Along Came Love

by Tracey Livesay

  The hallway opened into a large, bright room bracketed by two walls of floor to ceiling windows. Dropping her backpack on the caramel-­colored sofa, she took a moment to soak in the majestic view. It was postcard quality: pale blue waters, cloud-­capped mountains, a bridge in the distance. She was as enthralled with it now as she’d been when she’d first seen it before Chelsea and Adam’s wedding. Unlike then, she didn’t have time to sit on the wraparound balcony. She needed to locate her cash stash and get out of the building without the doorman’s knowledge.

  The burnt-­orange area rug muffled the sound of her boots. Where to begin? More boxes populated this room, too. On the floor, on the large stuffed sofa, on the low coffee table made of some dark, thick wood. Some boxes were opened with bright accessories peeking out of the top. Some of the boxes were closed. Most were covered in Chelsea’s familiar scrawl. Indi conducted a cursory examination of the boxes’ labels, finding nothing more descriptive than the owner’s name and the location.

  Despite the clear disarray of the place, the tableau represented a harmonious merging of two households, two styles, two personalities. Her vision blurred. What would it feel like to belong? To know where you were supposed to be and who you were supposed to be with? The closest she’d ever come to that feeling was the eight months she and Chelsea had been foster sisters. She’d finally met someone who cared about her well-­being. Someone who looked at her and saw a person, not a paycheck.

  A lesson for you, Nugget. Self-­pity is so unbecoming.

  She wouldn’t begrudge Chelsea her happiness, even as she dreaded the eventual change in their relationship. Pursing her lips, she headed across the large room, toward the master bedroom and the section of the house that led to Chelsea’s office.

  When Chelsea had given Indi the tour before the wedding, she’d shown Indi the room she’d claimed.

  “It gets great light and the view of the bay is incredible. But most importantly, it’s on the opposite end of the house from Adam’s office and his workshop. When we both need to work, it’s best if we stay away from each other.”

  Her features softened, one corner of her mouth quirked upward, and her eyelids lowered like window blinds covering a provocative scene.

  It was the look of a woman recalling sheet-­fisting, toe-­curling sex.

  “Ewww,” Indi said, slapping her shoulder.

  “Don’t you ‘ewww’ me.” Chelsea planted her hands on her hips. “If I had to listen to you create odes about the showerhead in my old apartment, you can deal with a look while I think about the man I love.”

  Chelsea had managed to mount the big screen TV on the wall opposite her desk and assemble the ceiling high bookcase and shelving unit. But the stash of boxes labeled “Chelsea—­Office” and the clutter of supplies on her desk indicated that she still had a ways to go before she was settled in.

  Ugh! Indi clenched her teeth. There was no way she could go through all of these boxes. She let her head drop back and her gaze fly skyward. That’s when she saw it. On the top shelf, a small blue sphere jutted from the bookcase. She’d found one.

  She rolled her eyes. Of course it’d be at the top. Chelsea was an Amazonian goddess, several inches taller than Indi’s own slightly above average height. But even she would’ve needed help getting it up there. These were ten-­foot ceilings.

  Indi grabbed the lightweight chair from the corner and carried it to the bookcase. Bracing herself against the unit, she climbed up and grabbed the blue ceramic penis from its “hiding” place.

  There was a slit in the top—­heh!—­where money could be put, but unlike most piggy banks, no plug in the bottom to make accessing the money easy. If you wanted your cash back, you had to break this bad boy.

  When Indi had aged out of the foster care system, she’d vowed to never be dependent on anyone else again. She’d go where she wanted, do what she wanted, and not let anyone dictate how she would live. For the first time ever, she was in control of her life. To that end, she got a job as quickly as possible and worked nonstop for six months. She saved up every penny she could until she had an amount she believed she could live off, for a month or so, if necessary. She’d sent that money, in a ceramic figurine, to Chelsea and asked her to hold on to it. Over the years, she’d sent her more and more cash-­filled figurines until Chelsea could’ve operated her own tchotchke kiosk at the mall.

  They were her cash stashes. Her “break only in case of an emergency” savings fund. And not an “I need this dress—­it’s on sale for only two hundred dollars” kind of emergency. This was for a “shit’s going down and my options are limited” kind of emergency.

  Pregnant. Alone in an unfamiliar city. No place to stay, no money at hand.

  Yeah, this qualified.

  She carried the earthenware phallus back into the great room and shoved it inside her backpack. She couldn’t chance breaking it here. She needed to get out of the building unseen. She remembered there was a cute artisanal bakery up the street. She’d go there, use their restroom. She didn’t know how much money was in this one, but there had to be enough to cover decent lodging for a week or so until Chelsea—­

  The door crashed open. Indi gasped, skidded back against the sofa, and sat down hard on the rolled arm.

  The doorman frowned and pointed his arm, like a bad extra in an episode of Law & Order. “She—­ That’s the woman who tried to talk me into letting her in here!”

  Indi had difficulty catching her breath, the air around her selfishly deciding to remain free instead of trapped in her lungs.

  “Wait, what?” she wheezed.

  “I thought you’d left. You can’t be in here. You’re not on the list.”

  “Sir, please.” An officer held up a hand, an imposing figure in dark blue attire displaying the San Francisco Police Department seal. “Let me handle this.”

  Indi blinked. “This is just a misunderstanding. My sister lives here.”

  “But you’re not on the list,” the doorman interrupted. “If you’re not on the homeowner’s list, I can’t grant you access when the homeowner isn’t home.”

  “Ma’am, he says he didn’t let you in because you don’t have the proper authority.” The officer’s voice was low and steady.

  Think, Indi.

  “Authority means different things. I’m not on the list, but—­”

  “Then how did you get in here? Do you have a key?”

  “Well, no, but—­”

  “Can you produce a key?”

  The cold fingers of inevitability skittered down her spine. She crossed her arms over her belly. “No.”

  “Then I’m afraid I have no choice.” The officer strode over to her, magically whipping cuffs from some undisclosed location on his uniform. The creaking of his leather shoes and gun belt seemed loud in the sudden silence. “You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  Chapter Two

  MIKE BLACK HELD his right hand up, letting it hover several inches away from the glass orb affixed to the wall. Alternating red-­and-­blue lights scanned his palm.

  “Fingerprint identification not secure enough?” The distinguished male voice behind him carried a trace of amusement.

  “For Adam Bennett? No,” Mike said, responding to Franklin Thompson, Founder and Chairman of the Board of ThomTexteL, a media and telecommunications conglomerate based out of San Francisco. “Palm-­vein identification is extremely accurate because of the complexity of vein patterns. It’s difficult to counterfeit because vein patterns are internal to the body, and unlike fingerprint scanners, it’s contactless, therefore hygienic.”

  The orb glowed green. Lowering his hand, he pulled a platinum security key card from the inner pocket of his jacket and pressed it against the card reader beneath the palm-­vein scanner.

  “Michael Black, Chief Operating Officer. Entrance granted to the Palo Alt
o campus at 1:42 p.m.,” a computerized voice intoned.

  Thompson stilled. “Two layers of security. Impressive.”

  “Adam designed it himself. He’s nothing if not thorough,” Mike said, referring to his best friend and CEO of Computronix.

  The large steel doors slid open with a whoosh. Above them, lights flickered on, one section at a time until the entire space, about eight thousand square feet, was illuminated.

  “This is our Industrial Design Lab.”

  The masculine curse and feminine gasp of his two guests made him smile. He resisted the urge to spread his arms wide and slowly turn in a circle, though there was nothing he could do about the satisfaction expanding in his chest. If the executive floor was the brain of their company, this was its heart. The Lab, and the extraordinary ­people who worked there, was a large reason why Computronix was the fastest growing tech company in the world.

  “Any other time our design team would be here, but we’ve given them two weeks off while Adam is away on his honeymoon.”

  Thompson took it all in, shaking his head as if in a daze. “Even within TTL, there are ­people who would sell their soul to be in this room.”

  Mike slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Access is limited. There are Computronix executives who’ve never been in here.”

  “Then why do we rate this honor?” This from the petite blonde woman standing to the right of Thompson.

  Skylar Thompson, Senior Vice President and Chief Financial Officer of ThomTexteL, Thompson’s daughter, and if everything went according to his plan—­and why wouldn’t it?—­his future wife.

  “Because I have an exciting proposal for TTL and I hoped seeing this would put you in the right frame of mind.”

  Frosted windows enclosed three-­quarters of the room, transparent enough to allow in light, but opaque enough to prevent anyone seeing inside.

  Mike pointed to a glass enclosed office on the left. “That’s Adam’s private workspace. He has an office in the main building near mine, but when he’s on campus, he’s mostly down here with the team.”

  He stopped before a large open area where black tarps covered long wooden tables. “That’s the Shop. It’s where we manufacture our prototypes. Just behind it is the snack area. And over on the far right are our designer workspaces.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Thompson said.

  “Good.” Mike paused. “Then you agree it was worth signing the nondisclosure forms.”

  “It was,” the other man said.

  “So, what’s this exciting proposal?” Skylar’s voice was all business, like her expertly tailored suit and the cornflower blue eyes that assessed him. There was no teasing, no innuendo, no coquettish come-­on.

  Her directness was one of the traits he respected most about her. She valued her business as much as he valued his. Neither of them had the time or desire for an impetuous romance. Skylar understood that companies the size of Computronix and TTL required total dedication and commitment from those charged with running them. It was why they would make a great team. They were ambitious, disciplined. Appropriate for one another.

  Unlike other ­people . . .

  “Let’s talk over here,” he said, moving quickly. As if he could outrun the memories.

  He led Thompson and Skylar to the Presentation Space where large acrylic tables—­mainly used to display current prototypes—­were set up, almost like a classroom. He’d had most of the tables pushed back several feet, leaving one table placed before the large flat screen TV mounted on the side wall.

  Mike grabbed the black case, the size of a ring box, located in the table’s center next to a chrome cube twice its size, and opened it.

  Skylar looked up at him and smiled. “I love my HPC. I use it daily.”

  “We’re beta testing a new version, one that will allow you to use it with a screen or monitor.” He placed the Holographic Personal Computer behind his ear, adjusting it until it fit snugly, like a hearing aid.

  Thompson frowned. “Like a projector? Isn’t that a step backward?”

  “The HPC itself wouldn’t project the image. It would transmit the data digitally and stream it to a display of your choice, using one of those.” He pointed to the chrome cube.

  “What is it?” Skylar circled the table in her designer heels and picked up the object.

  “We’re still workshopping names. Right now, we’re calling it OTTo, for Over the Top box.”

  “A tad on the nose,” Thompson said.

  “Over the Top doesn’t describe its looks, Dad.” Skylar exchanged a knowing look with Mike. “It refers to its method of delivering media over the internet without the involvement of a cable company’s ser­vice.”

  Mike rewarded her assistance with a wink.

  Thompson crossed his arms over his chest. “TTL owns quite a few cable channels. We wouldn’t be interested in a device that devalues our contract with cable companies.”

  “But I think you should be.” Mike pressed the power button on the HPC and his desktop screen materialized in the air in front of him. He pointed to his presentation program then reached out and grabbed the small keyboard icon from the lower right corner, tossing it upward to bring forth its virtual counterpart. His fingers moved across the air, typing in his request for the outline he’d prepared for this meeting. “We recently commissioned a report on the viewing habits of millennials.”

  Skylar’s hair swept against her shoulder as she tilted her head to the side. “Why the interest in what young ­people are watching?”

  “Not what. How.”

  Thompson rubbed his chin. “I don’t understand.”

  With the first page of the report visible before him, Mike took the chrome cube from Skylar, pressed the recessed power button beneath it, and placed it back on the table. He pressed another button on the HPC and his presentation dissipated from in the air and reappeared on the mounted TV screen.

  “That’s fucking incredible,” Thompson said.

  Mike took a deep breath and savored the moment. This was going even better than he’d anticipated. “Most ­people watch TV through cable companies. They purchase a package of channels, but rarely watch all of them.”

  Skylar and Thompson looked at each other and nodded.

  He continued. “The report stated that most ­people only watch seventeen channels regularly. But how many channels do most cable packages give you? Two hundred? Four hundred? Cable companies know which channels are most popular, so they spread them out, stocking the premium ones in the most expensive packages. The consumer can spend more than one hundred dollars a month for a handful of channels.”

  “What does this have to do with TTL?” Skylar asked.

  “Millennials are the fastest growing group of ­people who consume products and they are the first generation to not feel bound by loyalty to cable companies. They are cord cutters, cord cobblers, or cord nevers,” he said, using the industry jargon that referred to the growing number of viewers who either canceled cable ser­vices, downsized their ser­vice in conjunction with using the internet to watch TV or those who never subscribed to cable ser­vice in the first place. “They watch Netflix or Hulu. They don’t feel the need to watch anything in real time.”

  “They like to binge,” Skylar said.

  “Exactly.”

  “So what are you proposing?” Thompson asked.

  “It’s time Computronix got into the TV-­streaming business.”

  Thompson shrugged. “Good for you. But you still haven’t said what any of this has to do with TTL.”

  Skylar pursed her lips. “I’m guessing Mike knows TTL has been steadily losing money in our cable broadband division.”

  Thompson’s head swung sharply in her direction and Skylar held her palm upright. “Not so much that it’s a worry now, but enough that it’s a noticeab
le trend.”

  Grooves and divots appeared on Thompson’s forehead. “You want a merger?”

  “A merger?” Mike shook his head. “Computronix would like to purchase exclusive rights to your digital cable channels.”

  Skylar wrapped one arm around her waist and rested her other elbow on it, the knuckle of her index finger tapping her chin. “And what would you do with them?”

  “Offer them to our customers via OTTo.”

  It was a bold move, one no other tech company had yet to execute. The success of the HPC had been a game changer for Computronix. They’d gone from a successful tech company to the fastest growing one in the world. Additionally, the name Computronix had become synonymous with cutting-­edge chic. They’d managed to cultivate a lifestyle brand. Mike was certain their customer base would follow them from technology into entertainment.

  The stratagem would work. Of that he harbored no doubt. He’d known it’d be successful the moment he’d come up with the idea. He’d experienced the same feeling two other times: when he’d thrown his lot in with Adam during the genesis of Computronix and when Adam had first explained his concept of the HPC. Each pivotal moment he’d been on the verge of making an important decision that would affect the rest of his life. And he knew the right thing to do.

  Still, he always weighed the pros and cons, refusing to make those decisions based solely on his gut. He could hear his father’s voice:

  “Your worst battle is between what you know and what you feel. Choose knowledge.”

  “It’s a great idea,” Thompson conceded, “and it could be beneficial to TTL. But what’s to stop me from declining your offer and suggesting this same idea to another tech company? Hell, what’s to stop me from manufacturing my own OTTos?”

  Skylar swung around. “Dammit, Dad—­”

  “The noncompete clause in the nondisclosure agreement you signed when you first arrived,” Mike interrupted coolly, holding the other man’s gaze, refusing to rise to the bait.