“Sorry.” She hands me my phone back. “Are you going to make any money on this app?”
I glance at the time to make sure I’m not running late before I pocket Precious. “The app is free. I even made it opensource, so anyone can take and use my code however they wish.”
“Is it for that promotion you want, then?”
I shrug. “Not a promotion, a lateral move. The app was to prove to myself that I have what it takes to be a developer. Now I just need to make the people at work believe in me too, or at least value me enough to give me a chance to switch departments.”
In the corner of my eye, I see Hottie McDark placing his order, which means if we don’t get our drinks soon, he’ll be standing close enough for me to smell him.
Or touch.
Or—
“And this smart sex toys project will help?” Ava asks, again speaking too loudly for my comfort.
“Our company owner himself wrote the app. That makes the testing as high profile as it gets.” I strain to hear what the guy is ordering but only make out the word tea—and it’s nice to know there’s another sucker out there willing to pay a huge premium for a bag of dried leaves.
“And said owner is the infamous Vlad the Impaler, right?” She says the name with relish.
“That’s what the rumor mill at the office calls him. I’m sure he’s Mr. Vladimir Chortsky to his face.”
“Or Master,” she says in her best Renfield voice. “And you’re meeting him today? Shouldn’t there be garlic around your neck, or a cross inside your panties?”
I chuckle nervously. “They do say he never sleeps. Or at least he answers emails at any time, day or night.”
Ava makes a swoony face. “Does he glitter?”
“I’ll find out today.” Hottie McDark is now walking our way, so it takes everything I have to keep my cool. “I checked out his code for this app, and it was very elegant and inventive—appropriate for a centuries-old creature of the night. My boss, Sandra, also told me that when he writes something, he doesn’t work with the development team, yet the resulting apps never have any bugs—”
“How not thrilling.” Ava exaggeratingly yawns. “What I want to know is: Has he impaled any female employees?”
Sensual notes of tangerine and bergamot waft into my nostrils.
Someone’s tea or Hottie McDark’s cologne? He’s now right next to me, so close that I don’t dare look at him lest I melt into a puddle. My heart hammers unevenly, and I can feel a new wave of hot color washing into my cheeks.
“Fanny. Ava.” The barista slams our drinks on the counter.
Perfect. Before Ava can further embarrass me in front of Hottie McDark, I snatch my drink, thrust hers into her hand, and drag her out of the Starbucks by her elbow.
“I have to go to work,” I say when we get outside. Right away, the deafening honking of taxis fills my ears. We’re across the street from Battery Park, with the Statue of Liberty visible in the distance.
Ava pecks me on the cheek. “Good luck. And if the Impaler turns you into a vampire, you must do the same to me as soon as you can. I can steal us blood bags from the hospital.”
I sneak a final longing glance at Hottie McDark through the tinted glass. “You better be on your best behavior, or I’ll just make you my blood whore instead.”
She laughs as she walks away, and I sprint to the nearby skyscraper and ride the elevator to my company’s floor.
Exiting, I survey my surroundings. Binary Birch, the plaque on the wall states in a very serious-looking font. The cold utilitarian nature of the modern décor hasn’t changed since I was here for my in-person interviews a few months back. No game rooms or sleeping nooks like they might have at other, hipper software companies—not with the Impaler at the helm.
The people around me are mostly strangers. The company policy is that everyone has the option of working remotely if they wish, so I’ve been working from home and communicating with the office via email, instant messenger, and occasionally, a teleconferencing app.
I pull out Precious and check the time. Ten minutes until I have to brave the Impaler’s office.
Sipping my tea, I jump on the Wi-Fi and check my messages.
Sandra, the QA manager and my direct boss, wants to see me if I have the time.
I head into the maze of cubicles. Since she’s one of the few people I know by sight, I locate her quickly and knock on the glass wall of her cube.
“Hi, Sandra,” I say when she tears her gaze from her screen.
“Oh, hey, Fanny. There you are.” With a prim smile, she stands up and leads us to a small meeting room.
“So,” she says, not meeting my gaze as we sit down across from each other. “I just wanted to double check… You’re okay with the eccentric testing project you’re about to undertake, right?”
“I am,” I state as confidently as I can fake it.
I know why she keeps asking. The last thing the company wants is for me to file a sexual harassment suit over this, or for me to say that I’m not cool with it when I speak to the Impaler, thus making her, my manager, look like an idiot.
“I’m glad,” she says, and we quickly go over the project I’ve just finished testing, an app that works with a wristband fitness tracker.
She smiles when I tell her that I even lost a few pounds thanks to all the walking to test the pedometer functionality.
Then it’s time for the meeting I’ve been dreading, and Sandra leads me to the only non-glass-walled office on the floor.
According to some jokes, the Impaler doesn’t like the light, and according to others, he needs the privacy to make his kills in peace.
“Want me to take that?” Sandra asks, worriedly eyeing my almost empty cup.
“No drinks allowed in there?” I ask.
She darts a nervous glance at the door. “I better take it.”
As I hand her the cup, my previously steady hand begins to tremble.
How scary can our glorious leader be?
“Keep me in the loop.” Sandra opens the door for me.
Feeling like a lamb going to the proverbial slaughter, I shuffle into the Impaler’s lair—and before I can catch sight of the man himself, my manager helpfully closes the door behind me, like a vampire’s minion springing a trap.
Soft music is vibrating the airwaves in here. In the Hall of the Mountain King by Edvard Grieg—a fitting melody to get exsanguinated to.
I catch a whiff of tangerine and bergamot, and my stomach drops.
Can’t be.
I turn around.
Illuminated by the bluish light of a large monitor is the gorgeous face of the stranger I was just drooling over at Starbucks.
Even his tea is here, on his spotlessly clean desk.
“Hello, Ms. Pack,” Vlad the Impaler says with a slight Transylvanian accent. “Good to finally meet you.”
Chapter Two
The accent is actually Russian—everyone knows that much about our reclusive CEO. And his place of birth might be why he addressed me so formally; I’ve read that in Russia, they often use the plural you and patronymics, both as a sign of respect and to separate close friends from strangers.
Ms. Pack is a decent English equivalent, except that it makes me sound like Ms. Pac-Man: round and starving for doughnut holes. And sidebar—shouldn’t that game have been called Pac-Woman, or Ms. Pac? Actually, thank god it wasn’t Ms. Pac; that’s too close to home and I was teased enough being Fanny Pack as it is.