There’s a spring in my step, and it’s not just because of the weather, though that’s nice enough in itself. It’s not raining; an unusual event for London at the end of October. I’ve only been here a little more than a week, but this is the first, truly, clear blue-skied day that I’ve been able to enjoy.

I take a deep, clean, full breath of air into my lungs. I feel like I’m a character at the start of a classic Disney movie. I wonder if I should do a twirl, or start singing to the birds in the trees.

Perhaps I shouldn’t feel this way, but I do.

I feel kind of embarrassed about the way I left Nate, like a jilted lover, in the lobby last night. The pressure of the moment swept me away. Instead of fighting against the tide of my desire, I let myself crumble. I ran from my fear instead of confronting it straight on.

I’m talking HUGE Fear.

The way my body responded to Nate’s touch last night scared me. I knew that if I’d let him kiss me, then that would have been it. Nothing would have been able to stop momentum from crushing us together, and for all his silver-tongued words, I’m just not sure I’m ready for that.

My legs clench just thinking about him, about the way my skin burned when his touched mine. The second my door closed behind me last night, I felt my fingers creeping inside my panties.

I don’t do that kind of thing: a lot.

I’m not that kind of girl: usually.

Except now, apparently, I am.

So why am I so afraid? I know what my body wants – it hasn’t stopped telling me since the moment I first saw Nate’s tousled blonde hair. Just looking at him is enough to make the pressure between my legs build until it’s ready to explode.

It’s because you’re a virgin; and he doesn’t know.

Memories of high school rush through my mind. It’s like I never left.

A ring of girls are surrounding me, jeering at me, laughing at me.

“Did you think you were going to fuck him?” They mockingly shriek, “You slut.”

And then, later, when it was cool to be having sex – when the cool girls were having it – the taunts changed.

Then it was: ugly; and fat; they taunted. “Virgin: no one will ever fuck you,” they sneered.

“Why are you thinking about those awful girls, Kim?” I reprimand myself.

A man in a camel-colored overcoat looks at me strangely. It’s as if he’s studying me for some unknown reason, not just because he was surprised to hear a girl talking to herself.

I can’t help but step back. He’s one of those people who look so different, so out of the usual, that you have to stare.

Tattoos stretch out of the collar of his coat and up his neck. They don’t depict anything. There’s no art there. They are indiscriminate, almost blood against his Hispanic, tanned skin. They almost look like prison tattoos.

“The fuck are you looking at?” He grunts. I tear my gaze away from him, eyes moving jerkily. “That’s right, puta,” he swears in heavily accented English. “Keep walking…”

I do as I’m told. My hand reaches automatically for my handbag, for my just-in-case, when I remember that my trusty can of mace isn’t there.

It’s not legal over here.

I walk quicker. Suddenly the path by the bank of the Thames doesn’t feel nearly so safe. Cars and vans and trucks flash past, but every driver has their eyes peeled forward.

I wish Nate was here.

The realization strikes me, but it doesn’t change anything. The bus stop is a hundred yards up the road, and that’s all I need to be thinking about.

I hear footsteps behind me. Surely it isn’t him.

“Why were you looking at me, bitch?” I hear him call out. I can’t help but peek over my shoulder, even though I know I shouldn’t.

The man’s handsome, in a curious kind of way. He’s tall, and clearly well-muscled. But the way he’s decorated his body is…

… Intimidating.

Gold rings adorn his fingers. The blurred lines of his prison tattoos reach his eyes. It’s like he’s marked himself out from society on purpose.

I can’t understand what would bring a man to do that.

“Remember who you’re crossing, bitch,” he shouts. I break into a half-trot. A cold sweat starts to drip from my forehead, and my mouth is dry.

I want to call back and ask him what in the world he’s talking about. All I did was look at him – nothing more.

He’s crazy, I console myself.

That doesn’t make sense, either. How many crazy people dress themselves in high fashion clothes? Who goes out looking like that, as if it’s normal? Not the physical disfigurements – the tattoos, and the scars – but the thousand dollar coat, the well-shined Italian leather shoes…

Some part of my mind registers all that. The other part is just ecstatic to make it to the bus stop and the crowd of bored-looking commuters all looking at their phones.

The Hispanic man stops twenty yards away, and thrusts his gold-ringed hands into the pockets of his coat.

“You better watch yourself, girl. We are watching you. Do not forget it.”

A gray-haired woman grabs my arm. I jump. The adrenaline flowing through my system has me trembling. I’m freezing, and it’s not the crisp fall weather.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she says. She’s older by a lot, has a prim voice and manner. She reminds me of a school principle. Right now, it’s comforting. She’s almost like my mother, if she was still here.

“Do you know that,” her nose scrunches, “that man over there?” Her tone’s proper and British. She sounds disgusted by what she sees.

I shake my head.

A sleek, red London bus pulls to a halt beside us. The hydraulics hiss as it lowers itself to the curb. That makes me shudder, too.

“Come, come. Sit by me, dear,” she says, pulling my arm and looking back. “Would you like to call the police?”

I shake my head. I can’t take my eyes off the man in the camel coat. Even when I get on to the bus, he’s standing there. The wind flaps at the tails of his coat, but he doesn’t seem to notice the cold. I swear his eyes bore into mine.

As the bus pulls away, the man reaches into his coat pocket. I flinch, wondering if he’s going to draw the weapon. I can’t tell if he can still see me, but he smiles. He puts a cigarette to his mouth, lights it with a match, and flicks it contemptuously into the gutter.

“No,” I whisper, “no – I’m fine.”

***

I’m still shaking when I arrive at the office. After breaking out into that cold sweat, my skin is prickly and uncomfortable.

The day started so well. It’s already tumbling into the abyss.

“What are you doing?” I ask, in a surprised, strangled voice as I enter the small office I share with Boris and his two other programmers.

Boris turns away from my terminal. My desk is stuffed into the corner, amongst a bunch of broken servers. There’s no reason he should be there. His motion is jerky, too – almost guilty.

Perhaps I’m just imagining things. After all, I’m still on edge, after the events at the bus stop.

“You’re early,” he grunts in his accented English.

“That’s not an answer,” I insist. I might be new, but I’m not going to let him walk over me.

“Mind your own God damn business,” Boris says with a look that tells me to shut up if I know what’s good for me.

I don’t. I’m getting a prickly feeling at the back of my neck. It’s telling me that something is not right here.

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

Boris chews on his bottom lip. His face is a maelstrom of emotion. First it’s thunderous with rage. Next, a mocking grin breaks out. It’s like he’s cycling through emotions, trying to figure out which one to deploy.

It’s almost…

… sociopathic.

I blink, and hold my eyes shut for a second longer than usual. I’m sure I’m just overreacting. There must be a reason Boris was at my computer.

I reopen my eyes slowly, ready to apologize to Boris. The words: “it’s been a long morning,” are already on the tip of my tongue. I don’t get a chance to speak them.

Somehow, he is right in front of me.

I don’t know how he closed the distance between us so quickly.

“What…” I stammer. I’m more shocked than scared – Boris’s behavior is so out of the norm of office etiquette– it doesn’t even occur to me to be frightened of him. “What are you doing?”

He presses his nose right up against my face. I can feel his breath licking at my mouth. I get a flash of Nate’s face in the same position last night in my mind. This is completely different.

“Are you…” I ask, “… going to say something?” I’m starting to find his attempt at intimidating me almost comical.

I’ve already been scared once this morning. Compared to the man in the tan coat, Boris is a child.

Besides – new city, new Kim.

“I was doing your fucking job for you,” Boris finally grunts. I get a mouthful of rancid breath. I have to bite down to prevent myself from offering him a piece of chewing gum.

“What about my job? What are you talking about?”

Boris turns away. I get a strange feeling – almost that he knows he’s beaten, yet is trying to cover his tracks.

“Check your effin’ to do list. You want me to wipe your ass for you, as well? If you can’t do the job, don’t bother coming in tomorrow – understood?”

Boris’s anger washes over me, but strangely doesn’t hit home. I know that he must have made a mistake. I don’t miss tasks. I checked my list last night and there wasn’t anything left on it. I’m certain.

“Look,” I say, moving towards my computer. I tap in a password and double-click on my task list. “I can show you. I promise I did everything –“

I stop dead as the list flashes up on my screen.

“What in the world?” I mutter. “This wasn’t –“

“Oh,” Boris laughs. It’s a cold, biting laugh. It sounds like nails scratching against a chalkboard. “Now you see, do you?”

“Boris – this wasn’t here last night,” I protest. I know it wasn’t, but my voice comes out squeaky. “I promise.”

“You promise a lot,” he growls. “But it looks like you’re not as goddamn smart as you think you are.”

I shake my head, turning my attention back to my computer screen. The notation jumps out at me. “Run subroutine 57K2-alpha.”

I shrug weakly. “I don’t know what to say…”

“It’s your computer, isn’t it?” Boris says in a low, mocking whisper. “Just accept you were wrong, and we can move on. I’m a forgiving man.”

I shudder just looking at him. He’s no Jesus, that’s for sure. There’s a righteous fire burning inside me. I’ve never seen that subroutine before in my life. I know it wasn’t on my task list before I left the office last night. I’m certain of it.

But Boris is right. No one else has access to my terminal.

The image of Boris himself creeping around my keyboard flashes across my mind, but I bite down on it. He’s still my boss. I don’t get to demand explanations from him, as much as I want to have even one.

“I apologize,” I say. My tone is harsh, and makes clear that I am not in any way sorry. After all, I’ve done nothing wrong.

“Apology accepted,” Boris grins. It stretches across his teeth, and exposes more of his yellowing, chipped, enamel stumps than I want to see. He fishes something out of his pocket, and tosses it towards me. “Catch.”

I pluck the red-and-black piece of plastic out of the air. It’s a USB drive.

“Run what’s on it,” he says, turning away from me dismissively.

“What does it do?” I ask. I don’t like this.

Boris doesn’t bother looking at me when he speaks. “If I have to talk you through it like a child every time I ask you to do something,” he grunts, “maybe I should fire you and do it myself. How’s that for an answer?”

An angry fire stokes inside me, but I do as I’m told. Before I hand the drive back to Boris, I make a copy, just in case. Something feels off here.