by Katie Ford
Jill pointed her phone at me. “So, what would you say again?” she laughed.
I stopped spinning and looked right at the camera this time. Extending my middle finger, I screamed with a smirk, “I'd say, 'Fuck you!'“
Jill snapped the photo giggling. Looking at the photo on her phone, she gasped, “Mia, look! You look amazing in this.”
Eating another handful of Lucky Charms, I stood next to her staring at my photo. Honestly, it hardly looked like me because the girl there was belligerent, beautiful and outrageous all at once. Usually, I’m a shy mouse, the egghead typing away at her computer in lab.
But this time, Jill had captured a secret side of me that lurked within because everything looked different about me. The brown curls that are wild, zany, and too crazy to tame? In the picture, they looked vivacious and buoyant, sassy and sexy.
The big brown eyes that were generally looking down, avoiding eye contact? Here, my gaze was direct and challenging, as if telling the viewer, “Get a piece of this.”
And Jill, always my best friend, nudged me with her elbow. “You look really pretty when you're having fun.”
I stared at myself on her phone screen, hardly believing it was me.
“Thanks,” I said with a soft giggle. “It's fun to pretend you're a badass sometimes.”
The blonde rolled her eyes and let out a sigh.
“You are a badass, Mia. You’re the top student in the Computer Science program, but no one would ever know it because you’re too humble to brag.”
I guess that was true. A GPA doesn’t lie, after all. But still, there’s no need to be a princess. I’m not like that, I’m more of a tomboy.
But sometimes, it’s great to escape, you know? So laughing, I stood with my hands squarely on my hips channeling Wonder Woman, and challenged Jill.
“It’s fun to pretend to be a bitch. Do it with me.”
The blonde giggled a little, but I was totally serious.
“Come on, Jilly. Let’s do this together. On three, scream ‘Fuck brogrammers.’ You can do it. It’ll feel good.”
My buddy rolled her eyes again, but then took a deep breath in preparation.
“One. Two. Three….”
“FUCK BROGRAMMERS!”
And with that, we collapsed laughing, our arms around each other. Because until then, I hadn't realized the need to let it all out, but once done, damn, it felt good, like a huge pressure off my chest.
So now, staring at Jill in Wheeler Hall, I had no idea what she was talking about. That had been a fun day and the photo was just of me goofing off. Okay, I’d been screaming profanities to the skies, but still. What was the big deal?
My buddy waved her phone in my face. “You aren't on Pictogram so you probably don't know.”
“Know what?” I demanded.
Jilly shoved her cell in my face. Okay, there was her Pictogram account with my sassy face caught mid-laugh.
But then I gasped.
Because the photo had 1,213,462 likes. Jill had posted the hashtags: #howIFeelAboutBrogrammers, #FuckBrogrammers, #WomenWhoCode and #GirlPower.
Holy shit.
My jaw dropped open.
1.2 million likes?
Only Kim Kardashian got stats like that.
How was it possible?
Sneering, Roger sat behind us and dropped a poster on my desk. And another gasp escaped my lips.
Because it was the same photo on Jill's Pictogram account, except the image had been commercialized. There I was, doing my half-laugh, half-taunt, but plastered beneath my image was the trademark logo for Marc Janow, a young, hip fashion designer.
#GIRLPOWER, the ad read. #LADIESROCK.
Holy shit.
They’d taken my photo and made me into their emissary.
For an expensive, downtown-cool clothing line too.
What in the world?
But it was too much. What I’d thought was private, was now out in the world for everyone to see.
My saucy expression. My creamy cleavage, visible in the lacy black bra. And worst of all, that middle finger, making like I was a bad girl.
Oh god. It felt like the entire lecture hall was staring at us. Grabbing my backpack, I stood up with shaky legs.
“Mia, you look so pretty. You really do!” Jill exclaimed, grabbing my arm. “Don’t go!”
She tried to make a bad situation better. Jilly would say anything to boost my spirits.
Roger piped up then, that asshole.
“Pretty? Not just pretty. Fuckin’ hot.” He made a hissing sizzling sound with his teeth like some disgusting frat boy.
Oh my god, I was going to be sick.
Because Roger was oozing sarcasm, for sure. Even if other students nodded and agreed, it was all fake. I’m not pretty. I’m chubby and round, the type that no one ever notices.
So face burning with humiliation, I rushed out of the lecture hall feeling dozens of my classmates’ eyes boring right through me. Bed sounded good. That, with the comforter pulled over my head, just like when I was a little girl.
Because how could this have happened?
But my nightmare only got worse because on Bancroft Avenue, at the 51 bus stop, I saw it.
Oh god.
It was a huge billboard of me in just my bra.
Holy cow! Might as well erect a billboard of me in Times Square next.
Tucking my head down and pulling the hood of my sweatshirt up, I walked briskly the rest of the way to my dorm.
Back in the privacy of my room, I navigated to the Pictogram website. How did my photo become an ad? How was this possible?
And what I found shocked me. Any user who signed up for a Pictogram account gave up all rights to their uploaded photos. Pictogram had the right to sell my photo to any advertiser for what I could only imagine would be an arm and a leg. Marc Janow was a major fashion designer. He undoubtedly had the money to spare.
Taking slow deep breaths, I tried to calm myself down, but I couldn’t. How could this popular app abuse its users like this?
Livid, my fingers punched the keyboard, googling Pictogram’s CEO, Theo Wainwright. The first link that popped up was a tabloid story of him, shirtless, with a supermodel on his yacht. Although not an actual user of Pictogram, I’d still heard of Theo Wainwright. He graduated from Berkeley. In fact, he’d built the beginnings of Pictogram in his dorm room.
What I didn’t know was how ridiculously hot he was. Like a groupie, I searched for more photos of him. With his penetrating blue eyes and chiseled jaw, the man was devastatingly gorgeous. Shirtless, he had a six pack and thick muscular arms. I found a shot of him in tight jeans and nearly died. He had a fantastic ass, too. The photos of him in a full suit were what made me almost fall out of my chair. He had a sexy arrogant smile that made him look handsome, debonair, and unabashedly cocky.
I shook my head. Hot or not, Theo Wainwright was probably a brogrammer like Roger. He got to travel around the world and lounge about on his yacht with supermodels because he didn’t care about his users. He sold their images for a pretty penny and couldn’t give a shit.
Taking another long look at Theo’s gorgeous face, I decided he needed to be warned. Hacking into Pictogram’s site, I found his personal information: private email address and phone number. Under the name Anonimo, I sent him an email urging him to change Pictogram’s privacy policies.
And taking a deep breath, I pressed send. Served him right. Because how could anyone do that? How could anyone take someone’s photo off their site and sell it to a third party without a second thought?
But that’s the beauty of being a skilled hacker.
Because I know how to get to the bottom of these things.
And Theo Wainwright would have to pay, simple as that.
So what if Mr. Wainwright was gorgeous, powerful, and rich, with ladies hanging off his arm? The fact was that my rights had been violated and I was going to get revenge.
Chapter 2
Theo
Som
etimes I wondered why I had such a huge house. I’d lived alone my entire life aside from the orphanage where a dozen boys were practically stacked up on top of each other in one barracks style room. As weird as it sounds, I liked living with so many kids and never running out of friends to play with.
When I’d become a billionaire, I felt obligated to buy a shamelessly lavish house. Before then, my living conditions were modest. So when Pictogram blew up, my seven-bedroom seven-bathroom house in the Los Altos Hills was my first extravagant purchase, even though I’d be the only person living there.
Yep, I rattled around like loose teeth, all alone in this monstrosity.
But that was the billionaire way of doing things, and who am I to say no to it?
I renovated the place completely – adding a lighted tennis court, swimming pool, six-car garage, a theater, a gym, and a sauna. But my favorite place in the entire house was my office.
I spent most of my time when at home in my office. Huge floor to ceiling windows overlooked my pool and garden. The landscape architect had done a remarkable job with the outdoor space in the backyard. The deck and patio were masterfully designed to be a complete outdoor entertainment area with a fiberglass swimming pool with a waterslide, a covered outdoor kitchen, a fire pit, and a dining area.
Back when I first got this pad, I’d thrown many wild parties, but as I got older, those kinds of parties didn’t entice me anymore. Naked pool party orgies with the most beautiful women had been my thing, but I was bored with it now.
The women were boring too.
Because believe it or not, having sex with beautiful but boring women lost its charm. A woman could be gorgeous, but if I didn’t have anything in common with her, the relationship fell flat. The models and actresses I’d gone out with in the past knew absolutely nothing about computers, software, hardware, or internet entrepreneurship. Some barely knew basic computer terminology like what a browser was.
Seriously?
To be honest, I don’t think some of them knew what a mouse was, other than a rodent.
It was incredibly difficult to have a relationship with someone that I couldn’t talk to about my day to day life. The press loved to paint me as this womanizing playboy, and yes, I’d run through a fair share of beauties in my youth, but lately, my failed relationships weren’t because of a constant search for a new woman.
It was because I couldn’t find the right woman for me.
The media had a difficult time forgetting. I’d changed my ways, but no one bought it. Theodore Wainwright was still and always would be, a playboy to them.
The disconnect between how the public saw me and how I saw myself prompted me to examine my past. Was it a midlife crisis? Maybe. But some of my self-doubt happened because my birth parents were still a mystery to me. So, I constantly asked myself, Who am I really?
I knew who I had become – an internet mogul, a tech giant, a powerful son of a bitch.
But what was my history? My biological history? Where did I come from?
It shouldn’t have mattered. After all, I had everything. Literally, I could possess any physical object short of the moon. But somehow, there was a gaping hole inside, filled with questions.
So I did what any billionaire did. I hired a private investigator to answer them. Even though he was the best PI in the Bay Area, I doubted he’d come up with anything. My birth records were sealed.
Stupid bureaucracy. But money could fix it all.
In my office, I held a large manila envelope that was labeled, “Theo Wainwright - Birth Parents.” I tossed the envelope onto my desk and just stared at it in disbelief. Everything I’d always wondered about was right there in that envelope.
So close.
And yet my heart hammered hard.
In the orphanage, I’d wondered who my real parents were, but I was an adult now. Not just fully grown, but a tech mogul and a billionaire. Shouldn’t this identity crisis have been over by now? Did it even matter anymore?
Deep down inside, I knew what I was afraid of: learning why my parents had given me up. Whatever their reasons, they’d rejected me as a baby. Forty-five years ago, they’d looked down at me and decided to give me up. I didn’t even know who my parents were, but that fact hurt me. It still hurt me all these years.
Spinning around in my chair, I looked out the window and stared at the sky. It was still early. The sun had just begun to show herself. Turning back around to face the envelope, I tucked it into a desk drawer. I wasn’t ready to face the truth. Would I ever be?
Shuffling papers around on my desk, I stood up, looking for my phone. Yesterday, I’d received an email from some asshole named Anonimo. This hacker wannabe urged me to change Pictogram’s user privacy policies or else I’d pay.
Mr. Wainwright,
Pictogram’s privacy policies violate the trust and loyalty of its users.
Do you know what it feels like to be violated?
Change your company’s policies or else you will pay.
-Anonimo
I’d laughed out loud reading the email. Pay what? I was a billionaire. Untouchable. Powerful. Brilliant. From my phone, I quickly wrote an email back: Try and get me to pay, asshole.
Anonimo,
Go fuck yourself.
Theodore Wainwright
Founder and CEO of Pictogram
Sent from my iPhone
Perfect. That’d light a fire under their ass.
As a kid with nothing better to do with my time, I would hack into various organizations and play pranks for fun. Like the time, I’d broken into The Oakland Gazette’s website and scrambled all the news stories so images and stories didn’t match. I did stupid things like that out of boredom and mainly to see if I could do it.
Whoever Anonimo was clearly didn’t know who he was dealing with. In my mind, I imagined some bored pimply face kid sending me emails just to fuck with me.
From what I gathered about my users and I liked to think I knew my users well, they posted on Pictogram with the hope of rising to stardom. People were dying to become the next Picto-famous star. A few of my users had spun their Picto-fame into reality shows, movie roles, and ad campaigns for internationally recognized brands. Whoever this kid was probably had a sad Pictogram account with five followers.
I almost felt sorry for him, but the kid needed to learn not to fuck with the big boys. I was Theodore Wainwright who built an empire with my own two hands and a laptop. If anything, my terse and direct email response was helping this kid out. He needed to direct his hacking skills to something more useful.
To get my mind off that ridiculous boob, I’d scrolled through Pictogram right before falling asleep. One of Pictogram’s trending photos of a remarkably beautiful girl stood out to me. Her striking face was the last thing in my mind before falling asleep. I had to see it again to make sure it hadn’t been a dream.
Sticking my hands in between the couch cushions, I looked for my phone. Then I remembered waking up in the middle of the night for a late night snack. My phone was probably in the kitchen, so I hurried downstairs.
The current Picto-famous girl was drop dead gorgeous. I’d dated supermodels and actresses before so I was well accustomed to seeing pretty faces on an everyday basis, but this girl?
I couldn’t put my finger on one particular thing that made me drawn to her. She was more than just pretty. She was fucking sexy with this coy but fierce expression on her face. Her eyes seemed to say: Fuck you and fuck me at the same time.
In just a plain black bra, she was curvy in all the right ways I loved. It was honestly tiresome fucking rail thin girls. Nothing jiggled and shook in the sexy ways that turned me on. But a girl with hills and valleys? I’d take a female with a nice round ass that bounced when I fucked her over a skinny no ass girl any day.
And shit, those lips. She had these full beautiful kissable looking lips. Those were the kind of lips I’d want wrapped around my cock.
The photo turned me on. My dick grew hard just loo
king at the girl even though she wasn’t even fully naked. Grabbing lube from my bedside table, I squirted a huge dollop right on my hard dick. In bed, I closed my eyes and imagined what her big tits looked like without her bra on and imagined her plump nipples hardening in my mouth as I sucked them.
Looking at my phone screen again and staring at her face, I stroked my stiff cock with a tight fist. Her full sensual lips were irresistible. I thought about sticking my heavy dick into her open mouth. I imagined her moaning while slipping the head of my cock through those voluptuous lips. Coming hard into a Kleenex, images of her swarmed in my head. Sleep took over my satisfied body right after.
And after who knows how long, I was jolted awake.
Scrambling into the kitchen, I saw my phone on the kitchen table. There were a number of missed calls and text messages. Ignoring them all, I opened up Pictogram. I had to see that girl’s photo again. My dick was already getting hard.
Instead of the usual trending Pictogram feed, I saw naked photos of me having sex with dozens of women in orgies. My heart rocketed in my chest as I scrolled down. There were hundreds of photos. What the fuck was going on?