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My cheeks veer off the red end of the visible spectrum, radiating as much infrared as a welding torch.
Annoyingly, Vlad’s face only shows the neutral professionalism he’s been displaying throughout this whole encounter. Maybe he’s one of Anne Rice’s vampires—her older ones become as if made of stone over time.
“The hardware is inside,” he says.
A hybrid between a hiccup and a giggle escapes my throat.
He just called a collection of dildos hardware, and probably not as a joke.
“Got it.” I leap to my feet and reach for the suitcase just as he slides it forward.
Our fingers brush, generating enough of that electric jolt to power the toys for a week. I swallow and yank the suitcase off the desk.
It’s heavy. There must be more than a few dildos, and who knows what else.
I hope Dominika’s vagina can handle it all. Not to mention, shipping this “hardware” to the Czech Republic will cost a small fortune. I really hope no one at the DHL office asks me what’s inside. For that matter, I pray no one here at the office asks me “What’s with the suitcase?” as I sprint to the elevator.
“It was good to meet you,” I tell Vlad and prepare to make the sprint.
“Will I see you at the monthly meeting in five minutes?” he asks.
I nearly drop my genital-inscribed luggage.
In theory, everyone is supposed to attend the monthly meeting. Its purpose is for us to have an idea of what the rest of Binary Birch is working on, find opportunities for synergy, and other corporate speak gobbledygook. In practice, since I’ve been working from home, I typically dial into this meeting on the phone, then promptly tune most of it out as I do my actual job of testing.
I do know one thing: the Impaler is famous for never joining this meeting in person either—and he doesn’t have the work-from-home excuse. He just dials in and never says a word, though people claim to get emails about some things discussed at the meeting, hinting that he actually listens—which is why everyone is always on their best behavior during it.
Yet he said “see you,” not “hear you,” so tradition is about to be broken for some reason.
Of course, now I have to attend the meeting.
With this suitcase.
Shoot me now.
“Affirmative,” I reply belatedly and fight another urge to salute. “See you soon.”
Gracelessly, I spin around and head for the door, eager to escape the lair and its vampiric occupant.
His voice stops me as I’m reaching for the door handle. “By the way, Ms. Pack…” he says to my back, and for the first time, I detect a hint of emotion in his tone. “You should know something. I don’t impale my employees.”
Chapter Three
Suitcase in hand, I shoot out of the Impaler’s office to the bathroom as if the hounds of hell were on my heels. A single thought spins through my mind like a broken vinyl record.
He heard us at Starbucks.
At least the part about him impaling female employees.
What else did he hear?
How screwed am I?
“What the bejesus is that?” asks an attractive black-haired woman as I come out of my stall.
I dart an awkward glance at the suitcase I left by one of the sinks. “My niece’s school bag.”
I don’t have a niece, but if I did, and this were her school bag, she’d need serious therapy.
