Hard Code: A Laugh-Out-Loud Workplace Romantic Comedy

by Misha Bell

  I guess Vlad could’ve mentioned me when she came to see him this morning. Or Sunday—he did come over smelling like her.

  I give her my warmest grin. “Nice to meet you, Bella. You look amazing.”

  Her return smile is radiant. “You don’t need to flatter me. I’m already your biggest fan. Your help on—”

  “No business at the table,” Vlad says sternly.

  Business?

  Hold up. What help does she mean? Surely not the testing we—

  “Your brother is so right,” Natasha says, wrinkling her nose. “No reason to talk about your work in polite company.”

  Huh? Is she a prostitute or something?

  Vlad gives his mother a slitted stare. “Bella’s company is the best in its field. They’re about to get a writeup in Cosmopolitan magazine.”

  I blink a few times.

  Her company.

  The Cosmo writeup.

  She owns Belka?

  If so, I was right a moment ago. She was about to compliment me on my help with the testing.

  As in, Vlad told his sister about what we’ve been doing.

  I nearly choke again. The snafu with the pump—he was going to tell the folks at Belka they need to get more generous with sizing.

  That must’ve been a fun thing to tell his sister.

  “Bella shames the family.” Boris’s usually warm demeanor is gone.

  “Bullshit.” Bella glares at her father. “You shame the family, with your drinking and—”

  “Belka, stop it,” Natasha hisses. “We have a guest.”

  Oh, boy. Sucks to be in the middle of a family squabble.

  At least I’ve learned something. Besides meaning “squirrel,” Belka also appears to be the diminutive of Bella.

  “Can we eat now?” Alex asks, and before anyone answers, he removes the cover from the plate nearest him.

  “Good idea.” Vlad does the same to another plate.

  “I’m starving,” I lie and join them in uncovering the food.

  The parents and sister join us more reluctantly. They still look upset. I make a mental note to steer the conversation somewhere safe if I get the chance.

  For now, I examine the food.

  Vlad didn’t lie. It’s less weird than the chef’s choice from the restaurant—not that the bar was set all that high.

  “Is that a Jell-O made out of meat?” I point at the item standing next to Vlad.

  Natasha smiles patronizingly. “That’s holodetz. Try some with gorchitza and hren.”

  “She means mustard and horseradish sauce.” Vlad puts some of the holo-whatever on my plate and garnishes it with the two items. “Try it.”

  I do it gingerly.

  The thing tastes like a really meaty chicken soup but has that jelly texture, which somehow works.

  “Yum,” I tell the expectant Chortskys, and as a reward (or maybe punishment), they begin educating me about the rest of the dishes.

  The main thing I learn: Russians like to pickle things I wouldn’t even dream of pickling, such as watermelon, apples, grapes, and herring.

  Also, there are at least four more shots of vodka and long toasts throughout the lesson. Not wanting to get too drunk, I keep sipping on my one shot glass.

  My favorite dish turns out to be Oliver or something that sounds like it—I mentally call it “the kitchen sink salad.” It has chopped potatoes, meat, carrots, pickles, eggs, green peas, and enough mayo to keep Hellmann’s in business for a month.

  “She doesn’t want caviar,” Vlad says when his father tries to put a crêpe and some black stuff on my plate.

  I smile sheepishly. “I only dislike snail eggs and cricket flour blinis. If this is buckwheat and sturgeon roe, I’ll try some.”

  Boris laughs. “I can’t believe they made my joke suggestion at that restaurant.”

  “It was pretty good, actually,” Vlad says with a grin.

  I try the famous delicacy and enjoy it.

  “That’s nothing as exotic as what we had in Ecuador.” Natasha looks at Vlad challengingly. “Did I tell you about cuy asado?”

  “Fanny won’t like that story,” Vlad says sternly. Touching my hand, he explains, “Cuy asado is grilled guinea pig. Mother likes to tell that story because she doesn’t like Oracle.”

  What? That’s horrible. Monkey shall never hear of this dish—she already acts like I might eat her.

  Natasha wrinkles her nose. “A rat is a rat.”

  Wow. So many minefields with this family.

  Deciding to save the day, I ask, “Can you tell me some Vovochka jokes?”

  The parents exchange an approving glance. It must look like I’m more versed in the Russian culture than I actually am.

  “I’ll start.” Boris puts down his shish kebab. “In biology class, the teacher draws a cucumber on the blackboard and asks, ‘Can someone tell me what this is?’ Vovochka raises his hand. ‘It’s a cock.’ The teacher storms off. The principal rushes into the classroom. ‘Who upset the teacher, and more importantly, who the hell drew that cock on the blackboard?’”

  Chuckles all around.

  “I know one too,” Natasha says. “The teacher says, ‘Vovochka, I hope I don’t catch you cheating off your neighbor on the next test. ‘I hope so too,’ Vovochka replies.”

  More chuckles.

  “My turn,” Bella says. “Vovochka says to his Mom, ‘Where do babies comes from?’ Without hesitation, she says, ‘The stork brings them.’ ‘I know it’s the stork,’ Vovochka replies. ‘But who fucks the stork?’”

  Even though his joke was also dirty, Boris gives Bella a disapproving glare.

  “Can I go?” Alex asks, and before anyone replies, he says, “Vovochka puts on rubber boots. ‘Vovochka, there’s no dirt outside,’ his mom says. ‘Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll find it,’ Vovochka replies.’”

  Again chuckles.

  “That one sounds just like Vlad when he was little,” Natasha says to me conspiratorially.

  “That’s true,” Bella says with a grin.

  Vlad elbows his brother. “This one wasn’t much better.”

  “We should have another drink before the show starts,” Boris says and pours everyone another round.

  The show? Is that what the stage is for?

  Everyone downs their vodka. Upon seeing how easily Bella does it, I knock back a full shot glass.

  It must be the function of the buzz I have going already, but the vodka doesn’t burn as badly going down as it did before.

  The lights dim.

  What I presume to be Russian music begins to play, though to me it sounds a lot like K-Pop.

  A bunch of scantily clad girls run out onto the stage. They’re wearing masks from that pre-orgy scene in Eyes Wide Shut, but their dancing reminds me more of The Rockettes.

  After they raise their legs for the umpteenth time, the masked dancers depart, and the music changes to that of Swan Lake.

  A ballerina steps onto the stage.

  At least, she’s a ballerina on the bottom. On the top, she’s wearing horrible makeup that makes her look like a witch—with wrinkles on her forehead so large they’re sprouting their own wrinkles.

  Must be a Baba Yaga impersonation. Didn’t know the old witch was a dancer.

  The one on stage sure is. She performs some truly acrobatic ballet moves—that is, until the pudgy singer from earlier rushes onto the stage, dressed like a child.

  Yep.

  That’s Baba Yaga, for sure. Why else would she pantomime eating the dude?

  When she’s done pretending to eat him, the bearded child grabs the mic, and the music changes again.

  “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard,” he sings with a thick Russian accent.

  The Rockettes ladies rush back, also wearing Baba Yaga makeup. Each of them holds a toy that reminds me of the killer Chucky doll—and these dolls are missing random limbs.

  Did the Baba Yagas get peckish off stage?

  Instead of kicking up their le
gs like before, the Rockettes/Baba Yagas launch into the famous Russian Cossack dance—the one with lots of squats and leg thrusts.

  For elderly witches, they’re incredibly athletic.

  From here, the show gets even weirder. There are Cirque du Soleil-style acrobats dressed like Teletubbies, jugglers pretending to be bears, a clown straight out of Stephen King’s worst nightmares, and a Baba Yaga on a unicycle for the finale.

  When it’s done, everyone begins to clap, and I join in.

  “Ladies and Germs,” the singer dude says after the ovation, sweat beading on his brow. “I want to see you on the dance floor.” And just like that, he starts butchering Madonna’s Like a Virgin.

  “What did you think of the show?” Natasha asks me, beaming with pride.

  Did she choreograph it? “It was… very interesting.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” she says. “We had to simplify it for the American audience.”

  Simplify? The original must’ve been the equivalent of an LSD overdose.

  “Ask the lady to dance.” Bella gives Vlad an exasperated glare. “You’re making the family look bad.”

  “Yeah, bro,” Alex says. “Dance.”

  Smiling with his eyes, Vlad stands up and extends a hand to me, Prince Charming style. “May I have this dance?”

  I leap to my feet before my brain can even think about vetoing this questionable idea.

  With a knowing smirk, Bella rushes to the stage and yells something to the singer dude in Russian.

  He nods.

  The music changes once more to a slower song I don’t recognize.

  Vlad takes my hands like a professional ballroom dancer.

  Heat spreads through my whole body from his touch—as though I have vodka for blood.

  He pulls me closer.

  I swallow my heart back into my chest.

  We start to slowly sway to the music.

  Can you have a heart attack from being too turned on?

  “Bésame,” the pudgy dude sings, and for the first time, I feel like he’s in his element. “Bésame mucho.”

  Why, oh why, did I ever learn Spanish? That’s “kiss me a lot”—which is exactly what I want Vlad to do to me.

  Around us, some of the 1000 Devils’ staff get the same idea. People are making out left and right. Hopefully, they’re each other’s significant others, and not, like in our case, bosses and their subordinates once removed.

  Vlad leans down.

  I shouldn’t kiss him.

  But I really want to.

  But I mustn’t.

  He locks eyes with me.

  Not fair. It’s harder to control myself when looking into those hypnotic blue depths.

  And what if he kisses me?

  I think he might. And if he does, I won’t be able to resist. I’m only human.

  He pulls me even closer, and our lower bodies touch.

  Holy phallic symbols.

  Is that the proverbial flashlight in his pocket, or is Dracula very happy to see me?

  I should step back, but I can’t.

  My legs refuse to move away—not even when Vlad slowly lowers his head, as if his mouth is drawn to mine by a puppeteer’s string.

  Got to do something. Now.

  “We should test today,” I blurt, stopping him an inch from my lips.

  Eyes gleaming, he lifts his head. “Should we?”

  “At your place.” Wait, what? How is that better than kissing? This is clearly the hormones and the vodka talking.

  His nostrils flare. “Now?”

  “It is a school night.” School night? Did that pop into my head because this is so much like the fantasy of a prom I never had?

  “Let’s go.” He guides me through the slow-dancing throngs of software engineers.

  Before I can blink, we’re in the limo again.

  “What about your family?” I say as Ivan floors the gas pedal.

  Vlad takes out his phone and sends a few rapid-fire texts.

  A bunch of replies arrive immediately.

  He rolls his eyes. “To sum up, everyone liked you. A lot.”

  Why do I have the feeling the actual texts mentioned unborn grandchildren or worse?

  “Good to know.” The words come out too breathless for my liking.

  “First things first.” He reaches into a drawer on the side and takes out something resembling an asthma inhaler. Changing the mouth piece, he thrusts the gizmo in my face. “Blow.”

  My cheeks burn. Apparently, they pictured my lips around Dracula’s shaft, not this device.

  “What is that?” I ask, though I can guess.

  “A breathalyzer. I want to make sure you’re not intoxicated.”

  Huh, okay. Shrugging, I blow into the thing. I took a drug test before I started working for Binary Birch; this is not that different, I guess.

  He frowns. “Point-zero-five percent. I think we’re going to take you home.”

  Is he calling me a lightweight? I lift my chin. “Below eight is safe to drive in NYC.”

  His frown deepens. “Do you have a car?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Don’t even think about driving in this condition.”

  If the idea was to ruin my buzz, he’s definitely succeeding. “Why do you have a breathalyzer here?”

  He nods at the driver’s section. “I do random checks, especially around the holidays. Russians make fun of drink-and-drive regulations. Ivan isn’t allowed to have any alcohol when on duty.”

  Suddenly feeling mischievous, I lick my lips as seductively as I can. “You sure you want to take me home? The testing is oh-so important.”

  His jaw flexes. “Fine. Let’s go to my place. I better keep an eye on you.”

  Wow.

  His place.

  This is really happening.

  I sober up some more. Suddenly feeling shy, I voice something that bothered me in the restaurant. “Do you not get along with your parents?”

  He shakes his head. “When I visit them one-on-one or with Alex, we get along just fine. I just don’t like bigger gatherings because of how they treat Bella. She’s a great sister and an amazing daughter—not to mention, an MIT grad—but they don’t appreciate her.”

  I frown. “Because of her sex toy company?”

  “No. It started much earlier. Bella was a tomboy as a kid, which our mother hated. In general, Bella has always been a free spirit, and I guess my folks didn’t like it that she didn’t fit the mold they had in mind for her. They always think the worst of her. Like they claim she does drugs—but she doesn’t. They think she’s promiscuous—but she isn’t. It’s infuriating.”

  “That sucks.” I cover his hand with mine. “I know about not meeting parents’ expectations. And the funny thing is, I think mine would love to swap me for Bella.”

  His expression warms. “Well, at least mine love you.”

  “Because they think I’m a prude goodie two shoes?” The question comes out more bitter than I hoped.

  He leans in, the corners of his mouth tilting up. “If only they knew what you wanted to do at my place.”

  Even my blush blushes. “Too bad that’s cancelled.”

  He pockets the breathalyzer. “Maybe not. Depends on your liver function.”

  Oh?

  The car stops, and before I can respond, he opens the door for me.

  His building is modern and pricey-looking. He waves at the security guy as he leads me to the elevator and presses the button for the penthouse.

  Is this really happening?

  I will my body to detox the alcohol as fast as it can.

  The elevator opens into a large hallway.

  Vlad holds the doors for me. “Welcome to my home.”

  I stumble out of the elevator.

  This is surreal.

  I’ve willingly come to the Impaler’s lair.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Kitchen is through this corridor.” He leads the way.

  As we walk, I gawk at
everything.

  The place is huge, especially for New York. The décor reminds me of our office—cold, modern, spotless. But unlike at work, there are human touches here as well. Specifically, posters of The Matrix movie franchise. And I mean a lot of posters. In multiple languages. Of every character. There are even posters tangentially related to it, like the one that states, “In Soviet Russia, Bullet Dodges You.”

  We enter the kitchen.

  “Sit.” He presses a button on an espresso machine. “Milk, sugar?”

  “Just black is fine.” I plop on a chrome barstool. “So, let me guess. The Matrix is your favorite movie.”

  He cocks his head. “What gave me away? Was it the trench coat?”

  I want to smack myself on the forehead. He loves that movie so much he even dresses like the characters.

  How did I not pick up on that?

  I grin. “Oracle. That’s also a reference, isn’t it?”

  He pours two cups of coffee and puts one in front of me. “Tell me you like the first Matrix.”

  “I don’t like it.” I blow on my coffee. “I love it. I’ve been Trinity for every Halloween since I’ve seen it.”

  He gives me such an admiring look that, for the first time ever, I wonder if this could actually work between us.

  Whatever this is.

  We love the same movie.

  We’re into coding.

  I find him attractive, and he clearly doesn’t think me hideous.

  If only I’d met him outside of work.

  “Every programmer likes The Matrix, at least a little,” he says. “How can we not? The hero is one of us.”

  I take a big sip. The coffee is good, smooth and only moderately bitter. “How psyched are you about the fourth one?”

  He grins. “Since they confirmed its existence a few months back, I’ve been counting down the days.”

  Hmm. I wonder if he’d take me to the premiere.

  “What’s your favorite scene?” I ask.

  He tells me, and I share what mine were. Then we talk about other movies we like, and here, too, our likes and dislikes fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

  “Can I see Oracle’s room?” I ask when the coffee is gone.

  With a wide grin, he leads me there.

  It’s as big as it seemed on the screen. There are millions of people in NYC who have less square footage than this lucky pig.