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  I change the song on my play list to something sure to drown out the noise. It's angry, aggressive, and matches my mood perfectly. Successfully blocking the sex noises coming from his office is a pleasant reprieve—until I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn the volume down and pull my head out of the drawer.

  It's Stephen. He's readjusting his tie and laughing, a drop of sweat slowly dripping along his temple and down his forehead. "Is there a problem, Kay? Feeling a bit jealous? You know my door is always..." He pauses for effect, "...open."

  My toes curl in my shoes, and I press my hands to my stomach. How can somebody so good looking outside be so revolting inside? I repress the thought as a woman exits his office wiping the corner of her mouth. Her hair is too big, her clothes are too skimpy, and her makeup is too thick. Shivers rake my body as I try to curb my disgust. The window to Stephen's office is open and a cool draft of air swirls around us, filling the room with smells of the city, sweat, and sex. I gag, a horrible choking noise erupting from my throat, and I try not to dry heave.

  Stephen takes out a wallet from his pants pocket and hands her a thick wad of cash. "That was amazing."

  The woman takes the money and predictably stuffs it in the red bra not sufficiently covered by her low-cut blouse. Between noisy popping and snapping sounds from her wad of chewing gum, she leans in and gives Stephen's ear a quick bite before pulling away. I look away, refusing to witness the exchange.

  I hear the door shut behind the woman, and Stephen returns to his office, pausing in the doorway. "Kay, come into my office. Now."

  Oh, what now? If he asks me to disinfect his desk, I'm out of here. I'm so over this shit.

  I stuff my cell phone in my purse and tuck it tightly under my arm. I stomp into his office and slam his door shut. The leather makes a slapping noise as I toss it on his desk. "I can't believe you just hired a hooker in the office!"

  Stephen sits at his desk and leans back into his chair, resting both hands on his taught, flat stomach and lacing his fingers together. His smug look borders on cautionary, and I know I'm treading on thin ice. "Be careful what you insinuate, Kienna. That woman was our cleaning lady. The money I gave her was for cleaning services. The rest, well, whatever happens between two consenting adults is entirely up to us. Besides, I wanted to show my appreciation for the professional job she does around here. I appreciate your contributions to this office, also. It's not too late to change your mind about my earlier offer." He grabs a glass of water from his desk and takes a sip, never breaking eye contact with me.

  "You disgust me. Tell me, if she does such an exceptional job of cleaning, why do you change cleaning ladies every week. How stupid do you think I am?"

  "The fact that we're having this conversation at all answers that question, don't you think? Sometimes, it's best for everyone involved to look away and pretend nothing happened. Wouldn't you agree, Kienna?" The way his eyes bore into me—like he knows something he shouldn't—makes my skin crawl. I don't answer. I can't.

  He slaps his hands on his desk and smiles. "Great! We have an understanding. Here, sit down and take a note." He tosses a notepad and pen toward me, and I sit in one of the chairs opposite him, making sure there are no wet spots first.

  We go through his agenda, and I jot down notes to prepare for next week's press conference. I want to pull on his tie so tight that his face turns blue when he dictates what he expects of me. He tells me how I'm to dress and act like I'm some uneducated backwoods inbred trying to make it big in the city. I was born into wealth beyond his grasp. I could buy his sorry ass tenfold, but his near guarantee to win these elections and my parents' belief this alliance is crucial for our family, keeps me from doing anything stupid. I fucking hate this job.

  "In the future, you will not come to work looking like you just escaped a dungeon. Your image reflects on mine, and I am not running a safe house for runaway Emo children. There will be no more black leather, no chains, and no studs. You will wear proper high-heels instead of those knee-high, fuck-me boots." Stephen peers over his desk, sweeping up and down my legs with his gaze. He raises a single eyebrow. "Unless, of course, you're planning on wearing them while fucking me."

  The moment our meeting adjourns, I stand to leave for the day. I don't wait for a dismissal. A hot cup of coffee with Graham followed by playing in the park with my favorite 9-year-old is way past due. I need to laugh and restore my faith in humanity. Being around Graham and Lori seems to do that for me. I search my desk drawers for my purse, but I can't find it anywhere.

  "Looking for this?" That smug, egotistical, self-righteous voice makes me dig my nails into my palms to the point of pain. He places the pocketbook on my desk leaving a single finger on the front clasp.

  "I wouldn't leave that laying around, Kay. You never know who might snoop in your private affairs." He adjusts his tie and heads back into his office. I hate this fucking job.

  CHAPTER 17

  "Cyborg K!"

  I have precious little time to prepare for impact. Lori spots me from the middle of a pack of kids in the playground. She runs from Lilah's side, hops on a rock behind me and lands on my back, wrapping her tiny legs around my waist.

  Last week, I was vampire princess. This week, I'm Cyborg K, part human, and part robot. I think she got the idea from the pewter and ruby ear cuff I've been wearing. She pretends it's attached to my brain and the ruby buttons program my thoughts. Being part robot, it's my duty to obey her commands. Of course, sometimes I short circuit—and then the fun begins.

  "Cyborg K, give me a piggy back ride."

  I glare at her over my shoulder and frown. She flashes her gap-toothed grin at me, completely melting my heart. She's lost a second tooth at the top. It makes her look even more mischievous than before. "May I please have a piggy back ride, Cyborg K?" My programming doesn't work unless she says please and thank you. That was my rule.

  We're at a kids' community center called EPYC. It offers free and subsidized daycare for low-income families. Lori likes to go there after school to play with kids her age. Graham says it's better than hanging out on the streets, and caring people, like Lilah, are available to supervise the children.

  "Hey, Lilah! I have a new cyborg. See? Her name is Cyborg K, and she does everything I ask her to. Isn't that right Cyborg K?" Lori starts to push the rubies of my ear cuff, making booping and bleeping noises with her mouth.

  "Well, I wouldn't..."

  "You'll have to share your security code, baby girl," Graham interrupts. "I wouldn't mind playing around in her programming."

  Lori and I spin around to face him. Lori squeals in my ear, making me cringe. "Cracker! You came early!"

  "That's what she said," I say loud enough for Graham to hear, but not enough for Lori to pay attention to it. I get a mock scolding look from Graham. He can't reply, not unless he says something inappropriate for 9-year-old ears. Score one for Cyborg K!

  "Hi, Lilah. I suppose this little monster hasn't had time to cause any trouble?"

  Graham usually lets Lori play with her friends at the playground until she calls to let him know she's ready to go home. When I left the office, texting him to confirm our usual rendezvous at the coffee shop, he told me to head straight for the Park.

  "Lori's no trouble at all. She's always a good kid." Lilah is her usual sweet self, smiling shyly at Graham. It irks me, knowing she's after him, but I have no claim on him. I guess I feel overly possessive of him. He never dates, but I know sooner or later I'll have to share. He'll eventually go out on a date, shag a woman or two, perhaps even find someone special. I hope we stay friends through all that. Women can be spiteful bitches.

  Graham looks over my shoulder at my fidgety programmer and flashes his proud daddy smile. "Here, let me take her from you."

  Lori protests as Graham peels her off my back, but eventually finds a comfy spot on her dad's back instead, hugging his neck so tight his face turns red.

  He loosens her grip enough to talk. "Lilah, do you have plans
tonight?" Something tugs inside my gut as he says it, but I try to ignore the feeling. Her eyes flick to mine before going to Graham. And so it starts.

  Lilah blushes as she tucks a blond strand of hair behind her ear. "Tonight? Nothing. Why?" Her kind voice is so obnoxiously hopeful. This is awkward.

  "I got an invitation to go to a club with some buddies and want to take Kia with me—which means I need someone to take care of this little squirt. Would you be interested in babysitting?"

  "AHEM! Adorable KIDsitting," pipes the adorable kid on his back. "I'm not a baby! Is Stark going to be there?" Lori rests her head on her dad's shoulder and sighs. "He's dreamy! He's going to be my husband one day."

  I raise my eyebrow in question at Graham, but he just shakes his head.

  "Lori is harboring a crush on my friend Stark." He cocks his head upward to look over his shoulder. "And no, there is no way you will marry Stark. Over my dead body, Crab Cake. I couldn't bear your spending your life in your in-laws' basement while he posts gaming videos all day long."

  "Fine then," she huffs. "I'll just marry my other boyfriend, Trystan Scott."

  I tug one of her shoelaces to undo the half bow coming undone and tie them up tighter. "You have a crush on Trystan Scott? The rock star?"

  Graham scoffs. "You wouldn't ask that question if you saw her bedroom. Her walls are drowning in posters of that guy."

  "Do I hear some jealousy in your voice?" Graham rolls his eyes at my teasing tone. "Lori, have you ever seen him in concert?"

  "I wish! I asked Santa for tickets last year, but I didn't get them. Cracker says tickets were sold out—even for Santa Claus." Her little face drops and my heart breaks for her. I can imagine this cute little girl on Christmas morning, hopeful to get the tickets she asked for, only to be disappointed. She's wrapped herself so tightly around my heart in such a short time. I'd give her the world if I could.

  I nudge her sneaker with my fist. "You know, Lori, I've met him before. He's good friends with a guy that I dated once."

  Lori's eyes bug out of her head. "YOU MET TRYSTAN SCOTT?"

  Graham covers his ears while Lori and I discuss her obsession over the rock star.

  "Graham," Lilah's soft voice breaks in, "I have to get back to work now, but I'd be happy to kidsit Lori for you this evening. You never go out. While you're gone, Lori and I can bake cookies and sing Trystan songs together. Would you like that, Lori?"

  Lori bobs her head up and down, letting high-pitched sounds escape. I've never made cookies in my life. Lilah is sweet, kind, humble—all the things I'm not, and she can make homemade cookies, too. Although I hate to admit it, she'd be the perfect girlfriend for Graham.

  Graham claps his hands once, loudly, and then rubs them. "Great. It's settled." He lifts Lori off his back and sets her down on her feet, crouching down to her level.

  "You stay with Lilah and listen to her. Be a good kid and don't give her a hard time."

  "I won't." Lori looks up at Lilah and takes her hand.

  "Don't worry, Graham. We'll have a fabulous time and we'll see you when you get home."

  Graham hands her the key to his place and relates some last-minute instructions. By the sound of their conversation, this isn't the first time that Lilah's visited his place, and that tugging jealous feeling comes back. There's a familiarity between the two of them that doesn't go unnoticed.

  Lilah and Lori make their way back to the playground, leaving me alone with Graham.

  "Ready for our date?"

  "Our non-date." I'm quick to correct him.

  "Right, our non-date. Come on, Cyborg K."

  He wraps an arm around my shoulders and leads me through the streets to a small bar, not far from the hotel where I live. Once inside, he heads toward a group of people seated at a long table. It's an eclectic group. People of all ages and styles, from barely legal to barely retired. Hipsters, bohemians, rockers, metrosexuals, jocks, plain Janes, and one guy, who fits the description of the elusive lumbersexual. He sports a rugged, well-groomed beard, a plaid flannel shirt over a tight v-neck tee, and skinny jeans rolled up to mid-calf. The look is topped off by thick wooly socks, black Chucks, and a knit hat on his head. The only thing missing from his ensemble is an ax—which I hope he isn't hiding somewhere. In this neighborhood, though, you never know.

  Before we reach the table, I tug on Graham's sleeve. "Hey, Graham?"

  He looks at me with a questioning look. "Yeah?"

  "Don't tell them who I am, okay? People are always so quick to judge me before they get to know me."

  Graham takes my hand and pulls me closer to the table. He leans in and says in my ear, "I promise I won't tell them a thing, but if you want them to get to know you, you have to be yourself—the way you are when it's just the two of us."

  I nod and nervously chew my bottom lip. I don't know if I can pull this off. "As long as you don't put me on that stage." I nod my chin toward the front of the room where someone is standing on a raised platform, microphone in hand, looking at a screen and butchering a classic rock song. By the expression on Graham's face, I'll be putting on the performance of a lifetime before the evening is through. "Maybe now would be a good time to crack that code and change my programming."

  Graham doesn't answer, which scares the living stage fright out of me. He puts a comforting hand behind my back and ushers me closer to his friends, choosing two empty seats for us to sit side by side. He makes very general introductions, calling me Kia, instead of Kienna. Welcoming faces greet me. Some wave, some smile and some are too engaged in conversations to notice us. There's no sucking up, no fake pleasantries. They all seem very casual and relaxed.

  Two men make their way around the table toward us. One is the lumbersexual guy, and the other is the poster child for fashion boredom. Albeit, that in itself could be a fashion statement. Plain dude is deeply captivated by something on his smartphone's screen. I expect firm, manly handshakes and back slaps, but the lumberjack greets Graham with a light touch on his shoulder.

  "Kia, let me introduce you to these two dipshits, also known as my best friends." He gestures to the lumbersexual guy first. "This is Dink."

  I try not to react to the name, but I can't. In an attempt to hold back my laugh, I emit a throaty snort instead. Never, in a million years, would I have given Bushman Jack, here, a name like Dink. Chuck or Butch, maybe, but never Dink.

  "It's nice to meet you, uh, Dink?"

  As if the name wasn't enough to throw me off guard, Dink answers with the softest voice I've ever heard from a man. "Dink Daniels, and don't worry, hun, it's a nickname these losers gave me. Laugh all you want. I do."

  He winks at me, and I relax, relieved I didn't just insult one of Graham's best friends. I instantly like him. Dink is a walking-talking contradiction. He looks like a rugged mountain man, yet he has effeminate mannerisms. He's a computer programmer, which also goes against the whole roughing-it-up-in-the-woods look he has going on. I wonder if he's been closer to a forest than a guided tour of an arboretum or a stroll through Central Park.

  "And this is Stark. Yo, Starky Boy! Maybe you could tear your face away from your phone to meet the pretty lady."

  "Pretty" and "lady" seem to be the keywords to get his attention. Stark clicks off his phone, tucks it into his rear pocket and acknowledges me. His eyes widen.

  "Well, hello there." His voice is suave, like overly flirtatious, syrupy suave. Is this the guy Lori wants to marry?

  He's not bad looking, I guess, but his whole come hither mojo is putting this single white female on full douche alert. Still, he's one of Graham's best friends, so I make a point to play nice, hoping I'm not sending him any receptive vibes. "It's nice to meet you, Stark. I've heard so much about you."

  I stretch out a hand for a friendly handshake, which he accepts without hesitation. He's all confidence and his eyes light up. Stark's handshake is self-assured and vigorous, his chest puffing up. I swear he'd snap his suspenders if he were wearing them.

  "The p
leasure's all mine. It's always nice to meet a fan, especially one as beautiful as you." he replies.

  "Uh, I'm sorry? Did you say a fan? What did you say your name was again?"

  Stark's proud pose deflates, and I turn around to Graham, a little confused. Graham shakes his head and laughs a light chuckle.

  Stark slaps his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Oh! How stupid of me. I thought Graham might have told you. I'm Stark90ProGamer. I know, I know. I don't look quite the same as I do on screen. The resolution has to be low enough for people to download my videos on slower bandwidths. Screws with the image, but I have to make sure I'm accessible to all my followers. Maybe this will sound familiar." He deepens his voice and takes on a radio announcer persona. "If you liked this episode of Stark Pro Gamer Against the World, show me some love. Subscribe to my channel and smash that like button!" He leans in closer, and his voice lowers to a mock whisper. "I try not to flaunt my username in social events with friends. I don't want to make them feel small." He straightens and rocks back on his heels. Pro gamer? He doesn't look very athletic or muscular, in fact, he's more on the skinny, lanky side, but who am I to judge?

  "Wow. That's impressive. So, you're a pro gamer? What team do you play for—the Yankees, Mets, Knicks, Jets, Giants, Islanders or Rangers?"

  This comment is Graham's undoing. He bends at the waist and laughs a full-blown belly laugh, wiping tears out from behind his glasses. Someone at the table blows a soft whistle and says "impressive". Stark's face falls and his earlier confidence shatters. I obviously said something wrong, but have no clue what. Frustrated, I turn around and girly punch Graham in the shoulder.

  "Stop laughing at me! What did I do wrong?"

  When he straightens, he takes both my hands in his to stop my assault and takes a couple of deep breaths to calm down. My foot taps on the floor and my mouth pinches shut in frustration. Graham lets out one last chortle and takes me into a bear hug before turning me around to his friend Stark.