Into My Arms

M
y phone screen illuminates with a text. I can’t hear the incoming buzz over the death punk track threatening to rupture my eardrums.

Bran Lockhart:
Busy?

No point responding. My friend’s message is nothing but a formality, a heads-up that he’ll be in my office to harass me about something in less than five minutes. I rip off my high-definition headphones, toss them across my desk, and click to the security camera icon on my computer.

The streaming surveillance video centers on
her
, the woman I’ve watched these last many months. The one paid to serve my every whim, which she does, although not in the way she realizes.

There are more than enough competent executive assistants here in Silicon Valley, any number with the right credentials to keep track of my busy calendar, schedule appointments, and figure out who is worth admitting or who should be denied CEO face time.

But no one—
no one
—captivates like Bethanny Jacobs. That tousled mane of chestnut hair, the slight upturn to her wide eyes, as if she views the world as a surprise. And then there’s that lush mouth. Watching her talk into her headset is a form of twisted seduction in itself. Her face is a near mirror image of the one that haunts my dreams, and yet, I can’t get enough.

She is my curse and my salvation.

Every morning upon waking, the day settles on my chest like an anvil, each imminent hour a crushing pound, squeezing away my next breath, until the realization that she is here, waiting, propels me into action.

Of course, she has no idea that she is the reason I get out of bed. I haven’t ever invited her to set foot into my office. Those double doors don’t simply exist to keep others out. They are there to keep me in. It’s better this way. Desire does nothing but wreak destruction.

My personal elevator opens.

“What’s up?” Bran Lockhart, my oldest friend—correction, my only friend—stalks out, his well-worn jeans and navy hoodie flouting the strict company dress code. He squints, giving me the once-over while adjusting to the lack of light. I prefer my office space to be kept dark, with the window shades drawn, to work by lamplight. “You look like shit.”

“Good afternoon to you too.”

He glances at the computer and emits a barely audible grunt. Currently Bethanny grips a coffee mug with two hands, drinking like a person who has found an oasis in the Sahara.

I didn’t bother to turn off the screen at his grand entrance. Yes, I have secrets within secrets, but this man knows most of them and somehow doesn’t regard me as the devil incarnate.

He’s faced down his own demons.

“Ready to nut up and talk to her yet?”

“I do.” I drag a hand through my hair. “Every day.”

“That’s not what I mean, mate,” he says in his usual curt tone. “I mean a conversation, not a task list.”

“And what shall we discuss? My…
feelings
?” I allow scorn to drizzle over the word.

“Bloody hell.” He takes a seat on the edge of my desk. “Don’t try to paint me as some kind of Oprah. My inner child could kick your teeth in.”

“Smart-ass.”

“It’s a day ending in
y
, right?”

My momentary humor departs as the gravity of the last day returns. “I’ll be leaving town Monday.”

“What’s the grand occasion?” He picks up a pen and twirls it between his fingers. “Another White House trip? Or crossing the pond—meeting with the London partners?”

“Maryska.” I bite off the name, grimacing at the bitter taste.

“Oh.” The sardonic smile slides from his face. “Is she…?”

“Yes. It won’t be long now.”

“Shit.” He sets the pen down and rises to his feet, crossing his arms. “I’m sorry.”

“And your sympathy is something I won’t accept. She wouldn’t want me to. It’s the least I can do for her.”

“Mate, this isn’t healthy.” He wags a finger in warning. “I’m dead serious. You can’t hole up from the world, beating yourself over the head for things that happened almost a decade ago. And you have to quit being a fucking masochist about your assistant. Beth is a nice girl. Talia thinks the world of her. Reach out, make a connection.”

“You are a man in love,” I sneer, loosening my tie. “Optimism comes easily.”

“The last year has given me a new outlook.” He shrugs. “Fear is a killer. You have to face it—it’s the only way.”

“The only way to what?” My desperation bubbles to the surface.

“To get to the other side.”

I sink back into my chair. “The land of heart eyes and rainbows?”

“Nah.” Bran starts in with his restless pacing; he hates sitting still. “Love sure as hell isn’t that straightforward, but it’s worth a risk. Go on, put yourself out there. What can go wrong?”

The answer is laughably simple. “Everything.”

He pulls up short. “And nothing is what you’ll have if you don’t.”

I sweep my hand, gesturing across my state-of-the-art office on the top floor of the company I created. “This isn’t nothing.”

“It’s not what matters, mate. You once offered me three million dollars to give up my girl.”

“And you said no.”

“And would again in a heartbeat. All this”—he mockingly imitates my own gesture before balling his hand into a fist—“doesn’t mean a damn thing to a guy like you. Or me. Deep down, we don’t need stuff.”

“What is it we do need?”

“Truth.”

And the shit of it is, he’s right. Which is why he’s my friend. Why I trust him.

“Fine. I’ll—how do you say?—give it a go…with her, with…Bethanny.”

“A date?”

“Of sorts.” I rub my chin, the scruff rough against my thumb. The fantasy I’ve toyed with for so long could have merit.

He shakes his head. “Dude, you look like the Grinch. When he gets a wonderful, awful idea.”

My brows lift. “What is this Grinch?”

“It’s a Christmas…ah, fuck it. Take the girl out. Wine and dine her. Try and allow yourself to have a bit of fun.”

“Anything I do will be strictly on my terms.”

Bran ignores my cold stare, smirking like he’s in on some big secret. “Whatever you say, Casanova…but just remember one thing—girls like romance.”

“I don’t do romance.”

“Neither did I, mate.” His eyes blaze. “But you will for the right one.”

M
anaging my boss’s calendar is like playing Jenga; so many fiddly pieces need to balance exactly right. Thank God for the Red Eye I pounded at five because I need stamina and for this final meeting to confirm sometime during the next century. The barista in the Zavtra Tech cafeteria is trained to pour a double espresso shot into a drip coffee the moment she sees me coming. Cut a vein and I probably spurt Italian dark roast.

Ping!

A new e-mail pops into my inbox and boom—Z’s final Monday appointment locks in two minutes before I’m off the clock.

These are the little moments I want to turn and high-five someone, be like, “And that’s how you multitask under pressure, bitches.” But of course no one is around. I’m alone as usual at my glossy lacquered Italian-designed desk in the Fishbowl, my nickname for the monochromatic antechamber that serves as my office. To the left is a wall of single-pane glass that looks down five vertigo-inducing floors to an atrium that could pass as a terrarium, all
Jurassic Park
–style ferns and fronds. Apparently, visual exposure to plants is meant to reduce stress and enhance productivity by 12 percent.

Hah.

As if I can relax with that camera angled over my desk. Somewhere, right now, a security specialist is watching me type, make calls, put together reports, and ensure I don’t leak any company secrets that might pass before my executive assistant eyes. The owner of Zavtra Tech, reclusive genius Aleksander Zavtra, or “Z” as he’s commonly referred to, is one of the youngest billionaires in Silicon Valley, which is saying something in the land of Mark Zuckerberg. He’s also a little bit—okay, a lot—sexy…that is, for those who swoon over the dark and dangerous three-piece-suit type with a reputation for being ruthless as hell.

The office joke is that he’s Willy Wonka. After all, he has a separate elevator installed in his office. No one knows who comes in or out. Katya, his bodyguard, and Brandon Lockhart, head of Environmental Applications, are the only staff who meet with him directly, and they are allergic to gossip.

Guess that makes me the lucky Oompa Loompa. I sit on display outside the double mahogany doors for the sole purpose of responding whenever he PMs me an order, which is all the time. I’m closer to him than almost anyone else in the office and he doesn’t even speak to me face-to-face. As if on cue, my computer pings and I leap to attention, conditioned to respond faster than Pavlov’s dog.

“What can I do for you now, Master?” I mutter under my breath. There is the sense of eyes boring into my back, prickling the fine hairs on my neck. I glance at the security camera before refocusing on the screen. It’s crazy but sometimes I fantasize that Z is the one watching through the black lens, the dark, empty eye ceaselessly staring.

Aleksander Zavtra:
Clear Monday.

My jaw drops. I moved heaven and earth to arrange some of these meetings—the governor’s chief of staff is being flown into SFO on the company Learjet—and now
poof
! My brilliant effort is gone, erased without so much as a please or thank you.

Beth Jacobs:
Are you sure?

I hit
SEND
and hold my breath. This is the first time I’ve ever directly questioned him, but good to double-check, because this is out of character. Z never cancels anything.

Another ping.

Aleksander Zavtra:
And I need you tonight.

Immediately followed by:

I mean, to come back to the office. Ten o’clock.

I stare at my computer with mounting confusion. Something is going down, but what? No office rumors are circulating of anything afoot. Ugh, it’s not that I have big Friday night plans. Both my closest girlfriends, Talia and Sunny, are going to be holed up with their respective boyfriends all weekend as per usual. Still it would be nice to assume I
did
have something approximating a life.

But that’s not what I say because pretending to be professional is what keeps my paychecks coming. Besides, all I have planned is working on my proposal for next week, the one I’m submitting to the Zavtra Tech Ideas Circle. Besties is my app idea. It’s like Tinder, but for women to find friends, inspired by my own lack of a social life and because oddly, there is nothing like this on the market. Every other offering is too clunky. I really think Besties has a shot at…

Oh God, there’s that feeling again, the warm flash on my back as if someone’s gaze bores through the security camera. I can think about Besties later. For now, during working hours, Z owns me, body and soul.

Beth Jacob:
I’ll be here. Anything else?

There is a delay, long enough that I figure he’s moved on to bossing someone else around. I’m reaching for my phone to get a head start on canceling the long list of meetings when there’s yet another ping.

Aleksander Zavtra:
Ten o’clock. Do not forget.

Because why? I blow out a frustrated breath. What the heck is going on?

There are times, like now, when I have a mad impulse to hike up my pencil skirt, shove my thong to the side, bare myself to the camera, and slide my fingers over my pussy to try to elicit a reaction. Good or bad, I don’t care. Just a sign that a human exists behind those doors, a person made of flesh and blood.

I might be a minion, but I still matter.

I hate that he sits behind those doors and never invites me in.

I hate Katya, his oversized meathead bodyguard with the dragon neck tattoo.

And I hate his fish.

Yeah, I might hate his fish most of all.

Koroleva swims in a floor-to-ceiling tank, trapped like me, except she is a platinum arowana, and according to Siri, the most expensive aquarium fish in the world. My first day on the job, I got an immediate PM from Z.

Do not touch the fish.

Not “Hello and thank you for filling in as my personal assistant after the last one fled with no notice and in a flood of tears.”

No “Let me provide you with an explanation of why I am asking you to move from the marketing department to an administrative role you have no experience or training in.”

But when the company’s god issues a command, who am I to say no?

And when said god orders you not to touch the fish?

You don’t.

But who touches a fish? The idea would never have even crossed my mind.

Until now.

Hmmmm.

Imagine being a fish worth close to a million dollars. I suppose I could try and steal her and sell her, then quit this job and move to a tiny island in the Caribbean, but “Eccentric Billionaire’s Beloved Fish, Seven Figures,” would be a hard Craigslist ad to place unnoticed.

Guess I’ll adjust Z’s schedule instead. And come back again tonight.

Head meet desk.

When I swing by home, there is lube on the coffee table. What the…?
Gross.
The cap is open and gel dribbles down the side like the tracks of an invisible snail. This Costco-sized bottle is suitable for a week at the Playboy Mansion or a Roman orgy, not a two-bedroom apartment in Palo Alto.

My roommate must have heard me fumbling outside for keys and beat it like Michael Jackson to his bedroom lair. That is, after beating it on my couch, which I’ll have to leave behind because there’s no way I can sit on this semen sofa again. Time to find yet another living situation.

Fanfuckingtastic.

I toss my grocery bag on the counter with a muffled groan. This is already my third apartment in six months. In my first place, my roommate drank too much, which wasn’t optimal, but it wasn’t sufficient grounds for moving out. But then came the night she stumbled into my bedroom and peed in my closet, right on my trusty four-inch Christian Louboutin peep toes, remnants from my past life.

Goodbye, Number One.

Then I moved in with Roommate Number Two, a Stanford MFA who mocked the “raging misogynistic mediocrity” of my romance novel collection. Still, I rolled with her pretentious punches, grateful she spent most evenings handwriting her novel-in-verse at a Wi-Fi-free teahouse on University Avenue. But then she started “borrowing” my clothes. First a shirt here and there, then my favorite underwear went AWOL, and finally, my vibrator disappeared. When confronted, she called me a “battery-operated bourgeoisie bitch,” and it was time to peace out.

My dream is to live alone in a quiet, peaceful studio that’s decorated to my liking. No drunkies mistaking my closet for the toilet. No poetry student designating my vibrator as communal property. No open lube in the living room unless it’s at a time of my choosing.

Unfortunately, when your credit score is under 400, that dream is impossible to fulfill. It’s sort of ironic to be broke as a joke while working for Zavtra Tech, one of the most profitable start-ups in the nation.

I glare at the groceries. Hopefully a few multivitamins remain in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Is there a
Guinness Book of World Records
award for how long a girl can subsist on ramen noodles? Despite my financial belt-tightening, I splurged on two bars of artisanal chocolate. I’ve been eating dessert first for years. It started as a way to quietly support my best friend, Pippa. She used to obsess over every morsel that went into her mouth. It wasn’t anything we ever discussed. I meant to bring it up, especially once her size 2 pants required a belt, but wasn’t sure how to initiate the conversation without shutting her down.

Then she died and no one could say anything to her ever again.

Afterward, I made a promise. Never again would I body-shame myself. I said no to ever making idle self-loathing comments about my ass or lack of thigh gap. I strive to be healthy but like hell will I ever weigh myself. We women already have enough stacked against us not to base our self-worth off random numbers on the scale. We deserve all the damn chocolate.

I place two lemons from the tree in front of the apartment complex in the empty fruit bowl. Yep, I’m an ornamental lemon thief. Fingers crossed they keep scurvy at bay.

Silicon Valley used to be full of orchards before it turned into a concrete jungle, and plenty of orange trees still grow in front yards. Maybe I could cruise nearby residential neighborhoods and scavenge? Except I have barely enough gas to make it to work, my check engine light is on, my bank account has more cents than dollars, and payday isn’t for another week. My salary is better than decent, enough to keep debt collector wolves at bay, but there’s not much left over every month.

Hey, thanks for screwing me over, Mom and Dad.

How do I let them off the hook for opening credit cards and running up $100,000 in debt under my name? Yes, there was a global financial crisis. Yes, times got tight and their business almost went under. But I was their only kid, who had just survived a car accident that killed my best friend.

I’m the girl who used to shop at Anthropologie every weekend, spent summers at horse camp, and had a fridge stocked with whatever I wanted. But those halcyon days are long gone. My parents chose to protect their boutique winery over me, something that can’t be forgotten or forgiven. I met Mom’s last teary phone call with a threat to file a police report against her and Dad for identity theft. There hasn’t been a peep since.

The kitchen floor creaks before ice-cold glass presses against my neck. “What the hell?” I yelp, spinning around.

My latest roommate, Courtland of the Clan K-Y, grins down at me, gripping an unopened beer bottle. “You need to relax, honey.” He pushes up his black-framed glasses. Each of his ribs are visible because he’s not wearing a shirt, only low-slung athletic shorts. The hair feathering his lower abdomen resembles an unwatered houseplant and a snarling tiger is inked across his concave chest. Courtland is also a software engineer who happens to pay for two-thirds of the rent—granted, he gets the killer master bedroom in the bargain.

“Sit. Take a load off and have a beer with me,” Courtland drawls.

I step away. “Can’t. I…I have to get back to work.”

He gives serious bedroom eyes, a look that I’ve ignored the last month by holing up in my room, scuttling out to venture to the apartment complex’s workout studio or to fix a depressingly quick meal.

“You just got home.” He steps forward, his graze crawling over my boobs with all the subtlety of a drunken cockroach.

“Yes, but…”
This ain’t home sweet home when I have to wipe doorknobs with wet wipes.
I half turn, shoving my ramen packages into the cupboard. “My boss asked me to come back. Some sort of a night meeting.”

“What’s Z like anyway?” Courtland asks, rocking back and forth on his heels as if he can’t decide to continue the advance or accept retreat. “You never say, but come on, something. One little morsel.” I recognize that look of avid curiosity all too well. When people find out I work at Zavtra Tech, that I’m actually Aleksander Zavtra’s executive assistant, I’m assaulted by questions. Questions I can’t begin to answer because I know very few things about him.

He is curt.

He is methodically organized.

He is fond of one overpriced exotic fish.

I shrug in response.

Courtland lets out a sigh, as if I’m being a major wet blanket. “How about a foot massage before you hit the road?”

I don’t return his skeevy smile. He has the confidence of a guy who ate a decent dinner and has a bank balance with enough 0s to rival a can of Spaghetti-O’s.

Yum, Spaghetti-O’s. Maybe on payday.

When the time came to move to Silicon Valley, start a job, and begin a new life, I found out quickly the joke was on me. All my apartment applications were denied, the credit reports revealing how badly I was screwed. My options are limited. I can either shake down my folks for money they don’t have, press legal charges, or pay off their business debts myself.

I’ll take depressing door number three. My salary is better than decent. Another year of belt-tightening and I’ll have the bills paid off. Until then, I have to guard against rickets and withstand a string of shitty roommates.

“Come on, Beth, live a little. You look like you need to undo that top button, maybe the next one too.” Courtland holds out the beer bottle and his fingers glisten.
Nasty.
My stomach lurches. I can see Courtland’s desire in his eyes, the way his thin lips part, the rapid hitch of his breath, and the trace of perspiration beading his hairline.