Geek Actually Season 1 Omnibus

by Cathy Yardley

  Then she shook her head, recognizing the thought for what it was. When Michelle had given her a deadline to finish the first book, she’d decided to take up knitting. She still had four bags of half-started sweaters stuffed in her office closet.

  She should have expected Michelle to start nudging a little harder. Hell, she probably shouldn’t have gone on the Slack channel at all. But after a week of isolating herself in the house, working on the damned sequel, she had been stir crazy and climbing the walls. Ordinarily, she’d just work a few intermittent hours, with plenty of daydreaming, playlist-building, and cooking peppered in for good measure. Or going out shopping, grabbing coffee, and the like.

  She grabbed a thepla off of a glass plate on the counter, munching on it as she picked up her phone. She was stress eating—she had to be up another five pounds, she thought—probably at around 215, not that she paid much attention to that. Still, it was something her mother would no doubt notice and comment on the next time she saw her.

  The phone rang, startling her and almost making her choke. She grimaced, took a deep breath, then answered.

  “Hey, Michelle,” she said. “How are you?”

  “How are you?” Michelle replied. “I’ve been a little concerned.”

  “Oh, you know. Writing away.” Nervous, guilty, Aditi tucked her phone to her chin, then grabbed her heavy braid, undoing the end and unplaiting it, letting the waves ripple out from her hands.

  “Really?” Michelle sounded excited. “I’m so glad. When Pam mentioned that you’d had some trouble… Well, how’s it going?”

  “It’s… going,” Aditi said, wandering back down the hall to her office. “I’m chugging along.”

  “You said you were stuck,” Michelle pointed out. “So what’s really going on?”

  Aditi suppressed a low growl of frustration, looking at the ceiling. “Not stuck, exactly. Just not quite sure of where things are headed.”

  “What things?”

  The whole damn story, Aditi thought, gripping the phone tighter. “I just… I’d really thought the first book would end, you know, sort of ambiguously.”

  As opposed to the way you and Gwen nudged me to change it.

  “I know,” Michelle enthused. “It still does. That’s what made it perfect, and opened it up to a series.”

  But I didn’t want it to be a series!

  Still, she’d agreed to making it a series. Michelle had made clear that without the guarantee of a series, the publisher wasn’t going to buy the book, and Aditi knew Michelle was right. So her “ambiguous, open” ending had become a gnarly cliffhanger that she hadn’t anticipated.

  “Um, yeah, but I hadn’t really…”

  “Readers love series—it means more sales, and a bigger audience,” Michelle said, reading her mind again. “That’s what helped seal the deal.”

  “I know,” Aditi said, hoping she didn’t sound as ungrateful as she felt. “I just don’t quite know where to go from here.”

  “Why don’t we brainstorm?”

  “No. You know me,” Aditi added quickly. More importantly, she knew Michelle: She was a savvy editor, but she actually sucked at brainstorming. Maybe after she hung up with Michelle, she’d call Christina. Even though Christina said she’d never want to be a writer, she was really creative—probably from working on all those movies as a production assistant. “I’ll get there, Miche. I just need some time to bang my head against the wall. I’ll figure it out eventually.”

  Another pause. “You’re going to make the deadline though, right?”

  Aditi swallowed. “Probably. We’ll see.”

  “Aditi.” Michelle’s voice spoke volumes. She wasn’t angry, much like Aditi’s mother didn’t get “angry.” She wasn’t even simply “disappointed.” She was distressed and yet unsurprised, with a side of determined and a small twist of judgment. She was also probably prepping some sort of counterstrike.

  Aditi braced herself.

  “I know you can do it,” Michelle said. “This sequel will be brilliant. I’ve always believed in it.”

  Which was true. Michelle had been unshakable—she’d believed in the story, even when Aditi hadn’t. Guilt started to curl around the edges of her consciousness. “Thanks, Miche.”

  “You always dreamed of your stories being published,” Michelle said softly. “Remember? Remember how you cried, when that one asshole guy from your creative writing class savaged your book?”

  A sharp stab. Sure, she remembered it. How could she forget someone calling her a “fan-fic fame whore with aspirations toward social justice warrior-hood?”

  “You wanted to throw it out. Or shove it in a drawer,” Michelle said, and Aditi could hear the smile in her voice. “But I knew it was fantastic, just needed some polish. You’d lost perspective, that was all.”

  “You helped me out of that,” Aditi admitted. “But this is different.”

  “No, it really isn’t,” Michelle said, her voice low and comforting. “I know it’s scary. But you’ve got this. I believe in you. You’re capable of so much more than you think you are.”

  A flashback of her mother came to mind: You’re majoring in creative writing? But you’re so smart! You could be a doctor, or an engineer. Or you could start your own business—something in computers, maybe. Or you could be a world-class chef. Why the stories, Aditi?

  Aditi closed her eyes, feeling pressure, like a coat of cement, weighing down on her chest.

  “And just like back then, I’ll hound you mercilessly until you submit,” Michelle said.

  Aditi forced a laugh. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

  “Count on it.”

  The thing was, she knew Michelle wasn’t kidding. That in and of itself was terrifying.

  “Tell you what: I’ll make you a deal,” Michelle said. “I’ll give you some space and stop nudging you about the story if you write those blog posts for Pam. She was in here, on my ass, just a little while ago.”

  Now Aditi rolled her eyes. “Do I have to? C’mon, Michelle. That’s why you guys are my publishers. Isn’t that, you know, your job?”

  “You’re adorable,” Michelle said drily. “This is part of the unpleasant realities of publishing I warned you about.”

  “You didn’t tell me I’d be writing puff pieces about myself,” Aditi mumbled.

  “You want hard-hitting? Go nuts. But get them written, okay?”

  This was the toughest part. When your friend was, essentially, your boss.

  “Okay,” Aditi said. “I’ll write the blog posts.”

  “Send them to me. I’ll look them over and then hand them to Pam, okay? I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Michelle quickly added. “But if you want to go fast, I’ll fill in the gaps where I need to, if you’re good with that.”

  Aditi knew she should feel grateful, but she couldn’t help but feel a little surly. “Fine.”

  “All right. See you on Slack. And please, please make sure you answer the phone for me, at least?”

  “Okay! Bye.” Aditi hung up, then sat on the daybed, staring at the phone.

  The writing wasn’t happening. She’d been given a high six-figure deal to sell her “trilogy” even though she’d only conceived of one book. She’d worked on that book for nearly three years, with Michelle pushing her the last twelve months. Now, she was supposed to somehow repeat the performance in twelve months. And she was scared out of her mind.

  She needed to blow off steam. She needed to get in a better frame of mind.

  She glanced down at herself. She was in writing mode, which meant wearing her Lululemon-knockoff yoga pants (until the damn people make a size eighteen, she thought with a frown) and a stained University of Wisconsin sweatshirt. She wasn’t even wearing makeup.

  No wonder I feel like shit.

  She headed for the bedroom, stripping down completely. She pulled on a sexy matched set of underwear, classic black lace panties and bra. Then she put on her favorite dress, a deep plum ponte knit that clung to her curves
in just the right way, suggestive—not sausage casing. It was cut deep in the front, showing off the girls to their best advantage. Nodding, she wandered barefoot to the bathroom and played with her makeup, giving herself a subtly smoky eye and matching deep plum lips. The color went perfectly with her amber skin, and made her brown eyes look almost black. Super dramatic.

  Sexy as fuck, she thought with a nod.

  Now she was looking fine, and feeling a little better. It really did make a difference. Unfortunately, she didn’t want to waste all this energy on writing stupid blog posts. She needed a distraction.

  She called her husband, Druv.

  “Hey there,” Druv said. “You okay?”

  “I can’t write, I hate my life, I want to die,” she said dramatically, then smiled, throwing herself on the bed, phone cradled to her ear like a teenage girl. “You busy?

  He laughed. “One of those writing days, huh?”

  “Seriously. I’m supposed to work with this publicist…”

  “Sweetie, I am right in the middle of pulling together the GreenWave merger,” he said. “I promise, I will listen to you in full, cursing detail, and get you a pint of the best mango sorbet you have ever tasted in your life. But I can’t today. Okay?”

  She wanted to kick something. “You going to be home tonight?”

  “Late,” he said, and to his credit, he did sound regretful. “But this weekend, it’ll be all about you, I promise.”

  “It’d better be,” she grumped, then sighed. “I’ll leave your dinner in the oven, and we have plenty of snacks left over.”

  “Best of wives, best of women,” he said, before hanging up. She started to shut off the phone, then bit her lip.

  Wandering back to the kitchen, she opened up Tinder. It’d been a solid week since she’d so much as peeked at it; she frankly hadn’t had the time. But she was nervous, and stressed. And all dressed up, at this point.

  What she really, really needed was something to get her mind off things. Something to help ground her, calm her down.

  Picking up another thepla and taking a bite, she started swiping.

  TANEESHA

  Taneesha sat down at the conference room table with the rest of her team from Maniac Games. They’d finished the move from their small, janky offices in a nondescript office park, and now that they were at Starwisp, the difference was noticeable. The walls were cream-colored, and every single chair was a high-priced ergonomic wonder. The tables were all nice, dark wood, not scuffed Formica-tops they’d grabbed at garage sales. There were poster-sized screen captures and promotional pieces from Starwisp’s most popular games: Cthulhu Legend, Plague Battalion, Neuromancer.

  She was a little intimidated, admittedly. But more than that, she was excited. This was the big time.

  The “Maniacs” were all in the “uniform”—mocking graphic T-shirts, shorts or jeans, sneakers. They were hardly what anyone would consider “groomed,” instead living up to the geek stereotypes—unkempt, ragged hair, scruffy beards, clothes with holes in them.

  She had thought about her clothes carefully today. She’d always dressed to fit in with the Maniacs—it was a defense mechanism rather than a style choice—and today wasn’t going to be much different. Her T-shirt had a picture of an elopus, the Gishwhes mascot, which Elli had convinced her to participate in a while ago. But she’d chosen jeans without holes in them, crisp and pressed-looking, a calculated departure from her colleagues. She’d also worn her natural hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck, with her side part slicked back into submission. She wanted it to look a little more professional, or at least what she assumed Starwisp would consider “professional.” The last time she’d worn full braids, the Maniacs had either asked if they could touch it, or asked if she was interviewing because she’d gotten so “fancy.” And the last time she’d worn a weave—well, that wasn’t the guys’ fault, she remembered. She’d gone to a new stylist who hadn’t used enough protectant and beeswax, and that shit had stuck.

  Hair glue was the devil, and she wasn’t that interested in making a “good impression” at Starwisp, she thought, her expression grim.

  Besides, she didn’t want to scare them, impress them, or stand out too much. She wanted to blend in—and study. She wanted to see what they would do.

  Two guys from Starwisp stepped in. They were in what normal people would have considered business casual: khakis, short-sleeved polo shirts. They looked like golfers, or Verizon salesmen. Taneesha could sense the derision from some of the Maniacs.

  Welcome to corporate coding, she could all but hear them thinking. You will be assimilated.

  “I’m Brad Tailor, and this is Frank Miller,” the man on the left said, gesturing to his partner.

  “No relation to the comic guy,” the second guy said. There was a tentative pity chuckle from the audience. Judging by his stern expression, he might have simply been stating a fact, as if he were mistaken for the other Frank Miller all the time.

  “We just wanted to say how pleased we are that you are a part of the Starwisp family,” Brad said. He looked earnest, like he was more management than coder. He had short blond hair, and he was clean-shaven. He looked like he was twelve. The other guy had black hair and a somber expression, and what must’ve been his attempt at a goatee. Considering some of the guys in here had beards that were older than the blond guy, she doubted that goatee guy was going to make a good impression.

  First guy, Brad, kept on talking. He seemed like the good cop, talkative and amiable, while Frank stood silent and stone-faced in the background, having spent his small store of jocularity on the “comic guy” remark, to poor response. “You guys have done amazing work with Galactic Assassin. I want you to know that we took you on as a team because we know how well you work together. We don’t want to jeopardize that.”

  Come on, buddy. You took us on as a team because we’re cheaper that way.

  Maniac Games had been a small company, and they’d all been close. Taneesha had talked shop with Paul in finance as much as any of the other engineers—maybe more so, as a senior programmer. She knew just how expensive it was to replace an engineer. It was actually cheaper to buy the whole company than try to recreate it piecemeal.

  “Also know that we recognize and respect your culture, and we want you to feel like you can still maintain that.”

  Somebody to Taneesha’s left snorted, and she hid a grin. To Brad’s credit, he looked sincere as hell—he probably meant it. But everybody knew what it was like. They were at corporate headquarters, for God’s sake. There were rules. She sincerely doubted they’d allow a kegerator in the break room, or Clothing-Optional Thursdays once a month, for example. Although honestly, she was glad to be rid of that tradition. She glanced quickly over at Bailey, a rotund guy with a graying beard and Birkenstocks, who was one of the most ardent followers of C-O Thursday. She shuddered.

  The thing was, corporate culture was insidious. It would start with a few memos, and it’d slowly take over. The loose cannon days of being a start-up would get slowly but inevitably crushed into the ground.

  “That said, I hope you’ll find that working at our corporate facility will help you feel more at home. We have plenty of perks for our employees, including a fully stocked free break room, a pool table, and of course, plenty of video games.”

  She squirmed, impatient.

  Tell me where I am on the team.

  Unlike most of her old team, she’d been excited when Starwisp had taken over Maniac Games. She’d felt ready to move on. She’d learned a lot working there, and with that small a team, she’d been able to slowly establish herself as a respected engineer in her own right, even if some of the guys still thought of her as “just a girl.”

  Now, she was joining a globally recognized company. It wasn’t Seattle or Silicon Valley, sure. But this was better. She could stay close to her family and still work her way up. She was a senior programmer, after all. Given their resources, the projects they were working on
… her heart beat faster, just thinking about it.

  This was her chance to show them, and the rest of the industry, just how good she really was.

  “We’ve got team assignments for you. Since we’ve just recently launched a new version, we’ll be working on the next iteration.”

  Taneesha cleared her throat. “We’ve already done some work on that. We’ve got…”

  Brad held up a hand, and she stopped, surprised.

  “I’m sorry. Your name is?”

  She blinked. “Taneesha Adams.”

  “Ah, yes. Taisha.”

  “Taneesha,” she repeated, trying not to growl it.

  “I’m so sorry! Taneesha, of course,” he said, looking flustered. “I’m sure you guys have done… well, I’m sure you’ve laid some great groundwork. We just want it to, well, match what we’ve got as far as process. We’ve systematized DevOps quite successfully…”

  Bailey snickered. “But we’re keeping our culture,” he muttered. “Yeah, right.”

  The black-haired guy, Frank, had been leaning against the wall this whole time. He stood up now, glaring a bit.

  “We’re just integrating the team into our workflow,” he said. “Which is how we’re able to release games on time and on budget.”

  Now the rest of the Maniac Games guys started grumbling, since this was a direct jab. “No point in putting it out on time if it’s buggy,” Bailey said.

  “Or lame,” one of the guys to her right said in a stage whisper, hitting right back.

  Taneesha sighed. This was getting out of hand.

  “I’m sure we’d be happy to see what kind of, ah, system you guys have in place. We’re ready to go to the next level,” she said, ignoring the eye-rolls and kissy-kissy noises.

  “Hell, yeah,” somebody across the room said, and she grinned.

  “Now, that’s the attitude I like to see,” Brad said, smiling at her. “Teesha…”

  “Taneesha,” she corrected.

  “I appreciate your candor, and I’m glad you’re on board. We’re going to be integrating a few senior people into your team, just to act as go-betweens for your team and upper management. We’ll also have a few senior programmers joining your team, again, mostly to get you up to speed with our system… basically, our way of doing things.”