by JA Huss
“Very biblical. What makes you think that someone stole it? Couldn’t someone simply have had a similar idea?”
“A similar idea called the Sexpert? Are you fucking kidding me? That shit is gold. And it was my idea! And where are you? I went down to your office and they said you were in fucking Utah. What the fuck’s in Utah?”
“Rocks. I was bouldering.”
“Rocks? There are rocks all over the place! It’s Colorado!”
“Dude, relax. It was my last weekend of freedom before I start being Johnny Corporate and I wanted to just ... y’know ... commune with the universe.”
“What the fuck did they do to you at Berkeley?” He asks it with a dire sincerity.
As timing would have it, I’m pulling up to the roundabout driveway in front of Pierce’s building. Which is now, I guess, also my building.
I didn’t want a big, sprawling, conventional-type workspace for the Aureality offices, but I also didn’t particularly want to take the company public and have all the pressure that comes with an IPO and the burdens of running a newly billion-dollar-valued company. Hell, I didn’t want to have a company and a career and have to do any of the things I’m doing in the first place. But these are, to say the least, first-world problems of the silliest order, so really... I shouldn’t complain. And I’m not. We’re doing all kinds of cool stuff with the company. Stuff I can’t even talk about, but it’s kind of badass and I’m pretty stoked, to be honest. I’ve left all the drama and bullshit in California behind me and I’m ready for a new start. I’m gonna be working just two floors below my best friend and it’s gonna be like old times. Just instead of talking shit about professors, we’ll be talking shit about shareholders. It’s gonna be awesome.
“Dude,” I say into the phone, “I’m just pulling up. Give me two minutes, I’ll come up to your office.”
“And also—!” But that’s all I let him get out before I tap End and hop out of the cab. I grab the charger as I step out of my pickup. I have this notion that I should just carry it with me wherever I go until I run into my new friend Eden again. If she’s moving into the TDH—which I can’t even say to myself without making fun of—today, then I have to assume we’ll run into each other at some point. Maybe a restaurant somewhere. Or a coffee shop. Or someplace. Denver feels like that kind of town, and this neighborhood, from what I’ve seen, feels like that kind of burg.
She was cute. More than cute, if I’m being honest. It’s been a while since I’ve been with a girl. More than a while, actually. Which hasn’t been by accident. It’s been a choice. I’ve been careful not to wind up in another situation like my last one, but that’s taken me out of the game for a long minute, so there is a slim chance that I’m just, like, super horny.
But even if that’s true, it doesn’t change the fact that she was objectively comfortable to look at for an extended period of time. And if I see her again and get a chance to give her back her charger—even if nothing else ever happens—I can sleep easy knowing I did the right thing by a cute girl called Eden.
When I hand him the key, the valet looks at me like he’s not sure what to do with my busted-ass truck. “Oh, uh, I’m Andrew Hawthorne. CEO of Aureality Enterprises? I probably have a parking place somewhere?”
The valet looks to his left where a row of Bentleys and Porsches and Mercedes and other dick-size-compensating cars are parked. And there, in the middle, is an empty space with a sign that reads “A. Hawthorne. Aureality.” Probably make more sense if it said, “A. Hawthorne. Surreality.” But, hey, is what it is. The valet takes my key, smiles, and tries to avoid getting mud and dust all over his black pants as he opens the door and plops down inside.
“Don’t scratch it!” I call to him. He doesn’t seem amused.
There’s a distinct difference between me and all the other people I see running around in the lobby. They look like successful businesspeople, dressed for work. I look like I was just bouldering in the grimy heat and took a break to smoke some of that sweet, sticky Colorado weed. Ironic, since I don’t smoke. Or drink. Or even take aspirin if I don’t have to. Whereas I’m pretty sure the three guys in three-thousand-dollar suits who are walking past me right now are already coked up at nine in the morning.
I swipe my glossy new key card on the security turnstile and it goes from red to green. I breeze through and jog toward the elevator doors that are closing just as I get there. A hand reaches out and the doors spring open again, allowing me to step on. I notice that it’s a woman’s hand. Long fingers and red nails.
Landing in the vertical people mover, I confirm that I was right. It is a woman. Pencil skirt, blouse open one button too far down, shoes that make her seem deceptively taller than she is. The kind of woman who reminds me of my ex-fiancée. Not personality-wise or anything. Sex itself is baked into this person’s DNA, and that was definitely not true of my Alice. But this woman is gorgeous in a harsh way and is looking at me like there’s something wrong with me, so in that regard, they’re twins. And so, by no fault of hers, I’m wishing she had just let the doors close on me.
“Thanks,” I say as we start moving up.
“Which floor?”
“Sorry?”
“Which floor?” she repeats, nodding to the panel of numbered buttons.
“Oh, uh...” I look and see the floor she’s pressed. “Oh. That one. Yeah, that’s me.”
She eyes me—in my opinion—oddly. “You have business at Le Man?”
“Huh? Oh. Uh, not really. Just seeing a friend.”
“Oh? Who’s that?”
Trapped in a closed space with this dominatrix-looking dame is making me feel much more uneasy than I normally like to start my mornings. Again, I think it’s because she reminds me so much of my ex. The exact opposite of what I’m looking for in my life. Why couldn’t I be stuck in here with that Eden girl? I still have her charger and all. Speaking of... I can sense myself backing up and kind of gripping the charger like a bolo. I don’t want to have to fight for my life in this elevator car right now, but I’ll do it if it comes to it.
“Uh... Pierce Chevalier? He’s the—”
“He’s the editor-in-chief,” she interrupts.
I nod. “Yep. Sure is.” I smile a tight-lipped smile and raise my eyebrows in what I’m pretty certain conveys a “what-the-fuck?” vibe.
And now she smiles and says, “I’ll take you to him. I’m Myrtle. His executive assistant.” OK. So, in the spirit of not judging a book by its cover, there’s no way I would’ve pegged this broad as a ‘Myrtle.’ “And I’m sorry... I didn’t catch your name?”
“Um, me?” She nods and gives a tiny smile. The kind you offer to a slow-learning three-year-old when you want to encourage them. “My name’s Andrew Hawthorne.”
Her expression turns now to one of seeming surprise. “You’re Andrew Hawthorne? Founder of Aureality? Creator of Voice Lift?”
She certainly seems to know a lot about me. Which makes me even more uncomfortable. Which I didn’t think was possible in this moment. “Uh... Yup. I’m him.”
“Well,” she says, her gaze turning kinda bedroom-y. “You are not what I expected.”
I don’t know what the fuck she’s talking about, but I do my best not to show my confusion and try to play it cool. So, I just hit her back with... “Sure. Nobody ever is.”
CHAPTER THREE - EDEN
The Tall, Dark, and Handsome is actually a building, not a neighborhood. Or, well, it started that way. The publishing empire I work for decided to put a corporate office in Denver about fifteen years ago and came up with the most ridiculous idea for a building.
At fifty-one floors and a little over a million square feet, it’s the fourth tallest building in Colorado. Problem was, there was no room in the actual city of Denver to build it. So, they bought a whole bunch of farm land down south of the Tech Center and put it there. When it was completed ten years ago it was a shining tower of black glass, chrome accents, and marble floors. So it got the nickname
the Tall, Dark, and Handsome building.
At first the publishing company was just gonna make it a huge sprawling campus like all the other corporate offices down here. But then the property values shot up once the building was underway and they started selling off parcels.
And today we have this.
It comes into view like the Rock of Gibraltar. (I stole that analogy. People say that all the time about the TDH building and I never got it, so one day I decided to look it up. So apparently the Rock of Gibraltar was the edge of the known world back in ancient times. And since the TDH is the edge of the Denver Tech Center, it sorta makes sense.)
A perfectly planned walkable urban neighborhood smack in the middle of cows.
Which explains the emergency birth on the freeway this morning.
There’s like ten tall buildings now. And a whole bunch of low ones. And then, of course, there are the inevitable townhouses and condos for all the people who work here, and further east there are sprawling mansions for the CEO’s.
It’s nice.
No, it’s cool as fuck. It’s like living in New York with a view of Pikes Peak. You can walk everywhere because the Towne Centre is pedestrian only. So there’s tons of parking garages, and little stores, and places to shop, and lunch trucks.
It’s my dream neighborhood. And today I’m moving in.
Not even the cute serial killer who stole my phone charger can put a damper on my good mood today.
I park my truck in the garage, pretending I don’t see the stink eye the garage attendant is giving me. He does that every day. Every. Day. Like it’s the first time he’s seen my shitty truck. Like I haven’t been pulling in at eight AM every workday for the past two years. Like he’s holding out hope that one morning I will show up in a Mercedes like everyone else and when I don’t, he’s disappointed all over again.
For a moment when I get out I have a second of hesitation about leaving all my boxes here in the bed while I’m inside. But then I decide—hell, if anyone wants my ten-year-old pink comforter and boxes of thrift-store clothes, they can have them. It would give me a reason to go buy new stuff.
I haven’t been able to justify that expense. My savings account is off limits. And I refuse to break into it. Refuse. Because the truth is, I don’t make enough money to afford a studio apartment in the TDH Towne Centre. The only reason they rented me this one was because I paid three months’ rent in advance as well as my security deposit and last month’s rent too.
I pull on my work shirt. I’m wearing a white t-shirt for the ride in because it’s so damn hot today. But I like to look professional for work and a light blue button-down shirt with a wrinkle-free collar is how I do that. And my glasses. And my hair tie. I find people take you seriously if you look a little nerdy and I am a little nerdy. I’m a Star Wars freak, for one. And regardless of my lack of texting skills, I’m pretty smart.
Smart enough to come up with that whole Sexpert idea on YouTube. Which makes me snort.
Because I have to admit, it was starting to feel like a time suck. But since Zoey is a web designer with access to a private server she already pays for (not to mention her mad video editing skills), I figure why not?
It’s sorta fun. And no one can see my face. It’s boob-shot all the way, bitches. If you’re gonna be a video sexpert, you gotta show the goods. And I’ve got goods, let me tell you. They are spectacular.
So as I walk to the elevator I decide to let the whole phone charger setback become good luck. Because if cute serial killer had stolen it last week, I really would have to buy a new one with my gas money and then I’d be out gas money. But because that happened today, and today is the day I’m moving in to my new place in the TDH, I don’t need gas money. I can walk to work tomorrow.
I smile as I flash my badge and push the call button for the elevator.
It’s a very lucky day.
When the doors open I walk inside with a crowd of other people and push the button for the fiftieth floor.
I get a little sense of pride every time I do that. Maybe even feel a little smug. Because fifty-one is the top floor and I’m only one down. I don’t even mind that it takes forever to get up there. Because when I step out of the elevators after almost everyone else is gone, I see nothing but mountains for hundreds of miles out every floor-to-ceiling window. Pikes Peak, and Mount Evans, and sometimes, on a very clear day, I can see the Spanish Peaks down south and Longs Peak up north too.
“Hey, Charlotte!” I say, passing the reception desk in the lobby. “Hi, Lynne!” I call out to the other receptionist.
They’re both on the phone, but they simultaneously cover the handsets and say, “Hey, Eden!” in their brightest and cheeriest voices.
I flash my badge again, enter the west side of the offices, and say, “Good morning, Sylvia!” as I pass the printer. And then do that again as I walk by each person on my way to my cubicle.
They all say “Hi,” back. I’m just one of those girls who likes to be friendly. I’ve found that if you’re friendly you make people happy. Happy people who say hello to you every day are far less likely to confront you when you mess up. I hate confrontation and I regularly make mistakes, so it’s a necessary precaution.
Plus, I like them. And being friendly is free. So why not?
“Eden!” my boss, Gretchen, calls from her corner glass-enclosed office on this end of the building. “Get in here! We’re having a crisis!”
“Coming,” I call, still using my friendly voice. I don’t actually like being friendly to Gretchen. She’s stiff, and pouty, and a little mean if I’m being honest. But she is the boss, and I’m a girl who respects the hierarchy.
So I set my purse down, find a hair tie in my desk drawer and tame my blonde mane, then fish out my tablet and go into her office, ready to deal with today’s social media nightmare.
“Good morning, Gretchen! Happy Monday!”
She glares at me. I know she hates it when I say that every week, but I say it anyway. Not to piss her off, either. It’s because Mondays already suck, right? So why not make them better? Sometimes, when there’s not a cow giving birth on the freeway, making me late, I bring her donuts from the donut truck parked outside in the Towne Centre on Mondays. She always complains I’m trying to sabotage her diet, but when I brought her grapefruit to show her I was considerate of her struggle, she didn’t eat it.
She always eats the donuts.
And she’s not even a little bit chubby, so… really? Come on, Gretch. Live a little.
“We have a crisis on our hands.”
“Did someone hack our Facebook again?”
“No,” Gretchen says. “Worse.”
“Jesus. What’s going on?”
“Pierce”—he’s the big boss upstairs on fifty-one—“is raging about some little twat who stole Le Man’s intellectual property.”
“No shit?” I say. “Well, that totally sucks. Did he call the lawyers?”
“Oh, you betcha.”
“Phew,” I say, wiping sweat off my brow. “Well, what can I do to help? Just tell me what you guys need and I’m there. Should I make a post on Facebook and start a trending hashtag on Twitter? Oh, I know! I can call it #StopTheStealing!”
That’s my job. I’m the social media expert here. I even have an assistant. Well, I share an intern with the advertising department and they monopolize him most of the time, but still. He’s one-tenth mine.
Gretchen chews her lip for a second like she’s nervous. It’s not something she normally does. In fact, she’s not normally nervous. She’s a little bit overconfident at all times. Zoey says it’s just a show to make up for her inferiority complex, but I actually think Gretchen is quite competent, even if she is a little bit mean.
“No,” she finally says. “No, you see… the problem is… we don’t have much of a claim to this IP.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it was in the planning stages, so it hasn’t been published yet.”
“Oh.
So… what do we do, then?”
She sighs. “Here’s the main problem, Eden. We don’t know who she is.”
“Oh.” I’m confused. “Then how do you know she stole something from us?”
“She has faceless videos on YouTube.”
I open my mouth to say, No way! So do I! but stop myself just in time because that’s my secret life.
“So Pierce wants to soft-launch this new content today. Like immediately.”
“OK,” I say, tapping notes on my tablet. “Cool. Just point me to the articles and I will blast that stuff all over the place.”
“No, see, we haven’t… written anything yet. We don’t have it yet.”
I stop tapping and look up at her. “O-kay. So what should I blast?”
She chews her lip again. “Eden.”
“Gretchen?”
“Eden, I need an idea. I need an idea of how to do this soft launch when we don’t have content. Help me. I need you to come up with something by lunchtime and—”
“Why don’t we just pull together all related articles from the past… oh, two years? And I can blast those?”
She goes still for a moment. I’m almost afraid she’s having a seizure or something. “Gretchen?”
She blinks at me. Three times real fast. “You’re a genius.”
I beam a smile at her. Gretchen isn’t one to hand out compliments, so my lucky day just keeps going. I might get a raise out of this. “Oh, I have a million more where that came from. This is just my off-the-top-of-the-head idea.”
“Mmmm-hmmm,” Gretchen says, pressing her lips together. “Perfect. Then I want twenty articles, ready to go. We’ll feature one a day. And Eden—”
“Yes?” I say. And for some reason my lucky feeling fades as I stare at her sour face staring intently back at me.
“Give them all the same hashtag so we can collate them later. Maybe rebrand them. Yes, that’s what we’ll do. We should do that first. Take all those old articles and rebrand them with new graphics.”