Page 62 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
I scan the crowd. There are two hundred and fifteen people here. Forty percent are “Influencers”—people with ring light reflections in their eyes, documenting the Mosaic beta launch. Thirty percent are investors, circling Ethan like satellites fighting for a signal. Twenty percent are staff.
And ten percent are people like me—hiding.
“You look like you’re plotting a murder,” a voice says from my left.
I don’t need to turn. I know the voice. It’s Owen.
“I’m calculating the structural integrity of the balcony railing,” I correct him. “If twenty more people crowd onto the north corner to take a selfie, the load-bearing capacity will be exceeded.”
“Relax, Ash,” Owen says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. He smells like champagne and expensive cologne. He’s in his element, radiating charm like a sunlamp. “It’s a party. We’re celebrating. The download numbers are insane. We hit our monthly target in six hours.”
“The servers are handling the load,” I say. “But the latency is spiking in the European clusters. I should be at the office.”
“You’re forbidden from the office,” Owen says firmly. “Ethan locked your credentials until midnight.”
“I could breach the firewall in six minutes,” I say. “But I promised Harper I would behave.”
“Good boy.” Owen grins. “Go charm a venture capitalist. Or at least stop glaring at the DJ.”
“The DJ is mixing a 128 BPM track with a 130 BPM track,” I mutter. “It’s mathematically offensive.”
Owen laughs, squeezing my shoulder. “Try to have fun. Or just fake it. That’s what the rest of us do.”
He pushes off the pillar and wades back into the crowd. I watch him go. Within five seconds, he’s stopped by a blonde woman in a silver dress. He smiles, leans in, touches her arm. She laughs.
I look away, scanning the room again.
I tell myself I’m monitoring the Brand Lead to ensure she’s managing the press.
That’s a lie.
I’ve not spoken to her properly since Monday. Since the War Room. Since I told her she was inside the system.
She has been avoiding us. She comes in early, leaves late, and keeps her office door closed. She talks to Owen only when necessary, and her voice is tight. She doesn’t look at Ethan at all.
But she looks at me.
I catch her watching me when she thinks I’m focused on my screen. I see the confusion in her eyes. The curiosity.
And there she is.
She’s standing near the bar, talking to a group of tech journalists.
She’s wearing the black dress tonight.
It’s a long, sleek gown with long sleeves and a high neck. From the front, it looks architectural. Armored.
But then she turns to grab a napkin, and I see the back.
There’s no back. The dress dips all the way down to the base of her spine, exposing bare, smooth skin that glows under the string lights.
The black is safe, I told her in the text.
I was wrong. This dress isn’t safe. It’s a challenge. It says, Look, but don’t touch.
My fingers twitch against the glass of my scotch. I remember how she felt in her apartment. The silk of her blouse. The heat of her skin. The way she gasped when I kissed her neck.
Owen had her. He spent the night with her. He touched her in ways I had only calculated.
