by Penny Wylder
When I leave that morning, Zayne walks me downstairs. “Back on the clock?” I ask him in the elevator. I already know this was one of his rare weekends off.
He nods. “Going to have to work a double today to make up for skiving on Sunday.”
My cheeks flush. He skipped because I asked him to. Not that he complained too much. But as I realize now what it’s going to cost him, it makes me feel guilty. Schedules here are crazy. I can’t believe how little time off he gets, either. Someone should really complain to the management company about that, I think as we step into the elevator. I make a mental note to do that later.
“Sorry again that you’ll have to make up time.”
“Please.” He scoffs, and stops me before we reach the main lobby, and any other prying eyes. “Clove. I cannot explain to you in words how worth it it was to skip that day.” His eyes bore into mine, and I let myself sink into them. I close my eyes as he leans in to kiss me softly. “I would skip Sunday again and again. I’d work every double from now until Christmas if it meant I could spend more time with you in between.”
My cheeks flush, a not unpleasant sensation. I lean up to kiss him again, and savor the way our lips meld together, so naturally. “Well. Next time I’ll make sure to work around your schedule instead, how’s that?”
“Deal.” He laughs softly before kissing me once more. Then we lock hands, and head for the main lobby.
We pass Paul downstairs, already in uniform. He eyes Zayne, clearly wondering why Zayne isn't dressed for work yet or ready to take over the desk when he should be starting in just ten minutes.
"Be back down in a jiff, Paul," Zayne calls as we step outside our building.
Then, on the corner of the street, still in full sight of Paul and anyone else we live with who might be passing by, he kisses me full on the lips. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him back hard, savoring it. Savoring the way he makes me feel.
When I climb onto the subway train toward work, it does not feel like a Monday. There's no slog in my steps, no despair about going back to work again. I'm just... happy.
It's a strange feeling.
I reach the office with plenty of time to spare before my first meeting. I wave cheerily to Sara at the front desk as I stride past her to the coffee room.
She frowns and watches me from the corner of her eye. But I get it. It's still Monday for most people. For anyone who hasn't discovered a secret hottie living undercover in uniform in their own building, whose cock is huge and thick enough to make them see sparks when they come...
I shake my head to clear out the cobwebs, and pour myself a cup of coffee. Beth and John are leaning against the water cooler chatting, but they fall silent the moment I step into the room.
"Hey guys." I smile at them, and after a beat, they smile back. But it's strained, forced.
What's with everyone this morning?
Ignoring the strange stares, I fill my coffee mug and head back to my desk. This time, though, the whole office feels like it's tracking me. I catch Becky from accounting making eye contact and spinning around almost immediately, a faint snicker escaping her. Carl from IT winks at me and pats his chest appreciatively. I scowl back at him. Gross. And also, what the hell has gotten into everyone?
I spot that new girl again, Hannah. She has her arms crossed and her chin lifted. She’s glaring at me too, judgmental, just like all of them. What the hell?
Even my boss is frowning when I walk past her, eyes darting to me and away again quickly as though they were rocks skipping across the surface of a particularly distasteful pond. I swallow hard. What now?
I thought I was catching up on all of the deadlines we talked about on Friday. And I know that we had a pretty rough day, but it's not like we haven't had those before...
I shake my head as I return to my seat. I'm probably just imagining things. Blowing this out of proportion.
I take a seat at my desk, and almost immediately, a new chat window pops up. "Girl" is all the message says. It's from Andy Slate, my best gay at work.
Clove: What?
Andy: How did this happen?? Did your phone get stolen by bikers or something? Tell me it's Photoshop.
I steal a peek over the top of my monitor at Andy's side of the office. He sits on the far side, at least fifteen desks away from mine. But I'm still close enough to make out his signature WTF face which he's wearing at full tilt right now, directed straight at me.
Clove: What the H are you talking about?
Swearing, alas, raises flags on our company servers. Otherwise, I'd already be cursing up a storm to threaten him into telling me what's going on.
Andy: ... Shit. You haven't seen it.
Clove: You know I hate suspense almost as much as I hate surprises, Andy. Out with it.
Andy: It's not exactly SFW, if you know what I mean.
Clove: I own a phone, dude.
Next thing I know, said phone buzzes with a text. There's no explanation, only a link from him. I click on it and hold my breath. I don't know what I'm expecting. Nuclear apocalypse news? A letter from my boss explaining that we're all being let go? I don't know, but somehow, what I find is simultaneously worse and more personal all at once.
The page finishes loading, and it takes me a moment to comprehend what I'm staring at.
Tits, obviously.
But not just any tits. Familiar tits.
A pair of breasts I see in the mirror every single day. Not to mention the face attached, fully visible, because oh my god what was I thinking when I took that photo, I didn't even crop it, didn't even think that someone might be able to get a hold of it.
It's me.
Naked.
In front of, I can only assume, my entire office.
Underneath the photo, much to my chagrin, there's a caption. And below that, a few hundred comments. The caption is short, sweet and to-the-point.
Slut for hire, it reads. Willing to do whatever you ask, as long as it's dirty as hell.
The comments are even worse. I only make it through the first few.
Fuck yeah, I'd fuck up that filthy slut.
$100 says she's the cheapest whore in town.
Now there's a cum-slut if ever I've seen one.
My stomach churns. I'm going to be sick. Sure, it's fun and a little hot when Zayne gets all possessive and calls me his little slut. But that's in private, behind closed doors, where we can have fun without anyone seeing or judging us. This?
This is something else entirely. I shut the window, unable to look at it anymore. Andy saw this. How many other people?
I grab my keyboard so fast it screeches against the desk, a horrible plastic on plastic sound.
Clove: Where did you get that? Who sent it to you?
Andy: It circulated through the whole office this morning. First there was a spam email, then another message online.
Before I can ask for more details about the second message, though, I feel a light tap on my shoulder. I suck in a deep breath and look up to find my boss, Stacy, standing beside me, arms crossed, a subtle frown on her face.
"Can we speak privately, Clove?"
My heart sinks down through my throat, a slow progression toward my stomach. My boss never asks to speak in private. Not unless it's something extreme, like our annual reviews or the conversation we had a couple of months ago about my annual bonus this year, assuming I do all my work well and exceed expectations in the workplace.
Somehow, I have a feeling I won't be getting that bonus. Not after this.
I rise on unsteady feet and follow her into her office, my hands quivering at my sides. This isn't my fault, I remind myself. Lots of people take semi-nude selfies. It's not my fault it fell into the wrong hands, wound up somewhere it shouldn't.
Someone must have hacked my phone, or maybe my iCloud account, where I store all of my pictures automatically. They must have seen this and sent it around the office because....
Well, I can't quite figure out why yet. But that
doesn't matter. Not right now. What matters is surviving this meeting with my job in tact.
My boss closes the door behind her gently, and I stand in front of it, chest heaving. She takes a seat at her desk. Normally, when we meet in private, this is when she'd gesture at the chair across from her and ask me to have a seat too, so we can speak on the same level, eye-to-eye as colleagues.
She doesn't invite me to sit down now. Instead, she steeples her fingers under her chin and rests them against her lips, eyes piercing through mine. For a long, tense moment, silence reigns.
Then, she sighs.
"Clove, this is a family business. It's been run by the same family for the last 150 years, and much of the content we produce is kid-friendly, books meant to enhance families' knowledge and lives. We pride ourselves on our core values. Our dedication to safe learning environments and to getting the job done. Normally, you do just that. But this...." She drops her gaze to her desk. Her eyes flicker to her computer screen, and I wonder if she still has the website open. If she's staring at the photo of my half-naked body right now. My cheeks light up bright red with shame and fear. "Clove, what were you thinking, posing for this photo?"
My cheeks continue to burn, but in my defense, I raise my chin a little higher. "With all due respect, Stacy, this was a private photograph. It was never meant for public consumption, so I didn't think—"
"No, you most certainly did not think." She heaves a sigh. It sounds regretful. Almost as if she hates to do this. Yet here she is, doing it anyway. "Clove, this picture has been circulating across our company's social media pages. Someone with the password to our accounts has been posting it with all sorts of awful captions..."
"It's not what it looks like."
"Nevertheless, all the public can see is the external view. And right now, to our customers, it looks like one of our employees has begun using our site as her own personal advertising service to try to recruit... well… to try and start a side venture of her own, shall we say."
My mouth falls open at that last line. I'm still thinking about the caption on the photo, all the nasty comments people left beneath it. "I did not... I would never..."
"I know that, Clove." Stacy finally reaches across the desk to offer a hand. I give her mine, and she squeezes my fingers gently. Then she releases me with a regretful sigh and leans back in her chair. "But there's only so much we can do right now, as a company."
"Can't we find out who's doing this? Fight them?"
"I have IT tracking possible perpetrators at the moment, but there's only so much they can do. Whoever did this used a VPN and external routers, bounced their signal all over the place to scramble the trail. It's unlikely we'll be able to definitively pin it on anyone. In the meantime, we need to be able to tell our shareholders that we're doing something to deflect this."
My brow furrows in response to her continued frown. I don't like the way this sounds. "What does that mean exactly...?" I ask slowly, afraid of the answer. Afraid of the way she's already looking at me with pity in her eyes.
"I'm going to have to ask you to stay out of the office for the time being."
I can feel myself surging to my feet. My face was already flushed from embarrassment, shock, horror. Now it goes redder with anger. "I'm being suspended?"
"Not suspended. We're just asking you to use a few of your vacation days right now."
"That's insane. Ridiculous. I'm being victimized and I get punished for it?"
"You know what the internet is like, Clove. You know how often things like this get leaked. Why would you put pictures like this out there in the world, knowing how easily they could be leaked? Why would you sign yourself up for this risk?"
"I didn't—"
"You have to take responsibility for your actions." My boss's expression closes off. Shifts from pity to pursed-lip disdain. "I'm sorry that it has to come to this, I truly am. But we cannot allow such actions to go unchecked. As soon as we've completed our investigation, and we're satisfied that we've either stopped the ongoing threat or determined who is at fault for these photos, then we can reinstate you as a full-time employee. Assuming, of course, that you will keep our company values in mind in the future, as you continue forward as an employee of our company."
"But—"
"I'm sorry, Clove, but for now, our decision is final. Please collect your things and head home for the day."
"This is crazy. It's the 21st century."
"Exactly. With 21st century benefits come 21st century dangers. I hope you keep them in mind next time you trust someone with incriminating photos like these, photos that go against everything our company stands for. And also against our employee code of conduct form, I might add."
I clench my fists at my sides, but force myself to nod as though I agree. As though I understand. As though this isn't complete bullshit. My stomach churns even worse than ever, roiling with anger and confusion and underneath it all, fear. Sorrow. Who did this to me? Why?
They're clearly out to get me in particular. This wasn't some random cyber troll attack. They deliberately went out of their way to get my picture, post it to my company's social media sites, and email my coworkers and boss to ensure they saw the photo. Why? What did I do to them?
I think about that all the way home. About who I may have offended, who I may have pissed off somehow. Who would want to hurt me like this? To undermine my career and my social standing?
I can't think of anyone. It's not like I go around making enemies. I'm a normal person with normal friends and a few ex-friends I've drifted away from. Nobody out to get me. Nobody who hates my guts.
My head hurts. This isn’t happening, I think. I want to think. I want to believe. But no matter how often I think it, reality still stands.
My life is about to be ruined.
7
When I walk into my building, I automatically check the counter, praying that I’ll see a familiar, sympathetic face there. Instead, Paul just waves at me, a bored smile on his face as he buzzes the door open. I grimace and walk past him, trying not to think too much about why I’m already so anxious to see Zayne.
Plus, part of me is thinking about this photo already. About what it means. About who had access to it… Because I only ever sent it to one person. But I don’t want to think that. I don’t want to believe it.
It couldn’t be him. Could it? Maybe someone stole his phone. Hacked his account. Or maybe my phone got hacked—I sent the pic to him over bar wifi. That’s not the most secure connection.
Just as I step across the threshold into my apartment, my phone rings. I glance down at the caller ID, breath held. Celeste. Thank god. I answer it right away, say hello in a strained voice.
"Oh god, Clove honey, I just saw."
"I don't know what happened." My eyes sting. "How could somebody do this? Why? And who would want to?"
"Slow down, slow down. First question first. How? Who took this picture?"
I swallow hard, to calm my racing heart. "I did."
"Okay. On your phone?"
"Of course, Celeste. I didn't hire a professional photographer or anything. Obviously." I choke out a hollow laugh.
She sighs. "But your phone is still on you. Nobody stole it, you didn't leave it unlocked anywhere."
"No of course not."
"So, who did you share this picture with?"
I blink. Stare at the wall across from me in blank shock. "I... only one person."
He's the one I took it for after all. The one I trusted with a half-naked selfie, when I'd barely ever trusted anyone with something like that before.
How could I have been so stupid?
"Zayne," I whisper, my throat aching with the single word.
"Who?" I can practically hear the disdain from here. The fury.
"A guy that I..." I close my eyes. I can't tell her the whole story. It's too idiotic. I knew this was a bad idea, knew I shouldn't get involved with someone from my building, someone so close to home. All men are the same, a
nd now I have an asshole right on my doorstep who I'll have to walk past for the rest of my life. An asshole who might have just ruined my life.
If it was him. If.
Part of me still doesn't want to believe it. Refuses to. Not after this weekend. Not after how we felt together.
But what other explanation is there? Unless maybe someone stole it from him, stole it from his phone... my brow furrows.
"Hello? Earth to planet Clove. Come in Clove."
I blink and shake my head. "What did you say?"
"You're the one who trailed off mid-sentence. A guy that you what, met on that app? Did you meet him in person at all or did you skip straight to handing him damning blackmail evidence?"
I wince. "We met. We... we went out a few times." Well. We were technically outside of his apartment once, anyway. "It went really well actually. I can't imagine he'd do this."
"If he did, I swear I'll skin him alive," she mutters through gritted teeth. "You need to talk to him. Ask him what the fuck happened. He might know something even if it wasn’t him. And if it was, you just give me his address and let me at him, you hear?"
I can feel myself nodding even though I know she can't see that. And of course I wouldn’t let her actually kill the guy. "I will. Thanks, Celeste. Look, I have to run now, but—"
"Yeah, don't worry, I'll be around anytime you need me. And if you do need me to murder him, just ring beforehand okay, so I can pull all my supplies together?"
Something in her voice tells me she really isn't joking. I'm reassured by that, at least a little bit, even as I hang up the phone. It rings again almost immediately. It’s a number I don't recognize. But maybe it's Celeste calling back.
Or Zayne. It could be Zayne. What if someone stole his phone, found my photo on it? I’d much rather believe that than that he’d stab me in the back like this. Maybe someone took his cell and this is his new phone.
I hit answer. "Hello?"
"Hey, is this the hot chick we're supposed to call for a titty-fuck?" The voice on the other end sounds about 15-years-old and every bit as mature.