course, is my occasional outbursts—to myself, mind you, and more often than not in gutter Russian so no one can understand me.

That, with the random singing along with my tunes, meant I was labeled as ‘distracting’ and ‘difficult to work next to.’

But the powers that be saw the value that I bring with my data analysis.

So, as an experimental last gasp, I was sent down here, where the walls are thick, the neighbors are paper, and nobody minds that my singing voice is terrible.

It works for them, but more importantly, it works for me.

And here I’ve remained for almost six years, working metadata analysis and market trends, making people with money even more money.

Not that the company’s treated me poorly. I’ve gotten a bonus for seven quarters straight, and I’ve always managed my own investments.

For a girl who still has a few years until she hits thirty, I’m doing well on the ol’ nest egg.

But I’m pigeonholed. Other than dropping off files from time to time, I almost never see anyone in my day to day work, which I guess is okay with me. I’ve never been someone who likes the social scene of an office.

On the other hand, I can wear my pink and blue streaks in my hair and not have to see people’s judging glares. And I don’t have to explain what my lyrics mean when I decide to sing along.

“Another one for the Motherland!” I exclaim as I see what I’ve been looking for. This isn’t a hard assignment, merely an optimization analysis for some of Goldstone’s transport subsidiaries. But I prefer to celebrate each victory, no matter how small or large, with glee.

I swipe all the data to my side monitors and bring up a document in the center and start typing. I’ve already included most of the boilerplate that the executives and VPs want to see, the ‘check the box’ sort of things that my father would understand with his background.

After all, he is Russian. He knows about bureaucracy.

Finally, just as the Elf Clock above my door dings noon, I save my file and fire it off to my supervisor.

“In Russia . . . report finishes you.”

Okay, so it’s not my best one-liner, but it’s another quirk of mine. While I’m as American as apple pie, I pay homage to my roots, especially at work, for some reason. It seems to help, so I’m sticking to it.

Heading to the elevator, I go upstairs before punching out for lunch and jumping into my little Chevy to drive to my ‘spot’, a diner called The Gravy Train. An honest to goodness old-fashioned diner, it’s got some of the best food in town, including a fried chicken sandwich that’s to kill for.

As I drive, I look around my hometown, still surprised at how big it seems these days. The main reason, of course, is tied to the dark tower on the north side of town, Blackwell Industries.

Thirty years ago, Mr. Blackwell located his headquarters here in the sleepy town of Roseboro and proclaimed it to be the bridge between Portland and Seattle. A lot of people scoffed, but he was right, and Roseboro’s been the beneficiary of his foresight.

I’ve been lucky, watching a city literally grow with me. Roseboro is big enough now that some people even call this a Tri-Cities area, lumping us in with Portland and Seattle.

I get to The Gravy Train just in time to see the other reason that I come to this place so frequently for lunch wave from the window. Isabella “Izzy” Turner has been my best friend since first grade, and I love her like she’s my own flesh and blood.

As I enter, I see her untie the apron on her uniform and slump down into one of the booths. Her normally rich brown hair looks limp and stringy today, and the bags under her eyes are so big she could be carrying her after work clothes in them.

“Hey, babe, you look exhausted,” I say in greeting, giving her a hug from the side as I slide in next to her. “Please don’t tell me you’re still working double shifts?”

“Have to,” Izzy says as she leans into me and hugs back. “Gotta keep the bills paid, and doing double shifts gives me a chance to maybe get a little ahead. I’ll need it once classes start up again.”

“You know you don’t have to,” I tell her for the millionth time. “You can take out student loans like the rest of us.”

“I’d rather not if I don’t have to. I owe enough to other people as it is.”

She’s got a point. She’s had a tough life and has seen tragedy that left more and more debt on her tab, and student loans are tough enough without all the other stuff in her life.

And even though she always turns me down, I have to offer once again, just on the off-chance she’ll say yes this time. “Still, if you need anything . . . I mean, I’ve said it before, but you can always come live with me. I’ve got room at my place.”

Izzy snorts, finally cracking a smile. “You mean you want someone to stay up with you until two in the morning on weekends playing video games.”

Before I can elbow her in the side, the bell above the door rings and in walks the third member of our little party patrol, Charlotte Dunn. A stunning girl who turns heads everywhere she goes with her long, naturally bright and beautiful red hair, she slides into the booth opposite Izzy and me, looking exhausted herself.

She settles in, sighing heavily, and Izzy looks over at her. “Tough morning for you too?”

“I think walking in the back and sticking my head in a vat of hot oil might just be preferable to working reception on the ground floor of Satan’s Skyscraper,” she jokes. “It’s not like anything bad happened either.”

“So what’s the deal?” I ask, and Charlotte shakes her head. “What?”

“I guess it’s just that everyone there walks like they’ve got a hundred-pound albatross on their back as they come in. No smiles, no greetings, even though I try. It’s just depressing,” she replies. “You got lucky, landing in the shining palace.”

“Girl, please. I work all by my lonesome in the deep, dark dungeon of a basement,” I point out.

Charlotte snorts. “But that’s how you like it!”

She’s not wrong, so I don’t bother arguing, instead teasingly gloating, “And I get to wear whatever and work however the hell I please.”

Our waitress, one of Izzy’s co-workers, comes over with her order pad. “So, what can I get you ladies?”

“Something with no onions or spice,” Izzy replies, groaning. “Maybe Henry can whip up a grilled cheese for me?”

“Deal. And for you ladies?”

We place our orders, and the three of us lean back, relaxing. Charlotte looks me over enviously again, shaking her head. “Seriously, Mia, can’t get over the outfit today. You trying to show off the curves?”

“What curves?” I ask, looking down at today’s band T-shirt. It’s just a BTS logo, twin columns rising on a black shirt.

“Hey, you’re rockin’ it.” Charlotte laughs. “It fits the girls just right.”

I roll my eyes. Charlotte always seems to see something in me that I don’t. Men don’t seem to find me interesting. Or at least, the men I find interesting don’t find me interesting.

Deflecting back to her, I ask, “How’re things looking for you? That guy in Accounting ever come back downstairs to get your number?”

Charlotte snorts. “Nope. I saw him the other day, but it’s okay. It’s his loss.”

She does a little hair flip and I can’t help but smile. She hasn’t always had the best luck with guys, but she never gives up and always keeps a positive attitude about the whole dating game. Her motto is ‘No Mr. Wrongs, only Mr. Rights and Mr. Right-Nows.’ Maybe not the classiest, but a girl’s got needs, and sometimes it’s nice to have an orgasm from a guy not named B.O.B.

We eat our lunches, chatting and gossiping and bullshitting as always. It’s never a big to-do since we share lunch together at least once a week, if not more, but it’s still nice to catch up. Izzy and I have been friends for so long, and Charlotte and I met in college. They’re important to me.

“So, when do classes start up again, Izz?” Charlotte asks. “So you can, I don’t know, get some sleep and not have fallen arches?”

Izzy snorts. “Too soon, I think. But if I can string together another two semesters—”

“Wait, two?” I ask in shock. “Honey, you’re like the super-duper-ooper senior at this point. Seriously, some of the professors are probably younger than you by now.”

“Hey, we’re the same age!” Izzy protests, but shrugs. “You know, I had a freshman ask me if I was a TA the other day?”

“Ouch, that had to hurt,” Charlotte says. “What did you say?”

“I pointed him in the direction of the student union and turned him down when he asked for my number. Seriously, I’m not sure if he even needed to shave yet. I don’t have time to teach eighteen-year-old man-boys what and where a clit is!”

Charlotte and I laugh, and I punch her in the shoulder. “You’ll get there in your own time, girl. But still, why the wait?”

“Mostly the internship,” Izzy admits. “I can juggle classes and work, or internship and work, but I can’t do classes, internship, and work. There’s just not enough hours in the day.”

I nod, understanding that Izzy has plans and dreams. But unlike most, she’s willing to sacrifice and work hard to reach hers.

We shift topics, like we always do, until we’ve covered all the usual topics and my tummy feels pleasantly happy without risk of an afternoon food coma.

Wiping our mouths with our napkins, I glance at my phone, checking the time. “So, Char . . . rock, paper, scissors?”

“Nope, this one’s mine!” Charlotte says, giggling as I lean into Izzy, preventing her from moving as Charlotte grabs the check and runs up to the counter.

“Hey! Hey, dammit!” Izzy protests. “I—”

“Should be quiet and let your friends pay for lunch for once,” I whisper. “Or else I’ll use my secret Russian pressure point skills on you!”

“Oh, fine, since you put it that way!”

Charlotte comes back, and she smiles at Izzy. “Chill, Izz. You bust your ass, and you’ve snuck us an extra pickle more than once. You’re allowed to let me buy you lunch every now and then.”

“We could all use some more pickle.” Izzy chuckles. “Seriously, at this point, I’d settle for a one-nighter. No commitment, no issues, just a good old-fashioned hookup. As long he’s well into his twenties, at least,” she says with an eye roll.

“Mr. Right Now?” Charlotte asks, and Izzy nods. “Hmph. You find him, send him my way. I keep finding good guys . . . two months after they’ve met the girl of their dreams. Only single men I find are dogs.”

“You’ve just gotta make sure you give them a fake number and a flea dip, and enjoy the weekend,” I tease, though she knows I would never do anything of the sort.

“I’m lonely, but I’ve got rechargeable batteries.”

We all laugh, and my phone rings. I pull it out, checking the screen. “Shit, girls, it’s my boss. Says he’s got a rush job for me to complete.”

“How’s he working out, anyway?” Charlotte asks as I finish my drink quickly. “And have you started working for The Golden Child yet?”

“Nope, I’ve never seen him except for the publicity stuff,” I reply honestly. “He’s the penthouse. I’m the basement. Twenty-four floors in between us. Anyway, I gotta jet, so I’ll talk to you girls soon, okay?”

“Yup . . . I’m going to relax for this next ten minutes before I need to clock back in myself,” Izzy says, stretching out. “Gimme a call later?”

I nod, blowing them a kiss, and head back to work.