by Holly Hart
Perhaps I shouldn’t feel this way, but I do.
I feel kind of embarrassed about the way I left Nate, like a jilted lover, in the lobby last night. The pressure of the moment swept me away. Instead of fighting against the tide of my desire, I let myself crumble. I ran from my fear instead of confronting it straight on.
I’m talking HUGE Fear.
The way my body responded to Nate’s touch last night scared me. I knew that if I’d let him kiss me, then that would have been it. Nothing would have been able to stop momentum from crushing us together, and for all his silver-tongued words, I’m just not sure I’m ready for that.
My legs clench just thinking about him, about the way my skin burned when his touched mine. The second my door closed behind me last night, I felt my fingers creeping inside my panties.
I don’t do that kind of thing: a lot.
I’m not that kind of girl: usually.
Except now, apparently, I am.
So why am I so afraid? I know what my body wants – it hasn’t stopped telling me since the moment I first saw Nate’s tousled blonde hair. Just looking at him is enough to make the pressure between my legs build until it’s ready to explode.
It’s because you’re a virgin; and he doesn’t know.
Memories of high school rush through my mind. It’s like I never left.
A ring of girls are surrounding me, jeering at me, laughing at me.
“Did you think you were going to fuck him?” They mockingly shriek, “You slut.”
And then, later, when it was cool to be having sex – when the cool girls were having it – the taunts changed.
Then it was: ugly; and fat; they taunted. “Virgin: no one will ever fuck you,” they sneered.
“Why are you thinking about those awful girls, Kim?” I reprimand myself.
A man in a camel-colored overcoat looks at me strangely. It’s as if he’s studying me for some unknown reason, not just because he was surprised to hear a girl talking to herself.
I can’t help but step back. He’s one of those people who look so different, so out of the usual, that you have to stare.
Tattoos stretch out of the collar of his coat and up his neck. They don’t depict anything. There’s no art there. They are indiscriminate, almost blood against his Hispanic, tanned skin. They almost look like prison tattoos.
“The fuck are you looking at?” He grunts. I tear my gaze away from him, eyes moving jerkily. “That’s right, puta,” he swears in heavily accented English. “Keep walking…”
I do as I’m told. My hand reaches automatically for my handbag, for my just-in-case, when I remember that my trusty can of mace isn’t there.
It’s not legal over here.
I walk quicker. Suddenly the path by the bank of the Thames doesn’t feel nearly so safe. Cars and vans and trucks flash past, but every driver has their eyes peeled forward.
I wish Nate was here.
The realization strikes me, but it doesn’t change anything. The bus stop is a hundred yards up the road, and that’s all I need to be thinking about.
I hear footsteps behind me. Surely it isn’t him.
“Why were you looking at me, bitch?” I hear him call out. I can’t help but peek over my shoulder, even though I know I shouldn’t.
The man’s handsome, in a curious kind of way. He’s tall, and clearly well-muscled. But the way he’s decorated his body is…
… Intimidating.
Gold rings adorn his fingers. The blurred lines of his prison tattoos reach his eyes. It’s like he’s marked himself out from society on purpose.
I can’t understand what would bring a man to do that.
“Remember who you’re crossing, bitch,” he shouts. I break into a half-trot. A cold sweat starts to drip from my forehead, and my mouth is dry.
I want to call back and ask him what in the world he’s talking about. All I did was look at him – nothing more.
He’s crazy, I console myself.
That doesn’t make sense, either. How many crazy people dress themselves in high fashion clothes? Who goes out looking like that, as if it’s normal? Not the physical disfigurements – the tattoos, and the scars – but the thousand dollar coat, the well-shined Italian leather shoes…
Some part of my mind registers all that. The other part is just ecstatic to make it to the bus stop and the crowd of bored-looking commuters all looking at their phones.
The Hispanic man stops twenty yards away, and thrusts his gold-ringed hands into the pockets of his coat.
“You better watch yourself, girl. We are watching you. Do not forget it.”
A gray-haired woman grabs my arm. I jump. The adrenaline flowing through my system has me trembling. I’m freezing, and it’s not the crisp fall weather.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she says. She’s older by a lot, has a prim voice and manner. She reminds me of a school principle. Right now, it’s comforting. She’s almost like my mother, if she was still here.
“Do you know that,” her nose scrunches, “that man over there?” Her tone’s proper and British. She sounds disgusted by what she sees.
I shake my head.
A sleek, red London bus pulls to a halt beside us. The hydraulics hiss as it lowers itself to the curb. That makes me shudder, too.
“Come, come. Sit by me, dear,” she says, pulling my arm and looking back. “Would you like to call the police?”
I shake my head. I can’t take my eyes off the man in the camel coat. Even when I get on to the bus, he’s standing there. The wind flaps at the tails of his coat, but he doesn’t seem to notice the cold. I swear his eyes bore into mine.
As the bus pulls away, the man reaches into his coat pocket. I flinch, wondering if he’s going to draw the weapon. I can’t tell if he can still see me, but he smiles. He puts a cigarette to his mouth, lights it with a match, and flicks it contemptuously into the gutter.
“No,” I whisper, “no – I’m fine.”
***
I’m still shaking when I arrive at the office. After breaking out into that cold sweat, my skin is prickly and uncomfortable.
The day started so well. It’s already tumbling into the abyss.
“What are you doing?” I ask, in a surprised, strangled voice as I enter the small office I share with Boris and his two other programmers.
Boris turns away from my terminal. My desk is stuffed into the corner, amongst a bunch of broken servers. There’s no reason he should be there. His motion is jerky, too – almost guilty.
Perhaps I’m just imagining things. After all, I’m still on edge, after the events at the bus stop.
“You’re early,” he grunts in his accented English.
“That’s not an answer,” I insist. I might be new, but I’m not going to let him walk over me.
“Mind your own God damn business,” Boris says with a look that tells me to shut up if I know what’s good for me.
I don’t. I’m getting a prickly feeling at the back of my neck. It’s telling me that something is not right here.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
Boris chews on his bottom lip. His face is a maelstrom of emotion. First it’s thunderous with rage. Next, a mocking grin breaks out. It’s like he’s cycling through emotions, trying to figure out which one to deploy.
It’s almost…
… sociopathic.
I blink, and hold my eyes shut for a second longer than usual. I’m sure I’m just overreacting. There must be a reason Boris was at my computer.
I reopen my eyes slowly, ready to apologize to Boris. The words: “it’s been a long morning,” are already on the tip of my tongue. I don’t get a chance to speak them.
Somehow, he is right in front of me.
I don’t know how he closed the distance between us so quickly.
“What…” I stammer. I’m more shocked than scared – Boris’s behavior is so out of the norm of office etiquette– it doesn’t even occur to me to be frightened of him. “What are
you doing?”
He presses his nose right up against my face. I can feel his breath licking at my mouth. I get a flash of Nate’s face in the same position last night in my mind. This is completely different.
“Are you…” I ask, “… going to say something?” I’m starting to find his attempt at intimidating me almost comical.
I’ve already been scared once this morning. Compared to the man in the tan coat, Boris is a child.
Besides – new city, new Kim.
“I was doing your fucking job for you,” Boris finally grunts. I get a mouthful of rancid breath. I have to bite down to prevent myself from offering him a piece of chewing gum.
“What about my job? What are you talking about?”
Boris turns away. I get a strange feeling – almost that he knows he’s beaten, yet is trying to cover his tracks.
“Check your effin’ to do list. You want me to wipe your ass for you, as well? If you can’t do the job, don’t bother coming in tomorrow – understood?”
Boris’s anger washes over me, but strangely doesn’t hit home. I know that he must have made a mistake. I don’t miss tasks. I checked my list last night and there wasn’t anything left on it. I’m certain.
“Look,” I say, moving towards my computer. I tap in a password and double-click on my task list. “I can show you. I promise I did everything –“
I stop dead as the list flashes up on my screen.
“What in the world?” I mutter. “This wasn’t –“
“Oh,” Boris laughs. It’s a cold, biting laugh. It sounds like nails scratching against a chalkboard. “Now you see, do you?”
“Boris – this wasn’t here last night,” I protest. I know it wasn’t, but my voice comes out squeaky. “I promise.”
“You promise a lot,” he growls. “But it looks like you’re not as goddamn smart as you think you are.”
I shake my head, turning my attention back to my computer screen. The notation jumps out at me. “Run subroutine 57K2-alpha.”
I shrug weakly. “I don’t know what to say…”
“It’s your computer, isn’t it?” Boris says in a low, mocking whisper. “Just accept you were wrong, and we can move on. I’m a forgiving man.”
I shudder just looking at him. He’s no Jesus, that’s for sure. There’s a righteous fire burning inside me. I’ve never seen that subroutine before in my life. I know it wasn’t on my task list before I left the office last night. I’m certain of it.
But Boris is right. No one else has access to my terminal.
The image of Boris himself creeping around my keyboard flashes across my mind, but I bite down on it. He’s still my boss. I don’t get to demand explanations from him, as much as I want to have even one.
“I apologize,” I say. My tone is harsh, and makes clear that I am not in any way sorry. After all, I’ve done nothing wrong.
“Apology accepted,” Boris grins. It stretches across his teeth, and exposes more of his yellowing, chipped, enamel stumps than I want to see. He fishes something out of his pocket, and tosses it towards me. “Catch.”
I pluck the red-and-black piece of plastic out of the air. It’s a USB drive.
“Run what’s on it,” he says, turning away from me dismissively.
“What does it do?” I ask. I don’t like this.
Boris doesn’t bother looking at me when he speaks. “If I have to talk you through it like a child every time I ask you to do something,” he grunts, “maybe I should fire you and do it myself. How’s that for an answer?”
An angry fire stokes inside me, but I do as I’m told. Before I hand the drive back to Boris, I make a copy, just in case. Something feels off here.
13
Nate
I breathe a sigh of relief as I step into the operations room. It’s still empty at this hour. I don’t have long before Natalie or one of the analysts walks in and discovers what I’m doing, and I don’t want to have to answer any awkward questions.
The sound of the clattering keys tapping underneath my fingers fills the room. My breath is lost amongst the whirring of fans and the bleeping of dozens of screens. It’s oddly peaceful in here. I can see why Kim likes computers so much.
I log on to the mainframe.
I needed to come in to do this. I can monitor the cameras in Kim’s apartment via remote access, but every feed gets sent directly here. Just thinking about what I saw onscreen last night gets me excited. I feel dirty at the same time, like a repentant pervert – but that doesn’t change what I saw.
Kim’s legs parting.
Kim’s fingers probing her folds.
Kim’s thoughts about me were making her reach completion …
At least, I hope they are of me. Somehow, that last bit seems to make what I did okay. I know it isn’t, not really, but it at least gives me an excuse.
I need to get my head back in the game. None of that matters, not now. I need to find out whether anyone’s already seen the footage of Kim, and if not, delete it. The idea of one of the analysts – Stan or whoever – seeing my girl like that, at her most intimate, her most exposed: it sickens me.
My heart is in my mouth as I click on the list of files.
My body goes slack.
They are undisturbed.
No one’s seen it; seen her. I plug a USB drive into the side of the computer, and double click on an icon. Trade secret. The program run swiftly, and beeps when it reaches 100%. The message: All Files Corrupted flashes up on screen, and disappears.
I don’t feel guilty. Not about what I just did, anyway. The fact I’m letting this happen, letting a bunch of analysts pick over every facet of Kim’s life like vultures around a corpse…
It doesn’t just make me feel guilty, it makes me sick. I need to figure a way out of this mess, and fast.
“What are you doing?”
It’s only years of experience that stops me from jumping a foot into the air. I know that that’s the worst thing I could do.
Natalie Morris is a suspicious woman by nature. Right now, anything I do could give the game away. I need to remain in her good books – at least until I find a way of getting Kim out of this.
“Doing what?” I reply, slowly turning around. I act casual, as if this is the most normal thing in the world.
“Why are you here?” She asks, studying my face. I keep it bland.
I cock an eyebrow. “I thought I’d come in early.”
“Why?”
“Maybe I’ve turned over a new leaf.”
Natalie looks at me, her forehead furrowed with suspicion. “You have been in this business long enough to know, Nate. People do not change.”
That’s not what I want to hear. I think I am changing, that Kim’s having an effect on me. I’ve worked my way into half a dozen women’s confidences in this job. Kim’s the only one who’s made me risk everything for her.
“Let’s agree to disagree. But…” I grin, my hand – hidden by my back – curling around the USB drive.
I fake a cough, and whip the drive into my fist as I bring the hand in front of my mouth.
“I’m sorry, rough night. But I can go, if you don’t want me here?”
“What was that noise?” Natalie asks.
I loosen my hand, and the drive falls down the sleeve of my shirt. I’ve done this move a hundred times. I know it won’t slip out.
I just need to be certain nothing slips my tongue.
I turn round, holding my breath. I’m desperate for the program to have done its job – deleted any trace that it was there at all.
“Noise?” I shrug, closing my eyes and breathing out with relief. The computer screen is empty; all stop; I’m clear. “Beats me: anyway – about that briefing? If it’s not urgent –”
Apparently satisfied, Natalie makes a dismissive motion with her hand. “Sit down, Nathaniel: enough messing about. This is serious.”
The analysts file in, not making eye contact.
“So why am I here, Natalie?
Why all the cloak and dagger stuff. I have a day job now, you know?”
Natalie reaches over from a remote control, and the screen blinks to life. The Paragon Group’s anonymous logo – the letter P and the letter G layered over each other – disappears with the smoke-like effect.