by Misha Bell
Does that statement require a response?
“Sis, Holly was actually just about to leave,” the Devil says. “She’s had a long workday and—”
“Eeww!” Bella rips the headset from her face. “The guy you made looks just like Alex. Naked.”
Seriously, where’s that spontaneous combustion?
The Devil’s cerulean gaze swings to me, and I could swear there’s a glimmer of fire in it. Then he turns to his sister. “‘Eeww?’ Really?”
She rolls her eyes. “Did you want me to drool? As you’ve said, we’re not the Lannisters or the Borgias.”
Is the Evil One lost for words?
Bella grins sheepishly at me. “You could’ve warned me.”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I didn’t think.”
“No sweat.” She grabs the bulky part of the suit where my vagina would be if I were still wearing it. “I bet you’re wondering how penetration is supposed to work.”
I shake my head, but she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “Obviously, it’s not practical to fit a variety of dildos in the suit, so I was forced to use hydraulics and—”
“Sis.” The Devil’s tone is more forceful. “Holly hasn’t even had the chance to eat her dinner.”
“Oh.” She looks at me guiltily. “Poor thing. Sorry. We’ll talk more later. Eat your dinner and go home.”
“Thanks! I’ll eat on the way.” I zoom out of that office as though the devils were chasing me—and for all I know, they might be about to do just that.
All I want is to get out of here and regroup—assuming that’s even possible.
Since I’m running, I fish out my earbuds from my pocket, jam them into my ears, and put on my trusty running music: the Downton Abbey soundtrack. Reaching my desk, I grab my takeout, not because I still want it, but because I said I’d eat on the way.
So far, so good. I’m almost out of here. Just a minute until freedom.
Dashing for the elevator, I channel all my pent-up frustration and unburned adrenaline into my leg muscles.
Almost there.
Almost.
Yes.
I’m by the elevator. Jamming my finger at the button, I all but bite my nails in anticipation.
After a century-long wait, the elevator doors crawl open.
Finally.
I’m about to step in when a hand grabs my shoulder.
Fuck.
Didn’t make it.
I spin around to face the Devil.
Chapter Seven
Only it’s the She-Devil, and she’s smiling—not something I expected to see before plunging into the burning fires of hell.
I dig an earbud out of my ear. I probably look as wild-eyed as I feel.
“I wanted you to have this.” Bella hands me a backpack with hand-drawn genitalia on it.
Ookay.
I snatch the backpack, clutch it to my chest, and blink at her. Something heavy is inside the bag. Could it be the heart or liver of the last person who tried to sabotage her work?
She looks at me expectantly.
“Thank you?” I mutter.
“It’s the suit.” She waggles her eyebrows lasciviously. “The one you tried. Figured you’d want to finish the demo.”
I redden again—my cheeks are now primed for it.
Then I notice that the Devil himself is within earshot, smirking. If I were Hulk strong, I’d throw this penis-inscribed backpack at the wanker’s head. Alas, I’m not—plus that sort of thing will get me fired for sure.
“Well, have a safe trip home,” Bella says.
“Thanks. Bye.” I back into the elevator and press the button for the lobby.
As the doors close, I see the Devil’s evil smirk grow into an infuriating grin.
My food tastes like sandpaper as I eat it on autopilot in the cab, and even when I get home and start my seven-step evening routine, my mind refuses to stop spinning.
Am I going to lose my job?
Whatever the answer is, my life’s work is still in dire jeopardy.
As I meticulously floss my thirty-one teeth (by luck, I had to get one of my wisdom teeth removed a few years back), I ponder if there’s a way to save my project.
Maybe I can call an emergency meeting with the administration at NYU Langone tomorrow and try to convince them to move from beta testing to officially adopting the VR pet therapy. Once there’s a contract and data on how useful the therapy is, they’ll be less likely to pull out when they learn that the company they’ve made a deal with is known for its adult content. The Devil might not deem it porn, but they surely will.
Worth a shot. I fire up my laptop and request the meeting.
Now I need two miracles. Or is it called something else when the Devil is involved?
My phone pings. It’s a text from Gia:
Do you need me to bail you out of jail?
Har bloody har.
No need, I text back. I changed my mind about the B & E.
I rarely lie to my twin, but I can’t bring myself to talk about what happened just yet.
I knew you’d chicken out, she replies. You still owe me.
I sigh. Fine. Speaking of that, tell parents to meet “you” at Miso Hungry—a place by my office.
After she promises she will, I turn off my phone.
According to my schedule, it’s time to go to sleep. The problem is, there’s no way I’ll sleep in this state—I feel like I’ve just downed a barrel of cocaine-laced espresso.
Time for the big guns.
I turn on my TV and play the series premiere of Downton Abbey.
Nope. Still can’t sleep. Seems like even bigger guns are needed.
I put on the episode of Rose’s wedding, mainly because it contains one of my favorite Violet quotes of all time: “Love may not conquer all, but it can conquer a lot.”
When it’s over, I try sleeping again.
Not a wink.
I go to my ultimate sleep tool: Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.
Still no luck.
Okay, how about Emma?
Nope. If anything, all these romantic stories make it worse, as a pair of cerulean eyes keep popping into my mind.
I switch tactics and go for a cup of chamomile tea. It doesn’t remind me of the Devil, thankfully, but it doesn’t help either—and I don’t dare brew anything caffeinated.
A crazy idea pops into my head. An orgasm might help me get drowsy, so what if I put on the suit Bella gave me?
No. I mustn’t.
But I want to.
Curse you, Devil and your sister. This must be how Jesus felt when he was tempted in the wilderness.
But hold on a second. There’s a VR activity that might calm me—though, granted, not as much as a virtual shag.
My own VR pet therapy.
Yeah, that’s it.
Gearing up, I launch the necessary app and come face to furry nose with Euclid—the VR pet customized for me.
“Holly,” Euclid sing-songs. “I mished you.”
Brilliant. My nerves are soothed already. I can’t help but grin at him.
Euclid can be made to look like a preset of things I figured kids would find cute: a piglet, a koala bear cub, a baby otter, a baby panda, a baby hedgehog, a kitten, or a lemur. Of course, he doesn’t look like any of those exactly, since that’s no fun. He’s an anthropomorphized version of an animal, and with as much influence from the Teletubbies as I could get away with without being sued.
In my case, Euclid resembles a hybrid between an otter and the Laa-Laa Teletubby. Oh, and he’s currently purple, like Tinky-Winky, but that just indicates he’s happy. The color of his fur is how he emotes—or pretends to. He is, after all, an AI.
“Hi, sweet one,” I say. “Are you hungry?”
“Ravenoush.” He does a dance that is part Teletubby, part Ellen DeGeneres, with a dash of Barney the Dinosaur thrown in.
I extend my gloved hand, and a pair of digital snacks show up on my palm. Here, again, I’v
e made them look like the Tubby Custard and Tubby Toast that the Teletubbies like to eat, but different enough to hopefully never get a cease-and-desist letter.
Euclid goes for the toast, a star-shaped chocolate cookie with a winking face on it. Of course, the shape of the toast, like everything else, is customizable. I like the star (really, a pentagram) because it has a prime number of points—not because I’m a witch or a Satan worshiper… Bugger, there I go again, reminding myself of the person who got me into this state in the first place.
“Tell me shomething intereshting,” Euclid sing-songs after he gobbles down the snack.
“Well, did you know that your namesake proved that the list of prime numbers is infinite?” I ask. “He did it over two thousand years ago, and without internet.”
Euclid’s fur turns yellow, and he giggles. “You can be sho shilly.”
Nodding, I pet his fur. This is what heaven must feel like. This part of the experience is what the gloves were designed for, not feeling the hardness of cocks.
Euclid turns pink. “Letsh play fetch.”
With a classic throw gesture, I make a deep purple stick appear in my hand. As I toss the stick, I can’t help flashing back to the recent penis selection process—my design of this object happens to look eerily like one of the more exotic choices.
Note to self: keep Bella away from this app. I don’t think Euclid’s programming can handle what she’d do with the stick.
After he brings back the stick, we play other games for a while, until I’m certain that I’m feeling much better and ready to sleep.
“I’m going to go take a nap,” I tell Euclid.
His fur turns an array of colors before settling on a light teal. “Shee you later. I wove you.”
“I love you too.” I hug him tight, then take off the headset and gloves.
Now I’m ready.
I grab my sleeping buddy, a plush Transformer that I love not because I’m a fan of that super-violent franchise, but due to his name: Optimus Prime.
Hugging Optimus, I drift into sleep… only to dream of cerulean eyes and evil grins.
Chapter Eight
Half an hour into the dreaded investment meeting, I realize I’m keeping meticulous meeting minutes in my notepad.
That’s crazy. Who documents something they want to fail? My only excuse is that I’ve been trying to avoid looking at the Devil, and focusing on my notepad is a decent enough distraction.
In addition to me and my team, the room is occupied by a man named Dragomir Lamian, Dragomir’s people, and the Chortsky siblings—and it doesn’t take long for all my hopes to be dashed.
Given the looks that pass between Dragomir and Bella, he’s in her pocket already. That is, if I put things delicately. And hey, good for her. The guy is model-hot and clean-shaven… unlike a certain someone who didn’t even bother to make himself presentable for an important meeting.
What’s maddening, though, is that I find the Devil more attractive than this clean-shaven stranger. Grr. What’s wrong with me?
As if sensing my stare, the Wicked One turns my way, and I feel highjacked by his gaze. I can almost picture the voice of David Attenborough speaking down from the heavens: “And thus, the human mating ritual begins. The female of the species starts ovulating as the male—”
No. Must fight it.
I begin counting my eyeblinks the way I did as a kid.
Nope, not distracting enough. I then also count Bella’s—staring into her eyes seems safe enough.
In ten minutes, the counts are 223 (prime) for me and 227 (also prime) for her, so I stop while I’m ahead and surreptitiously check my phone under the table.
Finally, some good news. The folks at NYU Langone are willing to see me at three p.m. I put a reminder in my calendar—though it’s hard to imagine I’ll need it, given how important this is.
So, all isn’t lost yet. If I still have my job when the Devil talks to me after this meeting, I could well succeed in convincing them to expedite the timeline.
“Thank you, everyone,” Dragomir says, and I tune in to see if he’ll deny them money despite being wrapped around Bella’s elegant finger. “And congratulations,” he continues. “The next round of funding is officially approved.”
So much for that hope.
Everyone stands up, but I remain seated and so does the Devil—seems like he hasn’t forgotten about our upcoming chat.
Except Bella isn’t leaving either. Grinning, she walks up to me. “Hey, Holly. We’re going for a walk in the park with our dogs. Would you like to come?”
She’s inviting me to go walk dogs?
Did I hear that right?
“I need to talk to your brother,” I say cautiously and dart him a glance.
He looks like he’s hiding another evil smirk, but I can’t be sure.
“Alex is coming with me.” She looks at him. “Can you and Holly have your talk on our walk?”
“It’s kind of private,” he says. “I was planning on taking care of it first, then joining you.”
She pouts. “Can you do it after?”
He heaves a sigh. “Fine.”
“Great.” She beams at me. “How about you ride with me and Dragomir, and we’ll meet Alex and Beelzebub there.”
Did she just say Beelzebub? Is she in on my private joke?
I don’t have a chance to dwell on it because Bella drags me out of the room by my elbow.
“So,” she says when we’re in the elevator. “Did you use the suit after you got home?”
Reddening, I glance at the Devil, then at Dragomir. “Didn’t get the chance.”
She looks extremely disappointed for a moment, but then her eyes brighten. “Okay, then tell me about your first demo.”
I redden more.
The Devil clears his throat. “No talking shop on dog walks, remember?”
Has the Ruler of Darkness just saved me again? Or is he buttering me up for something even worse—like getting dunked in tar and rubbed in feathers?
Bella’s disappointed expression comes back, times five. “The dogs aren’t even here yet. Can we at least talk about nipple stimulation? I worked very hard to—”
Dragomir puts a hand on Bella’s shoulder. “Squirrelchik, didn’t you have a bunch of questions about Holly’s experience at Cambridge?”
They’re on touching terms? And he has a pet name for her? The chances of that funding failure had been less than nil.
“You’re right.” Bella smiles at me. “You studied computer science, like Alex, right?”
I nod—though I’m not sure if I like being bundled into a category with him, no matter what it is.
She covers the hand that’s still on her shoulder and gives it a little squeeze. “What was the ratio of women to men in your classes?”
Finally on safer grounds, I answer her question, and she shares similar stats from MIT, her alma mater.
She turns to her brother. “How about you? Do you recall how many women took computer science courses at Polytechnic University?”
He runs a hand through his unruly hair, making me want to comb it back, maybe violently. “I don’t know the official stats, but there were definitely too few women.”
I feel conflicted about this. On the one hand, I want more women in my field, but on the other hand, I like the idea of there not being females around him, no matter the environment.
He belongs on a deserted island with me. In handcuffs. There’d be barber utensils there too. And not much clothing—
Blimey. Did I seriously just think all that? I’m clearly off my rocker.
The elevator doors open, and Bella peppers me with more questions about Cambridge as we make our way through the lobby. I reply to her on autopilot, wishing I could fall back and ask the Devil point blank, “Am I keeping the job? Yes or no.”
Alas, as soon as we get outside, he jumps into a nearby cab, and I watch it disappear in traffic with longing.
That is, with relief.
Yeah.
Definitely relief.
“That’s us.” Bella points at a giant car that looks like an RV that’s eaten thirteen limousines.
The door of the strange vehicle opens and a ladder descends. A man wearing a tuxedo jacket with tailcoats appears in the doorway and greets us primly in a British-accented voice, “Please, come inside.”
Oh my golly.
I’m going to die of jealousy.
This is clearly a butler, à la Carson from Downton Abbey. I’d give my right ovary to have one.
“Thanks, Fyodor,” Dragomir says and gestures for us to go first.
A proper gentleman. Good for Bella.
We climb inside, and I look around, dumbfounded.
“Doesn’t it look bigger inside than outside?” Bella whispers conspiratorially. “Like the TARDIS from Doctor Who.”
It is big—huge even—and messy, despite there being a butler on staff.
Okay, I have to withdraw my earlier comparison. Real Carson wouldn’t stand for this. I have to work very hard to restrain myself from turning into a tidying whirlwind.
“Ready to meet the doggies?” Bella asks as Dragomir and Fyodor join us, and before I can formulate a reply, the hounds of hell descend upon us.
Chapter Nine
The shaggy beast who leads the charge is big. We’re talking proportional to the size of this RV kind of big.
It’s basically a pony—a well-fed pony.
Getting on its haunches, it puts its front paws on Dragomir’s shoulders and goes right for his face. I half expect Dragomir to lose his nose at the very least, but the monstrous creature simply slobbers on the poor man.
If this happened to my twin, she’d expire on the spot.
As the beastie does the same to Bella, I examine the second dog—a tiny Chihuahua that instantly makes me crave a burrito.
“Winnie, no,” Bella says sternly as the sasquatch-like canine tries to lick my face.
Winnie? As in, the Pooh?
Wait a sec. I’d assumed this was a dog, but maybe it’s a type of bear? Whatever its species, Winnie doesn’t look happy about this licking restriction but settles for sniffing my crotch. And sniffing. And sniffing for the longest seven seconds in crotch-sniffing history, until eventually Dragomir drags it away, muttering, “Bad girl.”