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He’s chasing me?
Doesn’t matter.
The elevator doors slide shut before he can jam his hand in.
* * *
In the cab on the way home, I replay what just happened in my head.
Over and over.
No matter which angle I look from, what used to be my great reputation at Binary Birch is now history.
Though people don’t know that I went full cliché and actually slept with the company owner, they do think I used toys on him and on other dudes—the latter being a hurtful lie. No matter what happens now, the specter of preferential treatment will taint my career, which sucks because I work hard at my job. In fact, I got into this mess because I was such a good tester. Not that anyone will care anymore. Now they’ll assume I’m using sex to get what I want, be it a transfer into the development department or a promotion.
The worst part is, if I do get that transfer now, I myself won’t be sure it happened for the right reasons.
As the cab enters Brooklyn, my thoughts turn to Vlad, and my embarrassment and anger give way to a mix of guilt and regret.
I shouldn’t have stormed out on him the way I did. What happened wasn’t his fault.
I mean, could he—Mr. Privacy—have handled the password situation better?
Probably.
Did he owe me the Phantom info?
Not exactly.
In fact, Phantom’s praise had actually felt nicer, more deserved before I knew Vlad was behind it.
We stop next to my place.
I pay and rush to my door.
A package is waiting for me there.
Inside the box is a fanny pack—though it calls itself “a waist bag.” It’s Chanel, stylish as hell, and contains a note signed by Vlad:
Own it.
I don’t know how I should feel about this. The bag must cost thousands of dollars.
The shipping date is from the day before yesterday, so he didn’t know about today’s mess when he sent it. Or that we’d sleep together.
Is it a sign that he likes me or a thank-you for a testing job well done?
I know I’m not thinking clearly right now, so I take out Precious and call Ava.
She doesn’t pick up.
I leave her a voicemail to call me back ASAP, and even send her an SOS text.
No reply.
Maybe I should email her for good measure? Sometimes she checks her inbox from her work computer when her phone is dead.
I launch my email, and something in my inbox catches my eye.
