Santa's Pet

by Rachelle Ayala

  Please, please, please let the build be broken.

  I swipe through screen after screen, sliding the bar to the end. Build completed without errors. Starting upload.

  Dammit!

  I cradle my head in my hands. I’ve screwed up. There’s no way Sammie could have put in the code to require customized share permissions for each purchase. That would require costly database fetches, a few table joins, and would slow the system down to a crawl.

  Besides, we don’t do these things without a thorough design review.

  I punch in her phone number. I don’t care if it’s Sunday morning and she’s at church or out for a run. I have helmet-head shark-lady outside breathing down my neck.

  “Hello? Britt?” Sammie’s voice is slurred.

  “What happened last night? Did the build complete and upload? Is Monkey-See live at the client site?”

  “Wait, wait, too many questions.”

  “Who’s that?” a male voice growls in the background. Either I just cock blocked him, or he hasn’t had his coffee.

  “My cousin Brittney, could you, uh, you know …” Sammie’s voice is muffled.

  Oh, wonderful. They’re probably in the middle of something. But this is an emergency, so I’m not hanging up.

  “Listen, Sam, this is important. Marlena Morley’s demanding answers. You should keep me updated.”

  “I sent you an email. Didn’t you read it?”

  “No. Give me the details.”

  “Ummm …” she moans and more muffled voices come from the background.

  Is he going down on her while she’s on the phone with me?

  “Sammie? You still there?” I hate picturing her lying naked with a man’s head bobbing between her legs. “Tell me. Is the build live or not?”

  “Ahhh … it’s live, oh, sorry. I’m kind of pre … ohhh … cue pied …”

  “Shit, Sammie. Get off the bed and fix it.”

  “You mean take it down?” Her voice sharpens suddenly. “But I got the per purchase check in there.”

  “How’d you get it to scale? Wouldn’t you require combing through the database tables for each follower and looking to see whether a purchase was allowed to be shared?”

  “Uhm … ohh … stop it!” Sammie muttered. “Much easier than you think.”

  “Really?”

  “I do the check at point of purchase. If the customer didn’t allow it to be shared, I never entered it into the sharing queue. Simple, really.” Her bright girl voice is back. “Now, can I go?”

  “Sure, go back to your activity.” I hang up and slap my forehead. I should have thought of that easy fix.

  Then why is Marlena Morley breathing down my neck?

  I go through my emails first. There are status updates from Sammie and the build engineer, Lester, letting me know the fix was completed and how everything checked out. Holly sent the automated test report. All systems were “go.”

  The timestamp was four in the morning, so they had stayed on.

  Who’s the guy in her bed? Lester? None of my business.

  There are a few emails from other people I know, but they’ll have to wait. I still don’t know why Marlena Morley’s outside waiting, so I play back my voice mails.

  Message 1: Britt, it’s Jen. Where are you? Have we plugged the security breach on Monkey-See?

  Message 2: Jen again. The actress’s lawyer contacted us. Have we deleted all of her purchase history from our servers?

  Message 3: Where are you? It’s not a matter of fixing the permissions. There’s a security hole where data’s being leaked. Call me at home. I don’t care what time. [message from Jen]

  Message 4: I’ve pulled the code. It’s five in the morning. The new VP of Marketing is on her way to find you. [message from Jen]

  Message 5: I called your parents and they say you’re at the hospital waiting on Grandpa Powers. I’ll talk to you later. Hope he’s okay. [message from Jen]

  Message 6: Hi, Brittney, this is Owen. What’s going on? Have you seen social media? You’re plastered all over Ben Powers. Didn’t I tell you to stay away from him? Call me right away.

  Message 7: Honey, what’s going on? Is everything okay? Dad and I are worried about you. How’s Grandpa Powers? [message from Mom]

  Message 8: I’m coming to the hospital to get you if you don’t call. Mom and Dad are upset. Why aren’t you answering? [message from Lacy]

  Message 9: Hey, it’s Ben. Look, I thought we had an understanding. Why are you letting my brother make me look like a douche?

  What the heck? I blink at the phone. The voice mail prompts repeat, “to delete press seven, to save it in the archive …” blah, blah. I hit the replay.

  What is Ben talking about? Which brother? Nash or one of the older ones?

  Shaking my head, I save it and go to the next message.

  Message 10: Owen again. Ben’s lawyers have called a press conference charging you with sexual harassment. As your lawyer, I’m ordering you to have no further contact with him. Do not answer any questions or talk about this case.

  I hit redial and return Ben’s call. He picks up on the first ring and I launch into him.

  “What the hell? I thought you called off your lawyer. What’s wrong with you? Accusing me of sexual harassment. Did you kiss me to make me look guilty? Telling everyone I initiated it?”

  There’s silence on the line.

  “Ben? You still there?” My heart is busting out of my ribcage.

  “Yeah, I’m here. Let’s get one thing straight. I kissed you because I wanted to. We did have an understanding, but calling in my brother to have a benefit concert where you’re the poster child as the victim of slut-shaming is a slap in my face.”

  “What concert? Are you talking about Nash?”

  “Yes, Nash Powers, the self-styled second coming of Brad Paisley. Seems like you two are pen pals.” Ben’s voice is laced with acid.

  Wow. What got up his boxers?

  “Where’d you hear this? I have a few emails from him, but I haven’t opened them thanks to everything going on.”

  “Good. Don’t tell him about Grandpa.”

  “You haven’t told your family?” I wipe my hand over my forehead. “Why?”

  “He’ll barge into that hospital acting like he owns the place and give Grandpa a bigger heart attack.”

  “Oh, okay, sure. I won’t say anything, but what’s this about a benefit concert?”

  “Your grandparents told me he’s setting one up at the tree farm. All proceeds go to your legal fund and he’s going on a campaign against slut-shaming.”

  “Awww … That’s nice of him to do this for me.” I wake my tablet and scroll to my email. “Do you have a problem with me being friends with Nash?”

  “How come I didn’t know about it?”

  “Why would you know? You never gave me a passing thought all these years.” Now my voice is dripping with vinegar. “Nash has a good heart.”

  “He’s a womanizer. Look, I know him, and if you were my sister, I wouldn’t want him within fifty miles of you.”

  “Then I’m glad I’m not your sister. Is there a point to this conversation? Because I have a very angry gray-suited woman outside demanding answers about the Monkey-See project.”

  “She the one who fingered us to the cops?”

  “The same. She’s the new VP of marketing at Shopahol. Looks like Brandon quit on Friday. So you see? I’ve a very busy day putting out fires.”

  “Sure. May I see you this evening? Dinner?”

  How dare he ask me out when his lawyer is countersuing me for sexual harassment? I don’t know what I was thinking earlier about playing him and showing off to Lacy. The sad fact is, he has everything to gain with kissing me and nothing to lose. He’s a football hero. The guys want to be him. The women want to bed him. The verdict in the court of public opinion has already exonerated him. I’m the guilty one, and if he loses his draft position, everyone would say I was the slut who brought down the leag
ue’s leading linebacker.

  “You there, Brittney? Dinner?”

  “I can’t. Your hounds of hell are still after me. Now that you point it out, I have legal bills to the wazoo. I can’t ask my parents to pay.”

  “I’ll pay.”

  “You’re a poor student.”

  “Not so poor. I’ll get an advance from Dominique against future marketing income.”

  “Your agent? Is that how she’s paying for your lawyer? What happens if you don’t get drafted? What happens then?”

  I don’t hear a response other than heavy breathing. Guess he’s now worried.

  “Well, Ben? What then?”

  “I have to get a job and pay her back.” His voice is subdued. “Let me call her and fire her sister. I don’t need a lawyer to mess things up for me. I’ll go in front of the judge and face the music.”

  “Sure, do whatever you want. I have to go.”

  “Okay, hope everything works out for you. Have a nice life.” He says goodbye and hangs up.

  That. Sounded. So. Final.

  ~ Ben ~

  After showering and shaving, Ben dressed in business casual, a pressed shirt and a pair of slacks, and pulled on a pair of cowboy boots. He had a meeting with Dominique at an upscale restaurant in Pacifica overlooking the ocean. The booths were situated in a wide arc so that a table for two guests could sit almost side by side and both face the ocean.

  Rough winter waves, rugged sandstone cliffs and the smooth sandy beach below made it a romantic spot, especially in the evening for the sunset. A place for wooing a lady love. Definitely not the sports agent who held his career in her manicured hands.

  Dominique took the seat at a booth in the back corner. Plexiglas extended from the back of the booth to the ceiling, shielding other occupants from overhearing their conversation.

  She waved to him to sit at her right side as the maître d’ handed her a brunch menu. Another server poured champagne into two tall flutes. Ben averted his eyes at the label on the bottle. She was paying, but she wouldn’t like what he had to tell her.

  Dominique took a sip of champagne and ordered the raw oyster appetizer. After meaningless small talk, she ordered eggs benedict, a croissant and salad, and Ben ordered the lumberjack special: biscuits and gravy, pancake, home fried potatoes, chicken apple sausage and scrambled eggs along with a large mug of black coffee.

  After allowing a starving Ben, who’d forgotten to eat dinner the night before, to scarf up half his plate, Dominique tapped her elegant hot pink nail extensions on the table and said, “I have so much to say to you, but since you called this meeting, I’ll let you fire the first shot.”

  Smart woman. Of course. She wanted to be prepared. He was, after all, a potential income stream for her.

  Ben wiped his mouth with a napkin and stretched back in the booth, turning his gaze to the misty ocean where the fog was burning off the sand.

  “I want Delaine to take on Brittney’s defense.”

  Whatever she’d expected, it wasn’t this. Her normally impeccable mouth dropped wide open and she slapped the champagne flute onto the table. However, she was much too classy to raise her voice.

  Regaining her composure, she straightened the cuffs of her blouse and said, “I’ll chalk this up to inexperience or temporary insanity. Need I remind you, you have an indecent exposure charge?”

  “That’s why I want Miss Reed and I to work together on our defense. As I understand it, if there is no intention to arouse or offend, the state has no case.”

  “My sister isn’t here to give legal advice, but I’m here as your agent to tell you this is insane. It’ll lower you to her level in the gutter.”

  “That’s where I want to be. If she’s in the gutter, I’m in with her. Otherwise, we both better come up with a better defense. The facts. Brittney and I were helping each other and the witness overreacted. Why don’t we concentrate on discrediting the witness?”

  “Because there are videos to back up her claims.”

  “Taken out of context. I’m sure any sane judge can understand a wardrobe malfunction. It happens to the best entertainers. It’s the intent that matters.”

  Dominique regarded him as if he were a lunatic. The darkness in her eyes hardened to a stony stare and her face was stiff. “I’ve invested too many hours in you to allow you to throw away your career. I deliberately ignored your message last night about turning yourself into the police. I also refused to comment on the photos and videos of you and Miss Reed grappling and ripping each other’s tongues out. Let me warn you. If this tactic doesn’t work, you can find yourself another agent. The only reason public opinion is on your side is because they think Miss Reed is at fault.”

  “You and I and your sister know very well she’s not.” Ben turned a hard face toward her. No smiles. No blinks. No nonsense.

  “It’s the best tactic.”

  “It’s wrong. You told me once, Miss DeMarie, that you wouldn’t be my agent if I didn’t respect women. Pinning the blame for whatever happened at the Christmas tree farm on Miss Reed is being disrespectful. If your sister is a good defense lawyer, she should be able to get both of us off. Otherwise, I don’t need a lawyer. I’ll take my chances with the judge at the hearing.”

  Dominique blinked once, then she took a slow sip of her champagne. She held the flute and watched the bubbles rise. “Very well. We do it your way. I’ll set up a meeting with you, Miss Reed, and my sister.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But—” She pointed a long, slender finger at him. “If you want this to work, you need to stay away from Miss Reed, other than in the presence of me or your lawyer. No more kissy-face. Nothing. Otherwise, we’re back to smearing her.”

  “What about if I run into her in public?”

  “Cross the street.” Dominique pursed her lips. “There are plenty of attractive women in the world, and there’ll be a lot more once you sign a pro contract. If you’re lonely in the evenings, use the TrophyShots Hookup App.”

  “I’m not going to agree with this.” Ben turned his body so both shoulders squared with hers. “Here are my terms. I get to converse or fraternize with Brittney Reed as much as both she and I desire. Your sister is to present a joint defense regardless, or I find another agent. Like you said, there are plenty of agents willing to take a bad boy like me.”

  Dominique emptied her champagne and waved for the bill. Her cheeks flushed under her caramel complexion, and she whipped her braids over her shoulder as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Excuse me while I use the ladies’ room.” She rose from the booth and left Ben with the tab.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ~ Brittney ~

  So much for Benny Boy. That kiss didn’t mean anything anyway. Besides, now that Nash is coming to town with his dreamy eyes and twangy guitar, I get to flaunt him in front of Lacy. He was the only Powers boy that summer who didn’t follow Lacy around like a foxhound on a vixen trail. Of course, having his leg in a cast might have had something to do with it. I smile when I read Nash’s concerned emails. Nash has always been more sensitive due to his artistic nature. No one else knows this side of him because he keeps it under wraps, but he writes poetry.

  I dash an email to him, telling him how pleased I am that he’s looking out for my name and reputation. I’ve never seen a public figure or male celebrity stand up against slut-shaming. But as a singer-songwriter, he’s more in touch with feelings and emotions than the big brutes who play sports—especially that two hundred plus pound behemoth named Bamm-Bamm. Ugh. What a caveman.

  My belly gives a low, syrupy quiver at the memory of said caveman’s lips and tongue, and the way his strong, sturdy hands had touched me, so gentle and tender. Except that’s just my hormones talking. Yes, I’m a red-blooded female. So, sue me if I get hot for big, hulking alpha males. But I’m also civilized and I have a business to run.

  I plug my phone into the charger and go off to look for Marlena Morley. The fact that she came
from my biggest competitor, TrophyShots, has me suspicious. That company’s run by Mitch Slack, a guy with shady connections. His apps run inside a browser and spies on user’s browsing habits—a gaping window for security holes.

  I can’t believe Dave and Jen would hire Marlena, but then again, everyone hired everyone else from their competitors. Just because she used to work for Mitch doesn’t mean she’s feeding him trade secrets. Yet, one can never be too careful.

  I find Marlena in the break room cleaning out the dispersion screen on our espresso maker. She turns and wipes the ground coffee bits from her hands. “Does anyone clean up after themselves around here?”

  “Uh, well, you know how engineers are.”

  She crushes the paper towel and pitches it in the trash. “I’ve heard a lot about you and frankly, I’m disappointed.”

  “Before you diverge to the personal attacks, I’m here to tell you the code has been pulled. No one’s purchases are being shared to their friends and followers.” I cross my arms and nod toward the door. “Satisfied? I’ll see you out.”

  She doesn’t budge an inch—not that I expect her to. Her eyes narrow and her lips tighten. She glares at me and I return her stare with my own piercing one.

  The standoff continues until she finally huffs, flaring her nostrils. “The Jewells hired me to watch over their investment. Shopahol invested in your company, but that doesn’t make you a subsidiary. You signed intellectual property agreements and the fact is, everything you are working on right now belongs to Shopahol. You integrated with our platform. You added code to our source tree. You use our build system, and you’re an insider in our strategy meetings.”

  “I’m aware of that. What’s the point of this conversation?”

  “ScrapCloud has no independent valuation outside of Shopahol. You’re too arrogant to take the generous buyout the Jewells have been offering you. I’m here to teach you a lesson.”

  “You?” I roll my eyes and shake my head. “You worked for those TrophyShot dweebs. What do you know?”

  “I’ve been around a few more business cycles than you. The market’s due for a correction, and the IPO window’s closing fast. ScrapCloud’s not ready—at least not with you at the helm.”