by Anne Marsh
The neighborhood itself is a warren of one-way, twisting streets jammed with cars. Getting a parking permit may require screwing the city council, and I’ve heard two permits necessitates an outright orgy. My house is the queen bee of the block, perched at the very end of a cul-de-sac (score!) and so close to the ocean that spray hits my bedroom windows on a windy day. Three thousand square feet of Spanish mission style, it fronts an amazing stretch of ocean.
I slam into the house, pissed at everything and the world. Despite the miles between Lola and me, she’s still right here in my head, taunting me. I ignore the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. It might be guilt or discomfort. Whatever. It’s unfamiliar and I don’t do feelings. Fuck. I almost never make mistakes.
Lola’s scent still clings to my fingers, a little fainter each time I bring them to my nose. Usually I hit the shower fast after hookups, but she smells amazing. I expected to be over her now that we’ve played our game, yet I have a bad feeling there’s no forgetting this afternoon. She twists me up inside somehow.
Giving up on the shower, I head outside. A steep, private staircase leads to the beach, a quarter-mile stretch of sand bookended by some serious rocks. The tide’s been out for hours and the few waves are flat; it’s the worst possible time for surfing, but still a good time for clearing my head.
I flop on my board, staring at the sky. It’s peaceful, my board rocking gently with each baby wave. After a while, the noise level picks up. Music pounds from Max’s house, a house distinctly resembling a pink cupcake with turrets. Max, Jack and I are neighbors. There wasn’t much on the market when we bought, so three houses in a row required the flexibility of a yogini. Max drew the short straw and had to settle for Casa de Pinkie.
My board bumps sand—and kneecaps. I open my eyes.
Max frowns down at me. “Did someone piss in your cornflakes?”
In no mood to discuss my epic screwup, I flash him the bird. “Did you raid my kitchen again?”
“Not in the last two weeks. And there was definitely no golden shower action, although I may have stolen a beer.”
A beer sounds great, but Max is empty-handed, the tease. He also isn’t dressed for surfing. Instead of a wet suit, he wears knee-length black swim trunks, a white T-shirt with a pink bow tie bedazzled at the throat, and a two-thousand-dollar tuxedo jacket that’s slowly absorbing salt spray. Crap. Tonight is the launch party for Max’s newest dating app.
The party is the love child of his publicist and PR person. Max himself is adamantly antisocial, but he’s been promised loads of D-list celebrities and paparazzi, so it’s party time. Speaking from experience, many guests will regret the open bar when they check their social media in the morning. I promised weeks ago to make an appearance, although I drew the line at participating in a bachelor auction featuring the best of Billionaire Bachelors.
“Party time,” Max announces.
I stand up, haul my board out of the water, peel off my wet suit and follow Max to his staircase. Max will loan me a shirt to go with my board shorts, and the party’s likely to be clothing-optional anyhow.
Because I’m pathetic, I check my phone. After the third time I went swimming with it, I realized that I either had to take up skinny-dipping or take preventative measures. I opted for a waterproof phone condom. There are no messages from Lola.
Max’s pool contains more women than water and appears to be swimsuit-optional. A bar with blow-up palm trees, pink flamingos and a tiki man with a gigantic dick round out the decor. Music pounds because Max hates silence. He codes to earsplitting music—it’s a miracle he retains any hearing.
“Classy.” Coming up behind us, Jack slings an arm around our shoulders.
My phone dings and I look down. Two-for-one pizza offer. Delete.
The arm around my shoulder digs into my armpit. “You didn’t surf today.”
I make a show of checking my phone. “I went in to work. I may also have made a tactical mistake.”
Neither Max nor Jack seem surprised, although it’s Max who correctly interprets tactical mistake and asks the obvious question. “Did you bang her?”
“Technically? No.”
Jack shakes his head. “I told you being her intern wouldn’t have a happy ending.”
“Yeah, well, Lola definitely didn’t get her happy ending,” I overshare.
“Gonna need a few more words about that.”
Max snags three longneck beers from a passing waiter while I try to find the words to explain. His pool is now filled with foam and the photographers are going nuts. This might have something to do with the behavior of Max’s VIP guests. It’s raining bikini tops on our private beach.
I finally settle on a strictly factual account. “I got her consent. We fooled around. I tied her up—which was also consensual—I came and then I left her.”
“Tied up.” Jack pops the top on his bottle.
“Yes.”
“High and dry.”
I shrug. “I’m certain she took care of business later, but yes.”
“You have any idea how much trouble you’re in?” Jack keeps his voice low, an effort that I appreciate. I don’t need to find today’s episode of stupidity plastered across a gossip website.
“Depends on whether Lola has a sense of humor or not.”
Shit.
I’m in so much trouble.
Jack, of course, presses his point. He’s the responsible one, which is one of many reasons why he’s also the only one of us who has actually managed monogamy, marriage and genuine friendship with not one but two girls. “You think there’s anything funny about tying a girl up and leaving her like that? What if someone else comes in while she’s tied up? What if that someone takes advantage or takes pictures or just sees that mental image in his or her head every single time they see Lola after this?”
“I used a tie,” I point out. “Not cables or plastic handcuffs.”
Max cuffs my shoulder. “Even I know that this is not about the delivery mechanism for your kinky fantasies.”
Maybe we could have had sex. Maybe we could have had something really great or even something that was just nice. But now I’ve likely made her feel frustrated and stupid—plus, I’ve probably screwed up my chances of busting my software pirate. It’s a clusterfuck of epic proportions.
“Should I text her and apologize?”
Jack smacks my other shoulder hard enough that I almost land in the pool. “You want to put your stupidity in writing?”
No, I want to put it behind me, but that doesn’t seem to be an option.
I point my bottle at Jack. “I don’t have her phone number.” Which is an oversight I can remedy with a laptop.
“No,” Jack says. “You don’t get to do that.”
Max just grins. “What aren’t we doing?”
“No hacking,” Jack tells him. “You’ve reformed.”
There’s an eighties movie about a kid who hacks into the Department of Defense computer system and plays games with the artificial intelligence brain controlling the country’s nuclear arsenal. The kid isn’t thinking about nuclear winter or accidentally wiping out the world; he’s just a curious smart-ass who thinks it would be fun and wants to see if he can pull it off. That kid could have been Max’s mini-me. Or his doppelgänger. Max loves hacking and he’s really, really good at it.
I slide a sidelong glance at Max. “Does she have a Happily Ever After account?”
Max pulls a pained face. “Privacy laws, man. I can’t disclose that kind of stuff.”
“People post dick pics and beaver shots!”
Max just shrugs. “If Lola wants to post her phone number, she can. She can draw it on her tits in black Sharpie and take a picture. I don’t care as long as she’s the one initiating, but you can’t look without her permission.”
“You suck,” I tell him, and he
takes a bow.
For the next couple of hours, I put on my happy face and concentrate on having Max’s back even if I don’t want to be here. I turn down multiple phone numbers and fend off several drunk girls who would like to show their personal appreciation for my software. I can’t stop thinking about Lola, however. What she looks like when she’s about to come, the tiny sounds she makes, the way her legs tighten as if she’s holding on to the sensation with everything she has.
Promptly at ten minutes to ten, Max literally pulls the plug on the music. Snatches of overloud conversation fill the sudden silence.
And then he said “nice panties.”
I can’t believe he’s cheating on me.
She has really nice tits and I—
“Party’s over,” Max roars. “Gift bags are by the front door.”
A stampede ensues as the party guests head for said door. Max’s generosity is legendary, plus word has leaked about the sponsors.
Jack looks at me. “Are you hitting the bar? Molly’s traveling for business, so I’m free.”
During the daylight hours, we borrow Jack from his wife and surf until our balls are Smurf-colored. Afterward, we head to T&T for tacos and tequila (the two Ts, naturally) when it gets dark. But instead of surfing today, I almost-banged Lola. I’m off-kilter. Tequila and company seems like a bad idea.
“Not tonight,” I tell him.
Max mimes astonishment. Being Max, he’s none too subtle about it. He likes making a point as much as I do. “Are you sick? Unexpectedly married? Self-flagellating after today’s earlier sexual misfire?”
“It’s nothing,” I say. “I’m just tired.”
And the funny thing is, the tired part isn’t actually a lie. I am tired. Not with the flu or even with something that can be fixed with a visit to the doctor, or I would fix it. I have a reputation as a player, a reputation I’ve earned. Practice makes perfect, and I’ve put in my hours in the bedroom. I’ve always loved sex, but lately? Well, lately, it’s all seemed a little too routine, a little too predictable, so tonight I’m taking my toy and going home.
CHAPTER NINE
Dev
TWO DAYS AFTER I stripped my boss naked, put my mouth on her pussy and ate her until she not-quite-came, I try out various apologetic combinations of words in my head. Nothing feels right, and that’s all wrong, too. Since when do I have feelings? And what do I think happened? My usual insomnia was worse than ever, giving me plenty of time to relive each moment and pick my favorite. Contender number one: Lola dropping to her knees and taking me into her mouth. Contender number two? She let me blow up in her mouth and then she swallowed. Contender number three...the whole goddamned handful of minutes, if I’m being honest, because I can’t forget any of them. She’s under my skin and I don’t like it.
Still, I’m officially one up in our game, so Monday morning I saunter in to Calla, playing things nice and easy. You can’t tell I’m evaluating the chances I get fired or sued. A casual glance toward Lola’s office doesn’t turn up my boss, although it reacquaints me with her desk. I promptly get hard remembering what she looked like, spread out before me.
Figure your shit out, Sherlock.
With a ticking clock, I need to prioritize. Plus, there’s always the risk that someone at Calla recognizes me. As far as I can tell, I’ve gotten away with the masquerade only because Lola is too new to the industry and her team members are equally young. Eventually, though, someone is going to connect the dots, read an online piece or just use Max’s stupid Billionaire Bachelors app—and I’ll be busted. Pretending to be the intern was stupid, my “employment” most definitely has an expiration date, and I need to make the most of the time I have. Ergo, I take advantage of the morning coffee run to swing by the IT gal’s desk. She hasn’t placed an order, but I know what she likes, and I slide it in front of her.
“Wow.” IT Tech Babe stares at me. “I did not see that coming.”
“Just being helpful. Trying to learn. Working up to world domination.” I’ve brought her an iced triple-shot espresso with four artificial sugars, but the pièce de résistance is the can of Mountain Dew I wave in front of her.
“You are so evil.” Cara fixates on the can in my hand. She’s been on the South Beach Diet since Friday, so she’s got to be ready to crack.
I open the can and take a sip. The sugar rush is instantaneous. “I figured we could chat. You can tell me all about what your job entails. What you like about it.” Look at me, Mr. Butter-Won’t-Melt-In-His-Mouth. “What sucks.”
“Why?” Her flip-flop smacks against the floor. Bwap-wap-wap-wap.
“Self-improvement.” I wink at her and hand over the soda can.
“Bless you,” she breathes. Before I can even roll up a yoga ball, she’s mixed the espresso and the soda together in the world’s biggest stainless-steel coffee mug. Soooo gross.
We make chitchat about her job for a minute and then I go for the kill. “So how did you pick our e-commerce platform? I mean, it’s not one of the usual suspects. Did you roll it yourself?”
Cara snorts. “Do I look like a sadist? Not a chance. Lola gave it to me and had me integrate it into our site.”
I take a casual sip of my own coffee. Reel her in. “You got it shrink-wrapped in a box?”
She outright laughs. “Not even close. Lola put it on our file server and I grabbed it from there.”
Okay. So it makes me wonder if Lola has told anyone where she got the software. It doesn’t look good. It shouldn’t be such a secret and I’m sort of tempted to stand up and announce who I am. That they’re using my software without my permission and that it’s all rather felonious from where I sit, sprawled on top of their freaking yoga ball. In other words: Boo.
“Cheers.” Cara taps her cup to mine.
I flash her a smile, kiss her mug with mine and then thank the universe that I’ve got to my feet already because my phone goes off in my back pocket.
The Jaws theme song fills the air. Duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duh. Followed by tiny guppy pops because you really can’t take life too seriously and Lola is only slightly scary. The scary parts include her big brain and the way she puts two and two together at lightning speed. She could be an apex predator in the programming world if she wasn’t so nice. She gives a genuine shit about the people who work for her and she has morally upright social justice missions that have her investing her time and talents into revolutionizing feminine hygiene rather than making a mountain of cash.
That’s the guppy part, the part that genuinely believes everyone swimming along in the Silicon Valley fishbowl has equally great intentions and will do the right thing. It makes Lola vulnerable, a fact I plan on taking full advantage of.
I look down at my phone. My office. Now.
Go. Don’t go. I don’t know who has the upper hand now. She came on to the summer intern, but I’m the one here under false pretenses and who had my hand in her panties. Followed by my mouth in places my mouth had no business going in the office.
My phone dings again.
You don’t get to make me wait twice.
Good to know where we stand.
I saunter toward Lola’s office.
CHAPTER TEN
Lola
I’M EITHER HAVING a panic attack. Or maybe an honest-to-God heart attack. My chest tightens until my breath whistles through my teeth. I’ve tried downward dogging to release the tension, I’ve petted Nellie until she hides under the table, I’ve mainlined chocolate, but there’s no magic fix: my intern has up-close-and-personal knowledge of my beaver. Worse, I sort of really want to do it again.
Do him.
I spent the weekend imagining possibilities. He obviously has a whole life outside Calla that I know nothing about. The only way to learn is to ask, but that’s suspiciously date-like when he’s a complete and total ass who badly needs to be taught a lesson. Plus, int
ern.
Not for the first time, I curse Calla’s open floor plan. There’s nowhere to hide and the memories hit as soon as I sat down. Dev angry-kissing me. Me on my knees. The tie. Does he honestly think I’ll let him get away with leaving me hanging? We can’t just continue to work together—I have to address what not-quite-happened between us. I’ve seen his penis. I’ve had him in my mouth. And truthfully, I enjoyed every bossy, arrogant, take-charge moment right up until he decided my orgasm was a power move in the head game he was playing and took his toy and went home.
I’m not ashamed to say that I went home and jilled off like a madwoman. Coming makes everything seem clearer and I spent Sunday thinking things over. At first, my primary emotion was embarrassment. Devlin King completely, utterly played me. Panic had quickly succeeded embarrassment, however. Unless the man was a sadist or a narcissistic asshole, he’d had a reason for denying me my happy ending. Unfortunately, I still don’t know what it is. What I do know is that I have to establish who’s in charge here and establish it fast. Devlin doesn’t run this company. He doesn’t own this office. He isn’t the boss. I am.
I wait until he returns from his coffee run to put my plan into motion. He hates orders, so I text him to report to my office. He’s sitting with Cara, the two of them chatting away over cups of coffee like lifelong best friends, and he visibly pokers up when he gets my text.
But he gets up and saunters toward my office. The full frontal view is as amazing, and even his surly attitude does nothing to make my panties less wet. It just reminds me that I’m in charge and he’s supposed to do as I say.
When he raps on the door frame, I pretend to ignore him because riling him up is fun.